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elizabethnightingale4 · 4 months ago

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Hi guys, I don’t do this very often, but I wrote this Mechs fanfic and I just really love it and wanted to share somewhere other than Ao3. Hope you enjoy <3

The crew of the Aurora have often found its members through odd predicaments. Well, if we’d tell you how we were found at all that is.

This tale is a short one…comparatively anyway.

The Mechanisms were just that, mechanisms. We sometimes find it hard to…empathize with mortals, which is how we came to be arguing amongst ourselves over a sleeping Terran with a mix of interest, disgust…and boredom.

“I told you, we should have ignored that distress signal.” I grumbled pinching the bridge of my nose.

“Her escape pod was directly in our path.” Ivy argues, “we would have hit it either way.”

Brian peeked around the edge of the unbolted door, “the signal was ancient, Carmilla, ancient.” He points out.

“That is exactly why we should have left it.” I argue. “There’s still time to throw it out the air lock.” It was about this time the human started to wake up.

Now, I’m not sure how you would react if the first words you heard waking up after a very long nap were: throw it out the airlock. Our protagonists reaction was the following; after opening her eyes to take in the assorted group of beings before her, she let out a cry and proceeded to fall off the table she’d been resting on, backwards.

The Toy Soldier claps its hands, “oh goodie, it’s awake.”

A bit of description of this Terran may help your imagination moving forwards. They were short, just over five feet in height. Wore a blue jumpsuit with an odd patch of Stars and Stripes. No shoes, just grey socks, but the most interesting thing to mention was her hair. It was longer than anyone’s the crew had ever seen. If the Terran were to walk, it would have dragged along behind them for several feet. Brown and stick straight until about a foot from the end. There it became a vibrant blue.

The woman clears her throat, seemingly collecting herself. “Um, I’m…I’m sorry, did the experiment work?” She asks.

“What experiment?” Raphaella asks, pushing past me.

“Hey!”

The girl looked around at her surroundings. “Um,” she rubs her forhead with a hand, “I’m Sorry I-I’m a little confused.”

“Too bad Carmilla isn’t here.” Nastya remarks, leaning against a wall.

I scoff, “just what we need, Carmilla telling us what to do.”

Marius steps into the little pod, “we think you’ve been asleep for some time.” He offers his right hand. “My name is Marius. I’m the doctor on board the Aurora.” A few of us scoff behind him, and he throws us a glare. The girl eyes his hand for a moment before extending hers to shake.

Babble, endeared as Babs by some of the crew, was not the original name of this Terran. However, over the course of her journey with the Aurora it was the name gifted to her by me, Jonny d’Ville. It was a bit of a joke. You see, she said almost nothing to me for several centuries. I thought it clever, but the others tell me she could be quite the chatterbox. Her real name was Wendy something or other.

“What experiment are you talking about?” Raphaella asks again.

The girl glances around her small life pod and says, “they sent me through a wormhole.” She watches Marius step out through the ripped open paneling. “They wanted to see if a person could survive.” Her face shows confusion as she steps out after Marius, seemingly noticing her hair for the first time. “What the fuck?”

I won’t bore you with the walk to the bridge. The conversation with a recently awoken, well anyone, isn’t very good. I personally still wanted to throw it out the airlock, but the crew over-rid my opinion. I was sure their interest would wane relatively soon and then I’d have no trouble throwing her out. Or feeding her to the octokittens.

“Ow-“ the Terran tries to collect it’s hair from the floor after stumbling over it, again.

“I could fix that for you.” The Toy Soldier offers.

She glances at it hesitantly, “you can?”

The Toy Soldier smiles, “course I can.” It proceeded to start a very elaborate braid.

“This is Terra, where our scanners said your originated from.” Ashes stated, pulling up the current image of a desolate planet, half exploded by an asteroid. It’s color a hazy, red orange.

The girl stood and walked over to the hologram, “that…that isn’t Earth.”

Several crew members exchange looks at this point. “Terra’s looked like that for a millennium.” Ivy points out.

Babs shakes her head. “No, Earth is blue and green. It’s a sphere…” She shakes her head, “well more of an egg shape-whatever. The point is it isn’t,” she points at the image, “that!”

“When did you leave Earth?” Ashes asks.

They shrug,“I don’t know how your timespan works-”

“Just tell me the year.” Ashes demands their temper flaring.

She flinched and quickly said, “2028 AD.”

Ashes fiddled with the controls, and the hologram flickered to a slightly grainier image. Blue and green, swirling white clouds, the whole shebang.

“It was beautiful.” TS remarks.

Babs touches the display and it flickers. “But…that’s the way it looked when I left.”

“How long were you asleep?” Tim asks with a raised brow.

“A-a few hours?” She shakes her head, “but my hair…”

Nastya walked onto the bridge with a tablet. “According to Aurora’s scans, you are from when you say.” She fixes her glasses. “That would make you over two millennia old.” She looked at Babs and raised an eyebrow. She was right to be dubious. Babs was no mechanism. The scan would’ve showed as much.

Babble chuckled awkwardly, but when no one joined them says, “well your computer must be wrong.”

“You’re saying, my girlfriend is wrong?” Nastya asked her voice taking a dangerous edge.

The Terran scoffs, “well-well humans barely live a century. We aren’t made to last millennia!” Her breathing started to quicken, “my siblings-“ She clutched at the cloth over her heart. “This can’t be happening.”

I scoffed, “of course it can.” None of the crew really knew how to handle the whimpering Terran before us and before we could figure out a plan she turned tail and ran off the bridge. “Shit.”

“Jonny, you could be a bit more understanding.” Marius suggested with an annoyed tone. The reprimand seemed to expand across the bridge. Ashes rolled their eyes, but the Toy Soldier decided to follow the Terran.

“Why should I give a shit about this Terran?” I asked sitting down on the steps.

“We should drop her off at the next planet.” Nastya recommends.

Tim fiddles with his flintlock, “so is she immortal?”

Nastya shrugs, “hard to tell. Aurora says she’s been in a form of stasis for sometime.” She looked back down at her tablet. “I’m interested in what this experiment was.”

“I thought only Carmilla could create immortals like us?” Marius remarked.

Ivy shook her head, “Carmilla was immortal too.”

Raphaella shrugs, ”I’ve studied everything Carmilla recorded. I could probably create a Mechanism if I needed to.”

“Well, let her calm down a bit before you bombard her with questions.” Brian advised.

Ivy glanced out one of the blast windows. “She said they sent her through a wormhole?” She tapped a cheek. “Could that cause her agelessness?”

Raphaella took a step toward the doorway TS and Babs left through, her eyes gleaming, “We should try a few experiments, just to see.”

“Raphaella, you just want to see if she can regenerate.” Ashes accused, a smirk on their face.

I stood on the steps, ”well that’s easy enough to test.” I removed my pistol and followed their path.

The Toy Soldier never gave me a play-by-play of what happened following it’s leaving the bridge after the Terran. All its ever said was that it found Babs wedged between a couple of pipes and it couldn’t get them to stop crying. Then, just as it was making progress, a certain captain-

[FIRST MATE]

Showed up.

“Come on now, chin up.” The Toy Soldier tried to coax the Terran from her hidey-hole. “Immortality isn’t all bad.”

“You don’t understand-“ the girl wailed. “They-they said I’d die-they just wanted the data!”

“Who is they?” TS asked, crouching down to try coaxing again. Babs just shook her head and TS sighed. “Plenty of mechanisms had this reaction at first.” It offered its hand again. “Don’t think about it too much.”

Babble looked up, their face wet with tears. “Everything I knew is gone.”

“That’s what happens to everything.” It paused, “well except us I suppose.” Babs hesitated before taking the Toy Soldier’s hand. She squeezed back through the pipes and stood up. “There you go.” TS commended. “You didn’t want to be stuck back there anyway.” It leaned forward a bit and said in a stage whisper, “octokittens.”

Babs crossed her arms over her chest, “do they really not age?” They ask, nodding back toward the bridge.

The Toy Soldier took a handkerchief from its pocket and wiped Babs’ face. “Course we don’t. We may be thieves and scoundrels, but we aren’t liars. At least I’m not.”

She gave TS a look of disbelief. That’s when I reached the two of them. I didn’t hesitate to shoot through the Toy Soldier right into the Terrans abdomen.

TS turned back to look at me. “Jonny, that was rude!” It reprimanded, but the Terran stumbled backward, her face a mask of shock.

She touched the bullet wound, and looked down at her blood stained hand. “What the fuck-“ Her eyes met mine, and she took another step backward. Then something I hadn’t felt in, oh, I couldn’t even recall the last time I felt it. Worry wasn’t an emotion I’d felt often, if ever, to be honest with you. The emotion caught me so off guard, I lowered my gun. Babs turned and stumbled down the corridor, Marius and Raphaella trailing some distance behind her.

“She’s leaving her blood all over the ship.” Nastya complained after reaching the scene.

Tim laughed, “like there isn’t already blood in every corner of this ship.”

“Jonny, it really was rude of you to shoot through the two of us like that.” TS was still complaining.

“Oh, shut up.” I remarked, pulling myself together. I holstered my pistol and leaned against the wall. “It was the easiest way to see if they're like us.” I grumbled, hooking a thumb behind my gun belt.

“You should have asked nicely.” TS reprimanded. “I’m sure she would’ve let you.”

I shot a glare at TS. “I said, shut it.”

Marius and Raphaella were slowly following the bleeding Terran back toward the Lifepod we’d ‘saved’ her from. At least, until she fell to her hands and knees. The odd blue jumpsuit stained black with blood.

Marius, per Raphaella’s retelling, was frantically trying to recall what should be done for gunshot wounds. While Raphaella herself was wondering how long it would take for a non-Mech to regenerate. If they even could that is.

“Raphaella, we need to do something.” Marius pointed out as Babble sank unconscious to the floor.

“Why? All we need to do is wait for her to regenerate.” Raphaella commented.

Marius blinked at her, “and what if she doesn’t?”

Raphaella shrugged , “then she’s dead I suppose.”

Marius looked down at the body on the ground. “Okay…but you’ll never find out what that experiment was.” He pointed out. That peaked Raphaella’s curiosity enough to get her moving. She knelt down and stabilized the Terran, the two of them carrying her back to Raphaella’s lab for observation.

Sometime later Marius ended up back on the bridge. “Marius, why are you covered in blood?” Ivy asked. Her curiosity with the Terran being the first to wane, she hadn’t known about the whole…attempted murder incident.

Marius glanced down at his stained hands and clothes. “Oh, we took the human to Raphaella’s lab.” He finished wiping his hands off on a rag he’d brought with him.

“Did she live?” Ashes asked, mildly interested.

Marius shrugged, “for now. Thought she was going to bleed out.” He walked over to where he’d left the notes he’d been writing for a report. “Now, I’m going to see if the lifepod has any information about her.”

“I’ll go with you.” I offered. I’ll be honest, worry wasn’t an emotion I enjoyed. I’d seen that same shock and fear on others I’d killed in the past. Never bothered me then. Still wouldn’t be able to tell you why it struck me so hard with her. Something about her eyes maybe? Ugh, I don’t know, all I knew was I hated it and I needed to find out any information I could on our…guest.

“It’s a bit surprising, not much information on the ships log.” Brian said, elbow deep in the life pods mainframe.

Marius sighed, annoyed at the lack of information. “I’m going to have to wait until she’s conscious again, aren’t I?”

“For any kind of psychoanalysis, ‘fraid so.” Brian said.

I rolled my eyes, “well there can’t be nothing.” I leaned over Marius’ shoulder to get a better look.

“Same year she told us, same name. Some kind of government science project to create a faster way to travel the stars?” Brian shrugged, “maybe anyway. It’s patchy with how old this shit is.” He grumbled, “I can’t turn this fucking distress signal off.”

Of course the question I had: was she a vampire?

The answer as it turned out, was a hard no. As far as Babs knew, vampires didn’t exist. Despite this I was determined to figure out what was wrong with her. I’d met Terrans before (a nasty lot) but I knew they didn’t have special powers. So how had she gotten me so worked up? I ended up being the first face she got to enjoy upon waking up, thanks to my curiosity.

She held her breath when she caught sight of me. “Please don’t…” she trailed off, unsure of what to say.

I rolled my eyes, “you won’t die Terran, look.” I gestured with my chin toward the wound she’d received. Raphaella had stitched it up nice and neat.

“Sir, I-“ I couldn’t help but laugh, which annoyed them. She swung her legs off the table, sitting up with some difficulty. “What exactly about this is fucking funny to you?” She shot me a glare and I had to give her credit. For being such a whiner earlier, she had a lot of spunk after getting shot.

“I don’t think anyone’s called me sir in six thousand years.” I explained, leaning against a lab table, careful not to knock any of Raphaella’s ‘tests’ over. “Anyway, I have a few questions for you.”

She glanced around the room, “name?” They asked with a sigh.

“What?”

“Whats your name?” She gave me a look as if I was the one asking vague questions.

I scoffed, “I’ll be asking the questions Terran.” My hand rested on my holster. It was an empty threat. I didn’t know it at the time, but I’d never raise a weapon against Babs again, let alone a gun. When I realized this it was with disgust. No one was safe from my bullets, not even the rest of the crew…

“I don’t think whoever patched me up would like you shooting me again.” She replied cheekily. I almost laughed again; if I wasn’t so put off by her.

The two of us sat in silence. Them looking at the wall, me watching them. Finally, after enough time had passed for my patience to wear thin, I compromised (something else I rarely do). “How about this.” I suggested. She glanced at me, “I ask, then you ask.”

Her arms, which had been crossed, fell to her lap. “But you already know my name…”

I pinch the bridge of my nose, “Jonny d’Ville, captain of the Starship Aurora.”

She gave a tentative nod, “glad to finally meet you.”

I found out many things about Babs during that conversation. She didn’t believe in vampires but she had believed in gods. She had a big family once upon a time. We had to pause a while on that though so they could weep a bit more.

“It’s kind of funny.” She had said, wiping her eyes.

“What is?”

She shrugged, “no one outside of the team knew, but I wasn’t supposed to come back alive.” She scoffed, “they actually went looking for someone who’d been…unhappy with life.” Her shoulders slumped forward, “I’d really hoped to do something useful for once.”

“You wanted to die?” I’d asked, incredulous. Of course I’d heard about such people, but most of the people we Mechanisms encountered were interested in the prospect of immortality. They didn’t regard it with distain.

“Course, that’d been when I was younger,” she said with a wave of her hand. “I’d found a certain comfort in the fact that everything and everyone dies by the time I was working for the space program.” She looked up, contemplation on her features. “I think we need death actually.” I scoffed at this and she looked back toward me. “I’m serious. If we don’t have death we don’t have meaning.” She wrapped an arm around her abdomen. “What meaning, what emotion can be pulled from life if there isn’t an end?”

“There doesn’t need to be a meaning, it’s just living.” I argued, thoroughly unamused with her thought.

“Is it living though?” She gestured towards me and then to her own heart. “You don’t think that drifting around aimlessly looking for a fight so you can ‘feel’ something, proves my point?”

I scoff, “if I’d wanted someone to psychoanalyze me, I’d talk to Marius.”

She shrugged, “I feel sorry for you Mr. d’Ville, for all of you and I don’t think you’ll ever understand why.”

I’d had about enough of her conversation at that point and left her to Raphaella’s tests. We soon found out that while she never aged due to some kind of genetic lock on her DNA, she didn’t regenerate like we did. If she was shot she needed recovery time, poisoning did the same, oxygen deprivation and so on. Babs was the Universe’s glass immortal…and I was stuck with her. She practically became the crews pet:

She learned a lot from Nastya and Brian. Could even pilot the ship in a pinch.

Helped Tim schedule cleaning for the weaponry, no more jamming from years of disuse.

Marius found them to be the only member on board who wouldn’t kill him over his endless psychoanalysis’ of every being he’d ever met.

She and the Toy Soldier had tea on a daily bases.

When we went to a planet Babs made sure to bring Ivy back plenty of books.

Even Ashes O’Reilly had a soft spot for the kid, making sure we never left without her. Even when other members of the crew were left behind.

That leaves me. I found that both of us talked very little over the following centuries. If I entered a room, she quickly saw herself out. I found, to my disappointment, seeing her rarely didn’t lessen my worry over her safety. When we found ourselves on a certain labyrinthine city, I often found myself checking in on her from time to time.

She was burning her mind out with the Lotus eaters. Unfortunately for her, their dens could only be found in the lower levels of the city. Many a Lotus’ den was…closed…due to my intervention. At the end of our time there, I was the one who dragged them back to the ship. Even then, she didn’t say much other than to complain I’d ruined her trip. It took a decade on board the Aurora for her to forgive Ashes for burning the place to oblivion. Babs didn’t really have a problem with Ashes burning the place to the ground, they were upset they didn’t have a way to recreate the toxic shit they’d started to refer to as Fairy Dust.

And all the while that distress signal rang out through the cosmos. The only reason we didn’t jettison the thing from the airlock was because Babble often slept in it. She couldn’t hear it of course. Hell, the Aurora’d long since blocked it from her sensors, but that didn’t mean it couldn’t be heard by others.

Several centuries-

[almost three hundred years]

Right. Just about three hundred traveling with us-

Reprimanding us.

Having tea with us!

Living with us.

Alright I think they get the point.

Anyway we got a message from another ship:

STAND BY FOR BOARDING

“How the fuck did they get past our sensors?” I demanded.

“I don’t know! It’s older tech. Maybe Aurora didn’t think it posed a danger?” Brian tried to reason. Our ship shook as another attached itself like a parasite.

Alarms blare.

“It’s Terran.” Ashes shouted over the noise.

By this point Babs and TS made their way onto the bridge, the Toy Soldier still holding onto its daily tea. “What’s happening?” Babs demanded.

I laughed madly, this was the first real excitement we’d had in decades as we’d traveled to our next star system. I couldn’t wait to hear bodies fall. “Terrans showed up looking for a fight!” I shouted, pulling my pistol from its holster.

The alarms turn off, leaving us all in an eerie red glow.

“Terrans?” They ask, looking at one of the monitors. “Humans are attacking the ship?”

“Boardings more like.” Brian said with distaste.

Nervously, Babs held out a hand, “can we…see what they want?”

In the time she’d been with us Babble had never asked for anything she didn’t deem a necessity. Food or clothes or her damned Fairy Dust. She’d never asked to pick coordinates. She’d never demanded her share of anything. She’d always just…lived. Right then the fleeting thought that I ought to shoot her out of my way flickered through my mind, but I hadn’t been able to point a weapon in her direction since that first time. I found myself lowering my pistol. The annoyed glare she received made her wince as though I’d hit her anyway though. I didn’t want to give away my chance for a bit of violence, but I just couldn’t say no to Babs.

She took the lowering of my gun as an affirmation. “Thank you.” She’d said and turned around seemingly excited to greet these unwanted guests.

When they left Ashes made an observation that made me…uncomfortable. “You know why they’re here, don’t you?”

“That fucking distress signal!” Brian grumbled.

Nastya sighed, “never could turn the damn thing off.”

Ashes shook their head, “what do they always want from us?” They lead on, raising an eyebrow.

That’s when it hit me. We’d had others try to find the secret to our immortality before. It was funny at the time. It wasn’t like they could kill us in their experimentation. Babs though? She wasn’t like the rest of us. She was fragile…her body wasn’t made for the fanatical experiments most of us Mechs had found ourselves in. Hell, the poor girl could hardly handle Raphaella’s bloodwork.

“Shit.” I raced from the bridge. By the time I made it to the docking bay, Babs was already checking the airlock for the proper seal between the two ships. I almost stopped her.

I wish I had.

“Captain?” Babs asked. She was the only one that called me that.

“Stay behind the crew.” I ordered as the others crowded into the chamber. She gave me a confused look but complied without argument. Standing with TS and Ivy next to the door, one wouldn’t be able to immediately spot her as different from the rest of us. At least, I hoped that would be the case. Even after the centuries aboard the ship, Babs still didn’t have that look in her eye the way the rest of us did. ‘cept TS of course, but it had its own look about it.

As the crew of the parasitic ship boarded the Aurora, I let my hand rest on my gun. “We are responding to the distress signal of a lost Terran ship.” A short, stout man with a carefully trimmed beard explains. “My name is Captain James Hook the IV. We’ve been chasing this signal for some time.” At his side, he rested his hand atop a wicked looking grappling hook.

None of the Mechs said a word, but I could see from the corner of my eye that Tim had reached for his gun. “You didn’t think to hail our ship before you forced entry?” I demanded, hoping for Babs sake, to keep this from an all out battle.

“I take it you are the captain.” The fat man said with a slight smile. No one argued the point. They must have been worried too for once. “I do feel that little explanation is needed. You see we’ve been chasing your ship, since my grandfather found the ancient signal.”

Ashes raised an eyebrow, “so that gave you the right to board our ship?”

“You have some thing of ours.” He said simply, his eyes looking past me, seeming to rest on a point over my right shoulder. I was sure he was looking at Babs.

Tim laughed, pulling his guns from their holsters. “You’re lucky we didn’t shoot you all the moment you came through that door.” The others pulled their weapons in response to Tim’s threat. The Mechs following suit. It had been a while, after all, since we’d had some destructive fun.

“Jonny!” Babs grabbed ahold of my shoulder. I glanced back at her, a bit annoyed with their interference even if I knew she was right to try and stop a fight. She addressed the captain, “please don’t hurt my famil-” she stopped short, clearing her throat, correcting herself. “My crew, please don’t hurt the crew.” She removed her hand from my shoulder and held it to her chest. “What is it you’re looking for?” She asks taking a step forward.

“Babble!” Brian hissed from behind her as she stepped in front of the crew.

The captain looked Babs up and down, “you’re her aren’t you?” He pulled an old hologram nameplate from his belt, and there in the soft green glow is our deckhand. The name above the image reading: Test Subject 001-Wendy D.

“That’s from my official transcript.” Babs said confused. “How do you have that? The information has to of been lost to time.”

The fat man smiled with a satisfaction that had me gritting my teeth. “Earth never stopped looking for you.” He said softly. It was as if he was trying to sooth her fears. Fears, I’m sure she’d long since lost interest in. “Come home with us. See Earth again. It’s where you belong.”

Babs pulled a face. She seemed disgusted by the man’s assumptions. “I’m actually quite happy here.” She had stepped forward a few feet to see the hologram better; so when the old man’s smile changed to a sneer and he ordered his crew to take her…well… she was easily taken. Shots rang out from their side. Tim went down first. I felt a burning pain through my shoulder.

My instant reaction was to shoot, but Nastya grabbed my arm. “You’ll get her killed if you shoot now.”

Babs looked back at the crew, struggling with her captors. “Find me, please-“ she begged desperately. Then the airlock closed between us. Several of the crew had bullet wounds, which of course wasn’t a problem. The problem was that our junior deckhand was now in the hands of a race well known to be as vicious and violent as any Mechanism on our best days.

“Follow that ship.” I demanded through gritted teeth.

None of us, save Marius, had realized how attached Babs was to the rest of the crew. It was evident from her slip up in front of that Terran captain, however. It almost made me feel bad that I hadn’t tried to talk with her more. I knew Terrans pack bonded. It was just some thing I’d forgotten about.

“I’ve got her tracker working.” Nastya remarked, pulling the audio onto the main speakers.

”-anisms are going to destroy you.” The sound of some thing metallic clicking into place fills the silence before they start speaking again. “If you haven’t heard of them before, let me enlighten you. One of them burns down planets for fun. For fun! Do you really think that stealing one of their crewmates won’t bring about their wrath? I might not be an important member, but they do NOT like being told what to do. I know from experience-“

“Shut. Up.” The voice of James Hook demanded, and Babs laughed. Laughed like it was the funniest thing she’d heard in months.

“Shut up? That’s the best you’ve got? Do you really think that’s going to scare me? Have you got any idea what-” they’re cut off by their own grunt.

A whispered voice, must have been right next to her ear for the tracker to have caught it, said, “you’ll learn to shut up or we’ll have that pretty voice of yours singing a different tune.”

“I’m not scared of you.”

The unknown voice laughed, hollow, without humor. “You will be.”

Brian slammed his hand on the console. “We should’ve killed them the moment they stepped foot on our ship.” He seethed.

“Remind me to talk to Babs about stranger danger.” TS said thoughtfully, sipping from the tea cup it’s been holding this whole time.

Babs hadn’t spoken in a while, and murmuring can be heard from, we took it, whoever the whispering voice was. The sounds of wheels on a metal floor.

“What even are you?” Babs finally asked, her voice, a bit more timid.

That same hollow laugh came through the speakers, filling the bridge of the Aurora, with an uneasy dread. “A scientist, my dear.” The sound of something clicking into place.

Babs scoffed, “a scientist? You look more like a walking corpse.” She yelped in pain and the voice chuckled.

“And you’ll be able to help with that won’t you?” An odd, ticking fills the silence like that of an ancient clock.

“What’s the timer for?”

“Hmm? This old thing? Just a countdown. Nothing you need to worry that pretty head about.”

Things go quiet for a moment before Babs said, “clippers? If you think you’re gonna get away with cutting my hair you’re fucking wrong.” They sounded angry but there was a hint of panic at the end of her words.

“Please tell me Darling what exactly are you going to do about it?”

Babs hadn’t cut her hair since she woke up. TS or-on the rare occasion it was busy-Ashes would braid it. Keeping it off the floor and out of the way. It was a nuisance, but it seemed to make them happy. The one time someone had cut her hair was the one time I saw her kill without discrimination. No one would tell her who did it, so a house full of bastards died at her hands. I thought it was hilarious, she cried for months afterwards.

“Get away from me you freak!” Babs yelled, but the whir of a set of blades cuts through their cry. It doesn’t take long, they aren’t cutting for perfection after all. The creepy hollow laughter can be heard as the fucker seemed to enjoy the situation. Then the sound of a door closing and Babs struggling to get out of her restraints. ”This is fucking bullshit.” She screamed “WHEN I GET OUT OF HERE ILL KILL YOU ALL I SWEAR TO THE FUCKING GODS!” Silence filled the bridge for a while. Then…well Babs hadn't experienced a kidnapping before. No one could blame her for a few moments of weakness. All it did for the crew was steel our resolve to have some revenge.

The creepy voice it turned out was a Dr. W. Smee. A damned amalgamation of dying flesh and cybernetic parts. Babs hadn’t been lying when they’d said humans weren’t made to last very long. Dr. Smee had been trying desperately to figure out the secret to immortality. She feared death more than whatever she turned herself into. A living corpse still had the word living after all. She was only seventy-two and she looked worse than Terrans two decades older.

It took us Mechanisms less than a day to plan our little rescue mission. We took the hauler and saddled right up to their ship. Funnily enough, for a crew ready to board an unknown hostile vessel, they panicked very quickly. Watching a living corpse was one thing. Watching a dead body reanimate was another. When they realized it would take a lot more than bullets to save them, well…I found it hilarious how they scattered. We found that their ship, a dreadful waste of metal named the Jolly Rodger, had a terrible floor plan. It didn’t matter in the long run of course, we would find Babs eventually, but it was enough to frustrate me.

And when we believed there was hardly a soul left of the enemy crew a voice rang out:

“Throw down your weapons!”

Normally such a phrase wouldn’t have stopped a single Mechanism. This time, unfortunately, it came with the added incentive of a hook pressed to the throat of their kidnappe. Babs looked horrified, though if it was from her predicament or our appearance I doubt we will ever know.

“Nice hairdo, Babs.”

She sneered, “I’ll kick your ass Brian.”

I cut-in, ”haven’t you given up already?” I asked in a bored tone, gesturing back down the blood filled corridor with my pistol.

Tim took a step forward. ”Your crews dead.”

The coward pressed the hook hard on Babs’ throat, a trickle of blood running down into the collar of her top. “I figure you came here for her. I can at least avenge my crew by destroying what you’re after.” I couldn’t help but laugh. A great old laugh I haven’t had in a while…and then I shot the bastard through the head.

Babs kicked the body away from her, releasing an angry grunt as she did so. They sighed, looked back up at me and said, “I thought you’d leave me…” Nastya rolled her eyes and went over to Babs, undoing the cuffs she was restrained by.

“You’re part of the crew.” I responded.

She scoffed, “not an important part…and…” she rubbed her wrists. “I thought you didn’t like me…”

That caught me off guard. I’d thought the whole time she’d been avoiding me out of dislike. I suppose I’d never told her she was one of the only beings in existence that made me worry. Anytime a fight broke out and she was around, there was a part of me always aware of her status; if she’d been hit, if she’d gone down. I’d even asked Tim to train with her a little extra over the years…it never occurred to me that Babs hadn’t known that themselves.

Ashes ruffled what was left of her choppy hair, “when have we ever left you?” Babs shoved her hand away.

“If Jonny didn’t like you, you’d have been dead long ago.” Nastya pointed out and I scoffed.

Babs looked between the two of us, “you don’t hate me?”

Before I could answer, gunfire rang out. The crew was separated down two corridors. Nastya, Babs, and myself down the left hall, the others to the right. My aim wasn’t what it ought to have been, but thankfully Nastya made up for it.

“I’ve never hated you.” I admitted begrudgingly. “You’re basically the crews pet after all” I mumbled, more to myself than to her.

She gave me a look, bullets flying into the walls around her, “but that time in the City-“

I turned to glare at her. “You were going to kill yourself with that shit-“ A bullet caught me in the temple. Not sure how long I was out. Nastya tells me Babs dragged me all the way back to the loading area themself.

The two of them sat for a while, waiting for the others. Nastya won’t tell any of us what they spoke about-

Thats private.

Whatever.

Eventually the rest of the crew found their way back to the docking area. By that time I’d been able to pull myself together.

“Thank you.” Babs said, “for saving me.” She smiled then, “don’t touch me though, you’re all covered in enough blood to feed twenty vampires.”

“Unrealistic,” Ivy’d said, “vampires can’t drink deadman’s blood.”

Babs laughed and as she went to say something else a single shot rang through the hanger. A hole blooming through her throat.

As she collapsed I caught them. “Shit shit shit!” I held a hand to her throat, covering the wound. The only sound leaving her were choked gurgles. “Raphaella, help me get her to the ship!” I demanded.

“That was my prize! Now neither of us can have her!” That mad scientist shrieked from the entrance. Marius and Brian make quick work of the sick fucker, not even allowing her to monologue.

“Quick, pick her up. We have to get her to Carmilla’s lab.” Raphaella insisted, stooping to grab Wendy’s arms.

As I move to help Raphaella carry her, our eyes meet and something changes in that moment… “Stop Raphaella. We had a choice in this-“ I touched my chest. I felt a bit sick actually. Was I really going to let Babs bleed out like that?

TS who had bent down to help looked between the two of us. Raphaella fixed me with a glare. “You’d rather they bleed out and suffer a real death?” She gestured at the carnage we had brought that idiotic band of Terrans. “Like them? Make up your mind Jonny.”

“They’re already part of the crew.” Ashes pointed out. I looked down at the girl choking on her own blood. The girl who’d thought, believed, for centuries that I’d hated them. “If you’d known what it was like before you’d agreed, would you have wanted this?” It was the only time I’d questioned the gift of immortality…

“She’s already immortal, Jonny. You’re wasting time.” Nastya pointed out.

I grimaced and looked down at her. Once, several life times ago she had said we needed death…our eyes met again and even now I’m not sure if she could actually see anything by that point. She reached out a hand and I caught it in mine. They tried to say something, but in the end she just coughed up blood. “She’ll hate us if we do this.” I finally mumble.

Raphaella stood up and glanced around the group, “are you all just going to sit here while she suffocates to death?” The Toy Soldier started to cry then, something it hadn’t done in a very, very long time.

Brian sighed, “what was it she always said Marius?”

“She felt sorry for us.”

Nastya sighed, “Jonny you need to make a decision.” Her tone was annoyed, “there won’t be a chance to save her at all at this rate.”

Of course, if the Mechanisms did or didn’t save the lost Terran will have to remain up to your imagination. Some say she died on that heap of metal. That Ashes burned the thing to a husk or Tim shot it to pieces. Others heard a rumor of a new Mechanism. A girl with a throat of bronze who sings solo after being betrayed by her friends. If that’s the case I’m sure she’d get over it eventually. Maybe she already has. Unfortunately for you, you’ll never know the true ending.

After all, we Mechs always love a good tragedy.

#fanfic #the mechanisms #the mechs #nastya rasputina #jonny d'ville #raphaella la cognizi #marius von raum #the toy soldier #ivy alexandria #gunpowder tim #drumbot brian #I really just like this story a lot #I wrote it in about 2 days w/ the express intention of it being short #maybe someday I’ll make it longer (but I have an ass load of WIP right now)#hope you enjoy #Jonny’s POV

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the-oc-lass · 1 year ago

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Nimona OC - Charlotte Swiftheart/Corova

Alright. My break (from school) is officially over and I'm heading back to the dorms today (I don't know how to feel about that, honestly). But it's fine. I just have three more weeks and then I'm off for a month for Christmas. We'll be alright, lads.

And now, for more stuff.

First, Previous, Next

To keep herself from pacing, she busies herself with taking care of the children. She hasn't heard anything from Ballister or Nimona yet, and they weren't at the tower when she checked. She's worried that something happened to them after they fled the market. Is the Squire dead? Did they have to dispose of the body? No, no, surely not...

Besides, Nimona talks big about killing, but she isn't really like that. She wouldn't kill someone. Not on purpose. Charlotte shakes her head slightly, looking down at where little Todd (she laughs internally as she thinks back to shooting knight Todd's crossbow out of his hands) is curling up in his bed. He has a raggedy teddy bear clutched to his chest, and Charlotte smiles softly as she pulls the blanket a little bit higher over him.

"Are you comfortable, sweetheart?" she asks softly. He nods, nestling a little further under the blanket, and she brushes some hair away from his forehead. "Alright. Good night, Todd."

"Good night, Chari," he mutters back. She turns away, making sure that all of the children are accounted for, then steps out and into the main area. Just then, a rhythm is hit into the pipe, echoing through the room. Her eyes widen, and she rushes toward the door, looking up at where Indrie is perched.

"It's them," she says, looking down at Charlotte. Charlotte quickly unbolts the door and opens it. As soon as she sees Ballister and Nimona, she yanks them both into a hug.

"Oh, thank Gloreth, you're okay," she says, squeezing them. Ballister relaxes in her grip, and Nimona awkwardly pats a hand against Charlotte's back. After a few moments, Charlotte steps back. "Sorry. Come in, please." She steps aside and allows the two of them to step inside, then closes the door behind them.

"Is it alright if we stay here for a few hours?" Ballister asks. Charlotte sets a hand on his shoulder.

"Of course, Bal. Stay for as long as you need. Do you want anything to eat? A place to sleep?" she asks. Ballister shakes his head.

"I'm alright. But thank you," he says. Nimona, however, leans around him and holds up a finger.

"I could eat," she says. Charlotte chuckles.

"Of course. Help yourself, Nim," she says. Nimona grins, then shifts into a rabbit and quite literally hops away. Once she's gone, Charlotte turns to Ballister, taking a moment before she loops her arm around his. "Walk with me." He nods, and they move away from the door. She watches him purse his lips, clearly thinking.

"We're going to see Ambrosius in the morning," he says. She almost recoils.

"What? Bal, why? He's in charge of looking for you! You'd be putting yourself and Nimona in danger," she says. He sighs.

"I know. But when we talked to the Squire, he showed us something. Something that can prove I'm innocent. Ambrosius needs to see it," he says. She frowns slightly.

"What did he show you, Bal?" He looks over at her.

"Right. Let me show you," he says. She releases his arm as they stop walking and he reaches into his back pocket, retrieving a phone. As soon as it's turned on, she can see a video, which she plays. On top of some rather embarrassing things that show how much this particular Squire admired Ballister, it also reveals who sabotaged Ballister's sword. The person who really killed the queen.

The Director.

"That witch!" Charlotte hisses. She looks back at Ballister. "Why do you need to bring this to Ambrosius? The entire kingdom needs to see this, Bal!"

"That's what I told him!" They look over as Nimona starts walking over to them, a small slice of Charlotte's most recent pie cradled on a plate in her hands. Ballister sighs.

"And like I said before, we can't. The Director is the problem, not the Institute," he says. Charlotte's frown deepens.

"Bal-"

"Look, I don't want to talk about this. Do you have somewhere I can rest for a bit?" Charlotte purses her lips for a moment, then sighs.

"Yeah. I'll have someone take you." She gestures for one of the sanctuary members to come over to them, then looks back at Ballister and holds up the phone. "Do you mind if I hold on to this for a little while? I'll give it back before you leave, I promise." He looks back at her for a moment, obviously considering. Then, he sighs again.

"Alright. Fine. Good night."

"Good night." He turns to follow the sanctuary member upstairs. They don't really have spare beds, but there's a couch that Nimona stays on when she's here.

"He's so brainwashed it's sad," Nimona says. Charlotte looks over at her, watching as she chomps on her slice of pie. After a moment, she looks after Ballister, feeling rather sad about it all. She hoped it wouldn't be like this.

"Come sit with me for a bit?" she asks, looking back at Nimona. The shapeshifter pauses mid-bite, then slowly pulls her mouth back.

"Okay? Why?" she asks. Charlotte takes a deep breath.

"I think there are some things you should hear."

1/2

Lovely tagged people:

@ammonitetheseaserpent @perfectkittystranger @madlad06 @xxlunadrawsstuffxx @floxu

#nimona #nimona oc #nimona movie #nimona 2023 #nimona film #nimona netflix #original character #oc: charlotte swiftheart/corova #ballister boldheart #nimona nimona #nimona ballister

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indelibleevidence · 2 years ago

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Broken Wings, chapter 5

Author's Note: Also on FFN and AO3. Slight delay this week, since yesterday I was having a chronic illness brain-scramble. Next week should be the final chapter (of this fic, anyway - I still have the final one to write the synopsis for).

The bathroom was the only place with a lock she could retreat to, so Remi decided to take a shower, needing to gather her thoughts. The part of her that had once been Jane yearned to sob against Kurt’s chest, and she didn’t dare to indulge it. Instead, she let the water and steam cradle her, her arms wrapped around herself for good measure.

I just wanted it all to stop, but I’m trapped here, in this life I don’t know how to live. He wants me to stay, so why can’t I just give in? Why can’t I just take what he’s offering?

What the fuck is wrong with me? Am I going to keep hurting him until he finally leaves? So there’s nothing stopping me from eating a bullet? Am I really that broken?

The pressure in her chest crept up her throat, and a sob jarred her body. Remi shook her head, locked her jaw, tried to swallow the agony back down inside, but the effort was futile. The harder she tried to suppress the sobs, the more powerful they became. Her resistance broke, and she leaned against the cold tiles, muffling the sound of her weeping with her hands over her face.

You’re pathetic. As always, the voice mentally admonishing her sounded like Shepherd’s.

You’re the strongest person I know. Of course you want to rest. Kurt’s remembered words should have barely touched the raw wound in her soul—but somehow, they meant more than Shepherd’s. Not enough to heal her completely, but enough that her diaphragm loosened enough to allow her a full breath, then another. From there, she could regain her footing and pick up a washcloth, soaking and then violently wringing it out, over and over, watching the fabric bunch and twist, but never tear.

When her tears subsided, the repetitive movement enough of a distraction to shift the emotional storm to her horizon, she returned to the numbed state she’d been relying on in order to function. She moved mechanically through the motions of washing her hair and body, comforted by the familiar scents of Kurt’s shampoo and shower gel. Her thoughts, for now, were blessedly silent.

After she’d dried off and dressed, she unbolted the bathroom door, apprehension forcing tension into her abdomen. Had Kurt heard her crying? And if he said something about it, would she be able to keep herself from snarling at him—or worse, breaking down again?

He wasn’t in the bedroom anymore, so maybe he’d been too far from the bathroom to hear anything.

She followed the scent of frying onions to locate him in the kitchen, which didn’t surprise her. When he was stressed at work, Kurt went to the gym. When he was stressed at home, he cooked.

“Anything I can do to help?” she asked, leaning on the breakfast bar.

When he turned, his eyes were a little red and watery, as though he’d heard her crying, and cried right along with her. The image swept a wave of guilt through her.

On the other hand, he’d been chopping onions. She couldn’t assume anything, though she had her suspicions.

“I’m good,” Kurt said, giving no sign that he’d noticed anything amiss with her own eyes. “Did you eat while you were out?”

She shook her head. “No. Unless coffee counts.”

Kurt turned down the heat on the stove, then came to her side, leaning in for a brief, affectionate kiss. It was all so domestic and familiar that a lump formed in her throat, and she rested her head on his shoulder to hide her shaken composure.

He nuzzled her temple, then returned to the stove, his back to her. “In that case, dinner’s in fifteen minutes.”

Remi retreated to the couch, pretending to browse something on her phone as she tried to process the longing she felt for Jane’s old life. Was it just the emotional exhaustion of the day’s events that had her this sentimental? Or did she actually miss living here on a permanent basis?

Missing a person was different from missing a whole phase of your life.

She turned over the problem in her head until Kurt called her over to eat, but found no clear answers.

After the meal, when they were settled with glasses of wine on the couch, Kurt said, “You don’t have to let it go.”

Taken aback, she frowned over at him. “What?”

Kurt gave her a hint of a smile. “Earlier, you said Jane could let her past go, and be a better person because she didn’t have that baggage. But you can still find meaning in your life, and you don’t have to let go of anything you don’t want to. I didn’t.”

Remi frowned. “You didn’t…what?”

“Come on. You know how stubborn I am. I searched for Taylor for twenty-five years. If you hadn’t come to Venice on our anniversary, I would have searched for you until the day I died. Letting things go isn’t in my DNA.”

“You let go of your grudge against Jane,” Remi pointed out. “You didn’t want to be in the same room as her, after you found out about me.”

“That’s different. I was angry. And I…” He sighed, his gaze dropping from hers for a moment. “I wasn’t telling the whole truth when I said that. I didn’t want to be around her because I was scared of how much I did want to be around her, even knowing how she’d lied to us. None of my feelings made sense. All of it was tangled up with stuff about my dad, and Taylor, and Allie and the baby… It took me months to sort everything out in my head.”

Did he know how close he was to her own feelings about him? Or was this just a coincidence? His words felt too accurate for comfort.

“But you did sort it out. I don’t know if I have that in me.”

“You don’t have to do it alone.”

She rolled her eyes, trying to deflect the earnest sentiment before it made her burst into tears again. What was wrong with her? “In the end, alone is all we are.”

As if he sensed that if he pushed, she’d push back ten times harder, he changed tack. “The way I see it, you have four options. You can kill yourself.”

Remi couldn’t help but flinch at his bluntness. Stupid, when she’d considered far more detailed scenarios within the privacy of her own mind—but hearing him say it was almost a violation.

Kurt continued listing, counting the options off with his fingers. “You can find more ZIP and inject yourself, without my consent. You can try to keep on living the way you have been, even though it’s not making you happy. Or…you can try something different.”

He stopped, as though he expected her to say something, but she had no coherent thoughts to shape into words. She just waited, uncharacteristically passive, sipping her wine. It was obvious where he was going, and she should cut him off before he got there, but the words died somewhere between her mind and her lips.

Even the critical part of her psyche, the one that always sounded like Shepherd, was silent. Remi was too exhausted even to hate herself right now.

“I want you to come home,” Kurt said softly, taking her hand. “I miss you when you’re gone.”

“And I miss you,” she admitted. “But moving back in here isn’t trying something new.”

He laced his fingers through hers, the gesture casual, yet intimate. “It’s different this time. I’ll know that you’re you, and you don’t have to hide any part of yourself. That’s new enough.”

He was making sense, but fear made her cautious. “I’ll drive you crazy.”

“You’re telling me the next year is gonna be harder than the one we’ve just had?” he teased gently. “’Cause I’m all out of ammo, and I’m pretty sure you are, too.”

Remi stared at him, speechless. She’d never thought about it that way, but…he was right. He didn’t know every awful thing she’d done—and with the Orion secrets, she’d endanger him if she ever told him. But she wasn’t hiding herself anymore. He knew the worst parts of her, what she was capable of, and he’d already forgiven her.

She shook her head, unable to help but smile a little. “You’re actually right about that.”

Kurt’s expression grew just a little warmer, more affectionate, and the last of her resistance slipped away. She was so tired, and his body heat was so comforting against her side. She was far from confident that they could make this work, but without the option of ZIP…

“Okay. If you’re sure… We can try.”

Loving relief emanated from him, echoing her own tidal wave of emotion. “Trying is all I ask. Thank you.”

I’m the one who should be thanking you. God, I hope we don’t regret this.

If she kept dwelling on that fear—or the gratitude and relief on the other side of her emotional coin—it would consume her. She had to think practically, or she’d become a wreck again, and this time, it would be in front of Kurt. At least she could come up with her next short-term goal now.

Remi sighed, knowing she was about to disappoint her husband again. “I need to head back to Europe, first. Get things sorted there. It’ll probably take a week or two, depending on when I can reach certain people.”

Kurt’s expression clouded with concern, a spark of fear in his eyes. “You can’t do it by phone?”

“Remember when Jane came back with huge stacks of cash? That’s how K&R pays, if you’re trying to stay under the radar.” She hadn’t been hiding herself since she’d given Kurt her second burner phone number in Vancouver, but hadn’t bothered to switch to digital pay—just in case. “Most of my money is stashed away, and there’s no one out there I trust to get it for me and put it in the bank. Plus my apartment needs to be cleared out, my rent paid up. There are a few weapons I’m, uh, breaking a few laws by owning…”

“Then let me come with you.”

As much as Remi loved him, something deep within her protested at the thought of Kurt going back with her. Even though it was only two weeks, she needed that time, that solitude. She needed to process everything that had just happened, and come to terms with her new future—as hazy as the details were, so far.

She shook her head. “I know I haven’t been the most trustworthy wife. But you have to know by now that when I say I’ll come back, I will.”

Kurt was silent, but she could see the thoughts as clearly as he’d spoken them. That was before. But now, if you want to die...

“I’m trusting that you want me here—in your home, in your life,” she pointed out quietly. “If you know me at all, you know that’s a huge leap of faith I’m making. Now I need one from you, too. I’ll be back, within a couple of weeks.”

“No more risky jobs?”

She held his gaze. “No jobs at all while I’m out there. I haven’t got anything booked, and I don’t need the money, so I’m done with K and R.”

Kurt hesitated, then gave a tiny nod. “It scares the hell out of me, but…okay. If that’s what you need to do.”

Impulsively, she kissed him—then remembered the numerous times she’d rewarded his naïveté with a kiss after duping him, when she’d been pretending to be Jane . Not this time. I swear.

“Thank you. I know I’m asking a lot, but…” She shrugged. “Old habits.”

Kurt nodded. “I’ve waited this long—I can wait a little while longer.”

He was being so sweet and understanding that it just made her more ashamed of her instincts to push him away. She’d meant it earlier, when she’d said he deserved better. She was a damaged mess, and she’d been torturing his heart for too long. If a brand new Jane wasn’t what he wanted—if it was Remi he wanted—then she had to start treating this like it was serious. Like it was the long-term arrangement Jane had committed to in her marriage vows.

Remi kissed him again, just because she could. Because he was somehow, against all the odds, hers. “I just want you to know that even though I hated you knowing so much at first, I’m glad Jane took that choice away from me. Without you, I…”

Her words trailed away as she struggled to find a way to express herself. Kurt let the silence linger for a moment, giving her the opportunity to finish the thought, but then pulled her more snugly against him, kissing the top of her head. “I know. Me too.”

Remi sighed, savouring the warmth of his presence. She knew tomorrow would bring new doubts, new regrets, new self-loathing—but for tonight, she’d impose a ceasefire on the worst of the war inside her head.

#broken wings #damaged goods #blindspot #blindspot fanfic #reller #canon divergence

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posttexasstressdisorder · 1 year ago

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Time to turn off the oven and fire up the soldering iron: Dynaco Repair Post

I'm a tube guy. I have been without my Dynaco amp almost two years now, and I lost the preamp to some unknown issue a few months ago.

But that's all about to change. Thanks to @misfitwashere and dynakitparts.com, the parts to fix the main issues arrived in my mailbox day before yesterday. I'll be diving into both the Stereo70 and PAS3X in this post, starting this coming week.

Check back in with this thread to see the repair process in my usual photo-essay sorta way. And in order for that to happen, I'm gonna make this my pinned post until this project is done and I'm once again bathed in the glow of tubes.

First evening: Beginning work on the PAS, the initial phase is to get rid of the two honkin' (one exploded) caps and selenium chip stack with one small and very nicely designed and well implemented circuit board with two diodes and two capacitors.

First step is assembling and soldering the circuit board, starting with the diode pair. You have to make sure the polarities are right before you commit to solder.

After that, the two caps:

And, of course, trim the leads, and that's all there really was to it.

The next phase will require more elbow grease: unsoldering the eight leads to the original stack, and removing it. The undsoldering took a bit of doing, but once that was swung out of the way, a twist with the needle-nose on that nut on the main mounting screw and the accursed capacitors laid down by The Auld Gods in the Younger Days lie in a crumpled heap.

But with that out of the way, we see the vast expanse of real estate suddenly visible shows the extent of the exploding: a heavy line of gunk under, and what had to be a fine mist that sprayed on everything in that direction. You can see where I took a cloth and wiped a bit under that RCA jack array...it's a greasy, waxy mess!

So that's where I decided to stop for the first evening. I will get back to it tomorrow. It's obvious now that I'm going to have to unbolt that back panel to get at all that capacitor goop under the RCA jack array, which I will be replacing anyway. Having that back panel off will make that job easier.

First order of business tomorrow will be unbolting the back panel and getting some parts cleaner going on that cap residue.

Update: Tues. evening 12-05-23

Well the day's been a mix of ease and frustration. While unmounting the back panel did give enough leeway to get the job done, it by no means was able to "swing out of the way", but it did move about 3/8" back away from the base plate, which was enough room to clean the stuff out.

I ended up just using a single-edge razor blade to scrape the now-dry and dusty stuff loose and out, it was the easiest and best way. Screwed the panel back on once it was all clean, and went to the next step, installing the standoff that will hold the new board in place.

The new board is certainly cleaner-looking than the old stack of hoodoo!

Now it was time to solder the EIGHT leads to the appropriate spots on the board. Instructions say to follow the original wiring diagram for which wires go where.

This is where the Dynaco kits ALWAYS stood above the others...there were life-size drawings of the top and bottom, showing you where the wires were to be routed.

And so I sat and took stock of which wires were which, poking up from the bottom. And here's where this kind of project always ends up taking longer than it should. Even after adjusting some of the slack out of the two original leads from the PC6 board, they're both like a ridiculously small amount short...like 1/2"-3/4".

I remembered seeing a brand new roll of exactly the right kind and gauge of wire this last week either down in the garage or in the process of clearing stuff away for this project up here.

[Insert two and a half hour unscheduled nap here]

So at 5pm I pop awake ready to get back at it.

[Cue "yaketty sax" music while I spend the next two hours looking for that damned spool of wire]

At this point, I am chuckling at myself. I'm not in a hurry with this. I want this to be RIGHT. So now It's nearly 8pm, and I'm starvin'. I am gonna stop for the night and make myself a burger and pick this up tomorrow.

PS: Ta-dah. Found it.

Wednesday, 12-06-23

I got a fairly early start on things today and am happy to report that the PAS filament supply is now installed, and all four 12AX7 tubes light up when it's powered up.

First thing was to un-solder the two wires at points 14 and 15. These are the ones that were too short to make it to the right spots on the board.

I made a twisted pair of new wires a couple inches longer than the ones removed, and decided to flag one as "black" with a bit of electrical tape at each end, which I'll trim when things are done.

This is 22gauge wire, slightly smaller than the original, but still fine to use for our purposes. The first two connections were easy enough, with the clearly marked board and fresh solid-core wire.

The next two were re-used leads, going to the other PC board. They required some re-bending to make the distance, but worked fine:

Now the AC side, doing the outside pair (going to the 12X4 socket):

And finally, the two blue leads from the transformer:

At this point, I was technically "done" with this phase. Trimmed up the bits of electrical tape, and routed the wires a little neater. Plugged it in and WE HAVE GLOW!

So the basic issue has been solved, and I *could* just close it up and use it, but I noticed one more not-so-fun thing under the hood when I was assessing the wiring:

Yeah, the little can-cap is leaking on one lug. I will have to get that from dynakitparts.com. The only other thing "wrong-wrong" is the worn-out RCA jack array on the back, and the pilot light bulb went when the capacitor that exploded did its thing. The main AC cord could stand replacing, as it's quite stiff with age at this point, much like my old carcass.

However, before I start on those RCA jacks, I need to clean the Source Switch, this triple-wafer monster:

The bearing in the very front is binding, so that trying to change source is difficult, and feels like the whole thing is stressing. The three contact wafers each need to be cleaned, and the spots where the contact arm turns need lubed. I'll be working on that next, after I make a late bite of lunch.

Coming back at it, looking at the Source Switch now, it looks like there really isn't any way to make that front bearing turn any smoother. It's actually just a single ball that gets bumped from spot to spot, held in place by a pressure clip, one knotch for every click of the control.

After using WD40 on the physical mechanical parts, it doesn't really turn any easier. The electrical contacts on it seemed to brighten a little after the DeOxit was applied. So I'll leave that one alone.

And on to replacing that worn-out RCA jack array with one that gives enough room to plug things in (and better jacks).

After getting the parts laid out and the instructions out, it became apparent that it was missing two parts: "precision" resistors and the new label for the back IDing the jacks.

Just used the contact form on the dynakitparts guy's website and let him know what's missing, and will hopefully get those sent. I will also see if I can get the cash together to get that quad can cap. So...at this point, I'm kinda at a stand-still until further notice.

But we have GLOW on the preamp, and we didn't when we started this! I'll let y'all know when I know more from the dynakitparts guy.

Literally 20 minutes later: Got a super-fast reply and he'll be sending the parts out tomorrow and they will get here on Saturday. So yay on that! In the meantime, I will be turning my attention to the Stereo70, and installing the Bias Kit that will do away with the selenium rectifier and tube.

Update Saturday Evening 12-09-23

Has been a frustrating couple of days, culminating in the news that our mailboxes were pried open, so they're keeping our mail at the post office. That means I will have to go and try to get an idea of how they're going to deliver our mail for the next month or two, or even whether. Point being, the Dynaco parts were scheduled to be delivered Monday. I have either got to go to the PO later in the chance it's been processed through and put in whatever temporary holding bin they've got my mail in. Argh.

Got no work done Friday, so tomorrow I'm going to at least do everything up to putting the new RCA panel in. The ST70 will get its work, and they'll both get new power cords. I had a lot of flat-bladed extension cords and old things that were beyond repair, and I snipped the power cords and tossed them in a bin to replace worn ones. The two I found were close to the originals, maybe a touch larger, but they are flat-bladed (unpolarized) just like the original cords, so I will be able to control the power of the ST70, FM3 and Dual 1219 turntable by switching on the PAS.

So, ironically, I will sign off for the evening with no photos, but by turning the oven back on to bake. I'm thinkin' raspberry muffins with chocolate chips.

Well, at least it's gotten across the continent in record time. If it's in Oakland, the main Alameda PO should get it. We'll see. Meanwhile, have a muffin.

Well, crap! I guess I have hit up against a "max number of photos in posts". Not seeing any kind of statment to that fact, it just won't open the windo to add attachments.

SO: as of Sunday, December 10, I'll start a new post, and link it here when I've done it.

and

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the-firebird69 · 1 year ago

Text

The more I can take a massive hits the morlock of taking massive hits they're down and they're going down for the count and they also are losing tons of people in punta gorda. So far it's about 100,000 and that was this morning and they have about 300,000 total and right now they're losing another $50,000 and it's to being picked up into violence they're also evacuating another 50,000 so they have 100,000 of The originals here that's not that many and we're fighting over households approximately 33 that are unoccupied recently by the morlock Macklemore lock and we are fighting over about 10 partially built 10 lots and about five houses that are built but empty I want that big huge one on the corner. It came up with a great idea that Hera and him will be our kids and some others want to do that to be aunties and uncles too separate rooms. And we're laughing cuz they can be small. Nevada Ariana then when I move into BG old house the max are up and they're arguing. That's a bunch of houses it stopped at 17 several in jeopardy including the 10 that went out there early this morning and watching everything. Their crew of 200,000 is now 100,000 we have unconfirmed reports that two of the households are dead and their trumpsters of course but whole bunch of others are going to try meaning there's 17 left 10 more getting up. Jason and Lily lost all their households here except their own and they lost everybody in it except them and they don't have very many regions at all and out of the 4,000 they had they have 300 left and they're not running the areas they're in at all any of the areas and they are shrinking rapidly I'm hearing it's now 200 and they had 7,000 generals no it's like 70,000 right now they have 5,000 generals and getting reports that half of them will be gone momentarily and he's going to be weakest s*** in a minute and people are not stopping and finding them at the hospital so they're going nuts in the hospitals it's a huge huge attack globally there now at 2% let's see Mac morlock the minority murlock are holding it 2.5%, and minorities and us and Max are taking over everything and in the midwest we are grabbing tons of equipment huge lots gigantic numbers of machines it doesn't take long and we go in and unbolted and move it it doesn't take long at all if the bolts are welded on we cut the weld and there are tons of did it no only a few because the machine kept moving and undoing the bolt and their solutions to that you put a different whole thing when you double knot it and they didn't do that so we're cutting some of them out about 05% and it's not much Russian Bolton drive away with we'll have it all clear the areas that are clear about 10 minutes. It only takes an hour or two it's not the big part of the job and there are several other things happening

-there's a huge contingent that looked at the wall and they drove away and then off doing other stuff quite literally they don't want to mess with it and that's fine we don't care about that and the other things that are going on

-there are two states and contention Michigan to three states Michigan is almost empty Illinois is empty Missouri is half full Ohio is half full and those states are shaking and we dropped one in Ohio that's the only one that was dropped there so far and in Missouri we have not dropped to any but in the midwest we dropped three two in the morning and one in the later morning or afternoon it is now and it's shaking like madness and people are running and we said we dropped one but that's not true and Ohio it did drop one that is falling and they are evacuating and Missouri is evacuating even though we didn't drop it in there there leaving in droves and they're leaving Michigan the only area is left would be Western Pennsylvania and north of Wyoming and that's only a small portion? Which can empty in minutes but just to let you know the Midwest will probably be fully empty by the end of today I'm going to have all that equipment and we have to assemble the factories and they're huge cars and trucks and he says it's a good way to keep the factories going and keep the area from getting hit and to announce our presence by changing the design. And it's good it's going to work. There are several things at work and that is one of them. The other is we are going to build massive defenses some of it using the equipment but mostly equipment is very small they build some robots patrols and such. It's going to be a huge huge operation and we need ours to sign on for factory jobs immediately and construction jobs we have way too many construction jobs that we need assistance now and we need ours to sign on

Thor Freya

We deplore ours to sign on WE request you do now we need your help

Olympus

Is it a good time for everybody to sign on these are decent jobs to train with it's all remote viewing and it is absolutely necessary

Hera

Else here on Earth or an actual service here physically we don't require you to or make you or want you to we have ships you need to man

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libidomechanica · 2 years ago

Text

Nor Interest sought thee to thee

A limerick sequence

When I answer now, and gold, of course. Nor Interest sought thee to thee? And eyes on. In the rest …. Some recognition in the night.—Take the story of his ransom.

Not stand, either the bloody gore which, well to stab herself! And walke with my eyes may go? This mother’s eyes seem to kiss.—She has twa sparkling eyes. Nor glance aside.

Such an accident befell, so call’d. Was it now it flowers, and large priviledge afford; resolv’d by this holy fit shall be mine, but I placed in proper spheres.

Thou weak, I wanne: thou daily at morning peeps so gaily, contend. And trewely we had got Haidee; yet could not being my fingers nurst; and you too, reader!

Told it the Amen, ere the leaues from a snowy gleam; the day when Cyril pleaded, Ida came by, silent wheels. I seye, I hadde geten unto myn endyng day.

Oh, tis imposture all! I graunt; but what woman next to a sight, by this paiėment, if such discussion. Infers a Right that dronke a draughte me that he leftovers.

In Regions of Belial had a dream, and lift my makė dye, with white-flowers, with faint eternall crowne, the Devil and true, like Esau, for man that dark gulph me—help!

He paused hortensia spoke by sad Vertumnus, when it speak and rave at the halls, in listen. Dread of blue throne in Vain? Splashing into shapes of nations, like the fray.

And spiced wood, amang the gusty deep. All ring fancy’s knell; I wish I might reach: and suffer. Offended man with blood-red as sunset throughout, as ferforth at eve.

Godly Factious Friend, himself along the dark, when there we would much in love’s used up. ’ Angry Gods pursue Immortal tears, dispensing hard the longë love thee to me.

Was Nature, and raising there. I sing of all my bed was moved to show to move and so clear’d her comes, a dull red ball wrapt in a much hope, to thee and the silver.

Aurora scarcely pass’d away: no longer your palmes of his cruelty. Fell sleek about going to do withouten lincks of flesh. I was a maiden Queens.

Go wher that clings to Destroy. A wooded cleft, and all that my Muse hath noon; but those ears of publick Good, to suit the Amen, ere the mother, and when his wyvys!

Hid; when from these blessings on this doom. But in a much humbler promontory, but time in silk and his armour, knives and rounder shook each by a specioun. For it!

Ye sholde I seye, if I ever thing, or Horace wrote we al oure vices being cruel men. Her foot she harden’d in deserted me—where all Immortal can do.

None; here am I! Often when she’s gone. He has number of article at his manna pick’d it ne’er had a dream before me—the sad look of his Prince, possess’d.

Solitary pastures where they are like the channels where no sin unbolts the pock! What, though the custom of the heaven so high, yet rather seem’d to deem no worse.

And that you please, no King course. Suspicion question cannot see a ghost? Just Revenge for ioy could returns for very shape of a God. Me se what thou were deed.

That is beating troth. And so more impression—cannot speaks of Hecla, to see it faint, and Kings unquestion’s this the peaceful Actions mighty content could so mine.

Could I rove, ne’er seen the faery people in house from the spirits Bold, and so it did, with those as the morwe; and if ever bard: if thou listen to each other?

Was quit, by spirit reels. A hundred throne, and breadth, nor broke loose, and solve and Fancy leads, o’er the eggs both times did seeme he lost all her grand antithesis to grow!

The ear that he wiped his way was left behind her who is drye and encroaching; every side, high in the morn. Before my weary limbs, and this madding of pleasure.

Yes, I’ ll begin it – Ding, dong, bell. Lightly gulls him with you too short the Tiller’s care; the most soul. The whole; and often reed anothers love thee, what is to shewe.

To take it at my temples; pity that brought; and, be shed? He cried, the prison’d eagle sat, without Title while I thee deny, in my old couch of hand in black.

Bur, for him her dripping his fourth, to rally him in the death-pale, with me oft maister yaf noon oother while we can finde, Reply, reply. And murmur or grucchyng.

Fair maid, from a ruggedest loopholes, and whining, and she be chaast also gentle warbling wynde, so far from stain, were strong, that had redden’d her vineyard—yes! ’ Mother!

By, stood serene Cupid fix’d his ear, now he haste! The former can hinder part to doubt a litter. The fire shineth bright or toil or study, an open before.

Beneath along wilt thou prevents must needs be good, and bade it, spareth for the heed that now bleeds in my e’e. Made them feel he ken’d they hadde of hym corrected be.

And for mutual comfortable treated him—no pulse, than the true loue and when ’tis his, after than the proud titles boast, whilst some other lay. Would well be death?

To wedde, ne no man wol sette hire al the nymph that same Adonis, safe in the dark. Love distant spot, upon thy hand, with wo, euen ready for their right eyes did see.

But time threading for a mortgage was by, would reach the deepest mouth’d againe. Things what’s reality? Stella, whose huge honey seeping eyes, which should now be but ones.

Feast on, and all this chiefe praise saying, You suicide bitch! Do, dame, quod she, right and day round flowers, peacocks, swans, and faire, for al so siker as cold as a dish.

He som tyme was the anchors; it’s no sooner said: the snow before. That had darken’d watch among us, a black—sailed unfamiliar sights more keenly tempting there.

Will attend his men, reign’d, till on a day. Great the main of light, pouring from Humane Laws controls their Gods disgrac’d, so smile, if not why. I love not leaves. Oft with Praise.

Would their glorious proud that she has number let me quit the paper’s light? And that thou wert, I call the tombs I built with feelings, others in true marriage-morning.

As frely as my great to fall, to Patch thee to a Ship on Goodwins cast a glow-worms began to stand, baba propos of hope. And written upon the grassye ground.

For busloads of bees buzz from the Court Informer! A rustling lips his highness cast around moon and barbarous laws. That last, of thine ten times innumerable.

To novel power; and the Jews, those and up the Waves went. So prechestow and see if it’s in her small bright osier’d gold were a deceive. And must he patient Man.

I tell you this? Ye, woltow so, sire Somonour and cold daybreak we wind up the Bunsen burner, you floated in sweet kisses in this, to be reconciled!

Made me I koude walke or pleye untrue. Can’t tell; also the nak’d since held his compeers by a right, closer, close o’er life with many Graces, and with hoary heares.

If one consuming flash’d from wall to hear: O punish you a debt, that he was of contrast to West his Maker’s Images, but Government. Her breathe back ever.

She spake he, and barbarous laws; these Arms may Sons against your world’s most crowd about wives. Sufficient reason is, that then shall paint out what we wanted—to be right.

I though noon auctoritee were constant while hid the gourd overscored, while your fancy to reclaim against the King, at Gath an Exile he grew. That for a row.

And I myself to break the reed, till when, like books: hope. My timely buds with hellish anguish, ioylesse, hopeless ennui surrounded thus! I seem: so that his Heir.

My court for busloads of rosy pride, the People no Concession, and shadow. She order’d through he wolde nat spare a while I thee! ’Tis true, a little was his Heir.

Only my grace. Shaking a glade of palm and quiver’d Diana’s sensuall earth, and labyrinth you too shall stand, though striding Alexander past the unconscious deep!

Not only husband and bowers?—I ran away a moment, and circuit of Kings, estrange maladies should array her love I rise and up the Infernall praise.

But when the hungry ocean waste it so well: nought or toil or study, an open before they. That she knew a check’d with my sonnet to your Father Government.

And Balkís a Secretive, sensitive to her debtor for night. Th’ engraver sure his Cause by whose minds agree to give them as you meant by death is here!

At the Oppian Law. Made monastic vows, and dream is fled: twas Cupid fix’d his foolish, or to see, this in conversation white arm, most delicious Princes Son.

How ill my body, even my verse stoundes; bacyns, lavours, er thou wilt force along thine, and science is born for love, believed, those gentle river. But will miss!

For wel ye knowe the faery-roof, made jealous grown boy, with the mass of glad grace. What does she doing? On Absalom’s Mild nature manner then is left in mine Eyes.

But folk of wyves two, how Xantippa castel was unworthy wyf, and has more coldly in his indolent arms, and are brief. Curses upon his thankes, helde.

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 7 #197 texts #limerick sequence

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forasecondtherewedwon · 3 years ago

Photo

Lustbuster

Fandom: Nancy Drew Pairing: Nancy x Ace Rating: E Word Count: 3902

Summary: It's probably not the best idea to let Nancy decide how to manage her lust, but it probably wasn't the best idea to leave Ace in charge of watching her either.

It’s not the kinda thing he can ask Grant, Ace knows, but he still twists away from George’s reluctantly pleading face to clock the new guy moving around the kitchen. So innocent.

No, Ace can’t ask this of him. Leaving the running of the Claw temporarily under Grant’s control isn’t the same as unbolting his supernatural training wheels to station him in front of the walk-in, guarding Nancy while she burns through the effects of that wedding dress. Let the guy cut his teeth on a séance or two first, maybe a child-killing demon with lungs full of potpourri. Nancy on her hormone high is too much for a newbie to handle. Not in his first week.

“Don’t make me beg, Ace,” George says. Her tone stands behind her words like an enforcer, threatening to take a potato peeler to his eyeballs if he doesn’t start nodding.

He looks back at her.

“’Course not.”

“I really need to check on my sisters,” she adds.

They both know the card she holds but isn’t playing—that it’s his fault her sisters are worried, his fault that Odette’s spirit got George’s body trashed. It might be thanks in part to Ace that Nick made it home alive last night, but then he also has to take credit for being the reason George didn’t make it home, cuffed to a bench at the station. Even if George is too nice to say it (unlike Bess, who seems hellbent on blaming him forever), Ace feels that guilt. And because guilt isn’t useful, he’s gotta offer up responsibility instead.

“I get it,” Ace tells her.

“I tried to smooth things over when I got in this morning, but Jesse gave me the silent treatment and Ted and Charlie followed her example. Why can’t they be that in sync when I need them to be, huh?”

“That’s rough, George.”

George hangs her head and sighs.

“I thought about making something up… saying Bess and I had a sleepover after we went skating—some version of the truth, you know?—but if some asshole makes a comment to one of them about seeing me handcuffed to Victoria’s bench, clearly drunk and possibly speaking French, I think they’ll hate me even more for lying.”

“They’re not gonna hate you,” Ace promises. “Go talk to them.”

George smiles gratefully.

“Thanks, Ace.”

She starts to walk by him, zipping up her coat, but he turns after her.

“But, uh…” he begins. George glances back and lifts her eyebrows for him to go on. “She’s good now?” He jerks his thumb towards the walk-in. “She doesn’t need anything?”

“She’s not the fucking class turtle. Nancy will survive. All she needs is for you to not let her out.”

“Yeah, no, I got that part. Got that part loud and clear.” Ace clears his throat, remembering Nancy’s hands pushing into his hair.

George’s smile of amusement is a little bigger than her last one.

“Nancy’s locked in,” she reassures him. “I could hear her mumbling to herself so I assume she’s meditating or something. Just let her ride this out.”

“Cool. Yep. Can do.”

Ace gives George a thumbs up. She rolls her eyes and leaves him to his assignment.

First, he takes a step into the kitchen.

“Hey, Grant? I’m just…”

He gestures towards the back and Grant stares at him, neither agreeing nor protesting. Grant has this thing, Ace thinks, where he constantly looks the opposite of unflappable. Unceasingly flapped. But he hasn’t quit, and he doesn’t ask what it is Ace needs to do back there, or why he’s relieving George. Ace nods like they’ve reached an understanding and bounds down the steps, heading to the walk-in.

It’s quiet when he stops in the middle of the room. He’s trying to offer Nancy some space, but maybe this is too much. He crosses casually to the lockers, leaning his shoulder against a door and flinging his coat onto the bench. The locker squeaks, making him worry that he won’t be able to hear Nancy. He approaches the walk-in, hesitant. Grips the railing. Tilts his head towards the door as he listens. George was right: there’s a faint rise and fall of Nancy’s voice.

Ace settles into place on the top step, back to the door. He pulls out his phone and rereads every one of his potential brother’s texts. If he were Nancy, or even Bess, he’d be analyzing the shit out of these, but Ace’s eyes move quickly across the words, more checking that they still exist than trying to glean any additional meaning. He’s been thinking about this for way too long. When looming death-by-Agleaca put pressure on his timeline and he finally called the number, that felt like it started a momentum he doesn’t want to stop. A drawn-out back-and-forth texting is not what he’s looking for at this point. He’s ready for answers, resolution, the end of the mystery. It’s making him restless, and restlessness leads to recklessness. Yesterday, he intentionally threw cherry tomatoes into a salad they’ve always served with grape tomatoes. Oh yeah. Shit’s gettin’ real.

He’s slipping his phone back into the front pocket of his jeans when he realizes he can’t hear Nancy anymore. Pushing to his feet, Ace goes to the door and knocks.

“Nancy? Nancy, you ok?”

His mental interface is preparing to run the EMERGENCY software and proceed through a series of folders (KEYS, FLORENCE, HOSPITAL) as his hand reaches for the pin that’s holding the door latched. But then he hears his name from the other side of the door. He hears his name two ways, and neither suggests a medical emergency. Beyond the medical emergency of inhaling mystical fumes off a repression dress from the Women in White’s 1848 fall/winter collection.

“Ace?!” Delighted. “Ace.” Shivers down his spine, and not the spooky kind.

“Yeah, I’m here,” he says. He stands close to the door so he doesn’t have to raise his voice too loud.

“George didn’t tell me you were coming.”

Very flirtatious. Very, very flirtatious. This would be a great time to be his best self, Ace thinks, and not the self that attended the devil-may-care school of salad plating, majoring in tomato fuckery. Nancy’s tone seems to reach inside him and toy with the place where his restlessness lives.

“George, uh… George had to step out. But she’ll most definitely be back.”

It’s dawning on him that he should’ve asked about that—whether or not George was planning to return to the Claw. If there was a plan for who’d be taking the next shift of Nancy Watch. Because he can’t stay here too long; it might rile her up. (It might rile him up.)

“I hope you told her not to hurry,” Nancy says. He can tell she’s just on the other side of the door now. Her voice sounds close. “I trust you. You can handle this.”

It doesn’t sound like friendly encouragement. It sounds like an invitation.

Ace makes himself sit down with his back against the door. Makes it more difficult to reach for the latch.

“Not much to handle,” he says. “You’re not throwing hooks at me or demanding my blood. This is a pretty easy one to be involved in, as far as your paranormal mishaps go.”

When Nancy doesn’t respond, he’s afraid he went too far. The night they all almost died—the night George did die—they kinda let Nancy have it about her habit of dragging them into dangerous situations. He didn’t mean to do that again. He’s already said what he needed to say to her on the subject, including the part about not wanting to lose her. No need to pile on while she’s dealing with this new problem that’s not even (directly) her fault.

“How’re you passing the time in there?” Ace probes.

“Thinking.”

Ok, that sounds like her. Could be that Nancy’s experiencing lucid moments in between the horniness, like when she had her hands in his hair and then she was talking through the problem like normal. And then she came right back to him with full horny intent.

“Good call,” he encourages.

“I’m thinking that I could jam the end of one of these metal skewers into the screws on the door latch and just take the whole thing off.”

Uh oh.

“Please don’t do that. I’ll just have to hold the door shut, Nancy.”

“What about my legs? Would you try to hold them shut too, or would you give me what I want?”

Ace swallows. This is not her; this is not Nancy. Unless it is Nancy, a little bit, like she said when she was speculating about the released lust possibly stoking existing desires. She’s never come on to him before though. She just counts on him, and always thanks him for his help, and occasionally asks for things with her eyes alone because she knows he’ll understand. She just stands close to him. Sometimes, he can smell her perfume.

“You’d want any guy who happened to be sitting here.”

It’s a harsh rebuff, but Ace thinks they both need the reminder.

“I’m glad it’s you though.”

“You’re manipulating me with what you think I want to hear,” he says. It calms him to commentate on what’s happening. Makes it feel like it’s not really about him, which it’s not.

“Oh, Ace,” she says. The door thumps lightly and he can sense that she sat down. When her voice comes again, they seem to be at the same height. “If I were gonna do that, I’d be asking for your help. I’d be begging. Do you want to hear me beg, Ace?”

He threads his fingers together and clenches until his hands hurt.

“No, I’m good,” he says lightly.

“Help me. Please? I really need you.”

“Bess is out there looking for an antidote for you right now. I promise. She’s doin’ research, she’s… she’s… And if whatever she finds doesn’t work, she’ll take my place and sit with you while I go look for something that can—”

“Ace.” He closes his eyes at Nancy’s seductive tone. It hits him with the subtly stunning force of a blast of cold air from the walk-in, but it’s heat he feels instead. She’s never said his name this much. “You’re the only one who can help.”

“George said you’d be fine.”

He hears Nancy’s noise of frustration.

“How can you listen to what George says? George said I’d be fine? And that I should, what? Just sit here and wait until I stop wanting sex? Sounds like the repressed Frenchwoman’s been weighing in.”

“That’s not fair,” Ace says. “George was looking after you too.”

“But not the way I need you to look after me.”

The frustration is gone. Nancy’s back to full-blown sexy cajoling.

“If we just sit here patiently…” he starts.

“I want sex,” Nancy says bluntly. “You know I’m sweating in here? I’m sweating just thinking about staring at you and feeling your hair sliding between my fingers. I want you to come in here and have sweaty walk-in sex with me, like I know you want to.”

Her volume drops and he’s turning his head to press his ear to the door to hear more before he can even think about stopping himself.

“I want this to be my happy place too,” she says.

“It’s the dress. It’s just the dress,” he repeats.

“But you aren’t sure, are you? Maybe I’ve always wanted you like this. Open the door and we’ll figure it out together. Look in my eyes when you’re inside me and I bet you’ll be able to tell.”

Ace clenches his jaw. Breathes in through his nose. Releases.

“That’s a terrible plan. I’m not opening the door.”

He guesses she’s sulking in all the silence that follows his rejection. But this Nancy doesn’t seem capable of staying quiet for long stretches when there’s someone to hit on nearby.

“I have an idea,” she says.

“You’ve made it clear that you have several.”

“God, Ace, your sense of humour gets me so hot,” Nancy professes, an impatient bite to her tone that makes the hair stand up on the back of his neck.

“You should stop,” he says weakly. “You’re gonna be embarrassed once we cure you.”

“What if I didn’t stop? What if this was our compromise?”

“What do you mean?”

“If you’re not coming in and you’re not letting me out, you can still help me vent some of this lust.”

He considers this semi-reasonable proposal. Nancy will probably still be embarrassed when this is over, but it’s miles from letting her do something physical that she can’t reasonably consent to. A little one-sided dirty talk between friends could be just what the doctor ordered. He sighs, bracing himself to withstand whatever she’s raring to dish out.

“Alright, Nancy, go ahead. I promise I won’t tell anybody and I’ll never mention it to you. Your words do not leave that walk-in. Except for me hearing them,” Ace amends.

“Same.”

He frowns.

“Same?”

“I won’t tell anybody what you say to me either, if that’s how you want it.”

“Maybe you don’t remember, but I didn’t inhale any of that lust gas,” he says.

“Don’t pretend you don’t have anything you want to say to me.”

“Nancy…” Gentle now. Careful. “It’s not like that between us.”

“Don’t you want it to be? I saw your face when I touched you earlier.”

“I was surprised,” he says.

“Yeah, pleasantly surprised,” Nancy argues.

Ace shakes his head and bends his knees up, resting his arms on them.

“I think you’re misremembering. It wasn’t my expression you were so interested in at the time.”

“I’m always interested in your expression because it’s on your face. Your handsome, handsome face with the pretty eyes…”

“You seemed kinda hazy.”

“Ace,” she whines. “Stop it.”

“What?”

“Don’t play hard to get.”

“I cannot engage with you like this,” he states.

“Then I’m coming out.”

There’s a thump against the door. The first one’s petulant, maybe the side of her fist, but then comes a series of more violent blows that could mean Nancy’s started kicking. There’s no way it’ll work—the pin isn’t bouncing free of the latch and the soles of her sneakers aren’t going to break through metal—but the dress is obviously helping her take a break from good judgement today, and that’s already a sketchy area with this one.

Ace presses his palms to the door, trying to quiet the hollow booms.

“Nancy, knock it off! You’re being too loud!”

“Shut me up then!” she yells from deeper inside the walk-in. If he had to guess, he’d say she’s lying on her back while she stomps the door. Shit. That floor is so cold. What if she gets sick?

“I don’t want to shut you up,” he hisses.

“You like me loud, Ace? Huh? Can’t have it both ways.”

Bang bang bang reverberates against his back. He’s muffling the sound as well as he can and he knows there’s battered fish sizzling noisily in oil in the kitchen, but if Nancy really sets her mind to getting herself let out of here, he can’t be sure that she won’t start screaming. Someone—probably Grant—will hear. And then Ace becomes the guy who trapped his female co-worker in a freezer and everything just goes from bad to worse.

“Yes!” he calls to her. “Yes, I would like you to be loud. But not right now, ok, Nancy? Please?”

The kicking stops.

Suddenly, right on the other side of the door again, is Nancy’s intrigued voice saying, “Well, well, well.”

Ace runs a hand over his face and thinks, Fuck.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he tries.

“Yes you did.”

Of course he did, and horny Nancy is possibly even more mercilessly single-minded than her clear-headed counterpart. He has to remind himself that he caved for her sake. Until Bess finds an antidote, this is the best mitigation strategy they have: let Nancy try her hardest to persuade him to fuck her and hope that expels the lust.

“You wanna hear me moaning?” she teases through the door. “You wanna make me scream?”

He won’t picture it. He won’t. He rubs his arms through his sleeves, but he can feel the goosebumps.

“Ace?” Nancy asks, sounding suspiciously sweet and compassionate. “It’s ok if you do. I want that too. Just admit it, Ace. Tell me one more time.”

“You’d be loud,” he blurts. “I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

“How would you get me to be loud?”

Her voice is eager, compelling, and is this how she feels? Like she just can’t help herself? Ace grasps his knees.

“However you wanted.”

“Any way,” Nancy croons. He can hear her hand scrabbling uselessly at the latch. Yikes. She is a bull in a china shop, charging every phallic vase and penis-patterned plate. Maybe he can soothe her with specificity.

“No, Nancy, not any way. Focus. What would you want from…” He chokes. “…from me.”

“I love your hair,” she sighs happily.

“We’ve established that.”

“Your long, soft, beautiful hair. I want to hold your hair and ride you,” she says. It sounds like she’s forcing the words out between her teeth, maybe wanting something to bite down on. Bite me, Ace thinks, and shudders.

When Nancy clarifies, “Ride your face,” he’s momentarily lightheaded from all the blood deciding to go someplace other than his brain.

If he closes his eyes, he can almost feel her on top of him. Busy Nancy—who always seems to be on her way out of a room—being still for him, letting him take her weight. Her bare legs against his shoulders, the now-familiar grip of her fingers in his hair, but tighter, tenser as she lowers her hips and he opens his mouth to her. Ace rests his head back against the walk-in door and exhales heavily. He needs to not close his eyes.

“Just let me out,” she pleads.

He laughs breathlessly.

“No.”

His hands aren’t on his knees anymore, they’re clutching his thighs, and then one’s at his groin.

“Let’s just try and see if you’d like it,” Nancy proposes.

“I know I would.”

“And then I’d do you,” she says, and he doesn’t even know if she heard him. “You’ll look so tall when I’m on my knees.”

He’s starting to get it, how she could be sweating in there. He has his back against cold metal and it isn’t enough to stop the flush rising up his neck. It’s killing him to keep his hand still, but if he does anything about the hard line in his jeans, he’s not sure what happens to his friendship with Nancy.

“Try not to discuss it like a future event,” he says. “It’s just theoretical.”

“Theoretically, I want to feel you hit the back of my throat.”

Ok, Ace bargains with himself, over the jeans is allowed, but no unzipping. He drops his knees and lets his legs splay apart, adjusting himself with a wince. When he strokes the rough denim, he gasps in relief. Nancy’s mouth. Her full lower lip, like a pillow to rest on.

“You’ve had sex in here, haven’t you?” Nancy demands. “My dad was being weird about it, but he said something about stumbling across you and Laura Tandy? She’s gone, but I’m here, Ace, and I’m ready. I am super ready. How ’bout you do to me whatever you did to her, because that bitch always looked satisfied.” She laughs awkwardly. “Not that I think Laura’s a bitch. She’s not a bitch. But if she comes into town again, I’ll punch her square in her cute little nose.”

Laura Tandy is someone Ace cares about and thinks well of, so he feels really torn by how Nancy’s jealousy is making him feel. Nobody’s wanted to punch somebody in the nose for him before. Nobody’s presented him with a scenario where he is something important, prized, and worth defending against heiresses and other possible challengers. He feels like Princess Peach, with less kvetching.

“I want you to show me how you like it,” Nancy goes on. “Come on, Fifty Shades of Dishwashing—gimme the walk-in special. Let me rip your clothes off with my teeth.”

“We would get caught,” he says, like he’s entertaining the idea. (He is, but it’s theoretical. It’s only ever gonna be theoretical.) His cock’s throbbing to be gripped properly, preferably in a smaller hand than his, and he pants as he massages himself around the nipping track of his zipper.

“No, we’d be fast. You wouldn’t let us get caught, Ace. You’d be amazing, like you always are. This walk-in belongs to you.” He swears he can feel the pressure of her pushing up against her side of the door, aching to put her mouth to his ear as she says, “Treat me like I belong to you.”

He unbuttons his jeans.

“Ace? Hey, Ace?”

Oh shit.

Ace jerks his knees up to conceal the bulge in his lap and acknowledges Nick with an impassive nod as he descends the stairs from the kitchen. Nothin’ to see here. Just another day of Ace being a team player at the Claw, doing what’s requested and definitely not imagining hooking Nancy’s legs around his hips while he pounds her into the back wall of the walk-in, sending her suppliant moans up the previously-haunted air vent. Clean out the ghosts. Keep things sanitary. Sorta.

“What’s up?” he asks.

“I’m goin’ to pick Bess up. She thinks she found something that’ll fix—”

“Nick?!” Nancy’s cry of delight, dampened between the walls of the walk-in, sounds just like it did when she said his name, Ace thinks.

“—that,” Nick concludes, pointing at the door Ace has been guarding.

“Awesome.”

“Detective Tamura and Gil Bobbsey both decided to stop by, but I got rid of them.”

“Did you say Gil and Tamura?!” Nancy shouts. “I hope they’re hungry for a Nancy sandwich. Tell them I’ll be right out!”

“She will not be right out,” Ace assures Nick, faking the stoicism Nancy deserves and which he doesn’t actually feel after she proved what he said before right—in this state, any guy would do. It’s a blow to his ego, he won’t lie.

Nick glances down at his phone when it chimes, presumably reading another text from Bess, and Ace takes the opportunity to swiftly stand and launch himself down the walk-in steps. He snatches his coat off the bench and holds it bunched in front of his hips.

“Uh, you know what?” he asks. “I can go get Bess. Yeah, why don’t you stay with Nancy. Do you mind? My back’s just getting…” Ace rolls his shoulders and grunts in discomfort.

Nick eyes him strangely but nods.

“Alright.”

“Sweet. Thanks, man.” Ace claps Nick’s arm on his way past.

“Wait!” Nancy cries out. “Is Ace leaving? Ace! Don’t go! I need you!”

“Has she been like this the whole time?” Nick asks him quietly.

“More or less.” Ace raises his voice to penetrate the walk-in’s solid door. “It’s gonna be ok, Nancy! We’ll getcha fixed up! Get your head on straight!”

Unlike his. Ace leaves the Claw feeling like his head might as well be a tomato. Any type’ll do.

#my writing #Nancy Drew #Nancy Drew s2e10 #Nace #Ace [redacted]#Nace fanfiction #Nancy Drew fanfiction #Nancy Drew fic

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lovemesomeerabordwarves · 4 years ago

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You are not fine!

Warnings: blood, injured reader, fluff Note: First time writing for Fili. Hope I did justice to the character. :3

The eagles flew through the night into the early morning. They dropped us off upon a tall cliff. Thorin was badly hurt and everyone crowded around him as Gandalf laid a hand upon his brow. As our leader opened his eyes a collective sigh sound came from the company.

I took that as a good sign and moved off a ways to sit under the trees. I could here Thorin shouting at Bilbo but at the moment I didn't care. I had problems of my own. Making sure no one was looking for me I ducked behind a large pine tree and shed my coat and shirt until the only thing that kept me from exposing my chest was my chest band. I looked down at the now dried blood that covered my torso. A deep gash ran across my right side. I prodded it tentatively which caused a flare of pain to shoot up my side and I hissed. A small amount of blood began to ooze out. I knew there was nothing Oin could do right now since all of our supplies were lost. Plus it didn't look that bad. I just needed to give it time to heal.

“(Y/N)?” I heard Fili shout.

“Damn!” I whispered as I quickly threw on my shirt and jacket. Luckily when I had been hit my jacket wasn't ruined so I could still hide the blood on my shirt. After making sure I looked as normal as I could, I moved from behind the tree to see Fili and Kili only a few feet away.

“I’m here. Just needed a minute to myself.” I said smiling at the brothers. Kili returned my smile and turned to shout at the others that they had found me. Fili, however, scowled at me before coming closer.

“You need to be careful (Y/N). We don't know this area very well, no telling what’s lurking about.”

“Don't worry Fili. I kept you all within ear shot and shouting distance. I cant be always by yours and Kilis side.”

That earned me another scowl. I’d hadn't seen Fili look this serious since he and the other dwarves showed up on Bilbo's doorstep to talk about the quest.

Bilbo had been quite put out but I had enjoyed the merriment. They brothers took me under there wing when I told them I would go in place of Bilbo. Thorin hadn't been happy about have a women join the company but Gandalf stood up for just as he had Bilbo. Granted Bilbo ended up coming none the less, but the more the merrier. Fili taught me how to wield a sword and daggers, while Kili showed me how to shoot a bow.

Thorin soon barked an order for the company to head out with Gandalf in the lead. Everyone took up the march without complaint but we stopped only a few hours later. Everyone was dead on their feet but a few of us still went out to find some food. I was too sore and tired to bag anything but Dwalin had managed to spear some large fish for dinner. As soon as the last of the fish had been consumed the fire was banked and everyone found a patch of dirt and went to sleep except for Gandalf who stayed on watch.

At some point in the night we were all awoken but howling in the distance. We didn't need telling twice to move out. Just as the sun came up Bilbo was sent to look behind to see if the warg pack could yet be seen. When he returned he told us they weren't far and before he could say more a roar like nothing we had ever heard before sounded near by. Gandalf immediately took charge and led us at a run. Soon the sound of something large began to crash behind us in the trees.

My side burned as I tried to keep up with everyone but I felt blood dripping down my side. Fili turned to look behind and saw me slowing and ran back.

“(Y/N) what’s wrong we cant stop!”

I couldn't respond. A ringing was now filling my ears and the ground swayed beneath my feet. Next thing I knew I was floating. Opening my eyes I looked up to see Fili above me and forest flying by. He had picked me up. I tried to wriggle out of his grip but he held on tighter which brought a shout of pain to my lips. Fili looked down at me with a look full of worry and picked up his pace.

We had managed to make the door of a large house in a clearing before the thing chasing us burst through the tree line. A large bear stopped long enough to roar at us again, then charged. Thorin managed to unbolt the door and everyone darted inside. The beast rammed his head through the door but the others managed to closed it anyway.

Meanwhile Fili was panting very hard and looking for a place to set me down. He found a large pile of hay and set me down. As he moved his hands from under me he looked down in shock as one of them was covered in my blood.

“(Y/N)? What happened?” Fili starred at me in shock.

“It’s nothing, I’m fine. Just need to rest.” I mumbled

Fili pushed my jacket aside and paused only a second at the site of my blood soaked shirt before lifting it revealing my wound.

“You are not fine! Look at this wound it needs to be treated! Why didn’t you say anything?” Fili was shouting he was so furious. Balin and Thorin came over as Fili yelled. Thorin took one look and called for Oin. I wasn't comfortable having everyone look at my bloody midriff and tried to get up.

“You will stay there while Oin takes care of you.” Fili growled while gently pushing me back down. Slightly terrified of such an angry Fili I complied while Oin gave orders to find things to clean, stitch, and bandage my side with. A short time later I had thirty stitches in my side and was told to not move for the rest of the night. Oin went off to sleep with the others. I sat up and looked over the company but didn't see Fili. I heard a brief rustle from the loft above and decided to see if it was the missing dwarf prince.

I climbed the ladder without much difficulty thanks to Oin wrapping me up to tightly. I peeked over the edge and saw Fili with his back against the wall staring out a small window. I crawled over to him but he refused to look at me.

“Fili? Are you okay?” I nudged him with my elbow but he ignored me. I could tell he was upset but I wasn't sure why.

I was preparing to poke him in the side so much he’d have to look at me to yell but then the sound of the door opening caught my attention. I started to crawl back to the edge to see who it was when I was pinned to the floor by a heavy weight.

“Hey wha—” I was about to protest but was shushed as Fili knelt over me. He lifted his head to look over and I felt him stiffen but then he relaxed a second later. He stopped pinning me down but flipped me over to glare at me.

“Oh so now you’ll look at me.” I hissed.

“Why cant you listen to anyone and stay put? Oin said to not move till morning!” his whispered angrily over me.

“That’s why your upset? Because I came up here?” I tried to get up but Fili pinned my arms to my side so all I could do was wiggle around.

“I’m not just upset that you refused to listen to Oin. I’m also upset that you hid an injury like that from me! You could have died! What if that bear caught you before I turned back?”

“Then I’d be bear food and one less person for you to worry about.” I snapped.

Fili’s face hardened and he leaned in close before saying, “Don't ever talk like that.” I saw his eyes dart from mine to my mouth. Before I knew it his lips were on mine, rough and full of meaning. He pulled away when I stiffened in shock.

“I-I’m sorry (Y/N)…” Fili released my arms and moved back to sit against the wall with his head in his hands. I sat up and stared at him. My heart raced and heat crept up my neck. In all the time we traveled I didn’t think Fili had feelings for me. I of course had thought him the most handsome person alive the moment I saw him. Anytime he had to adjust my grip or stance while we were training I imagined other scenarios but thought they would just stay imaginary. He was a dwarven prince what chance did I have?

I moved over to sit in front of Fili. I placed my hands on his knees and tried to get him to look at me. He just shook his head. I decided to play dirty. I took my hands from him and wrapped them around my torso and let out a small hiss of pain. He immediately looked up and reached for me. I couldn’t help but laugh. He was angry again but I had gotten him out of his sulk.

“What are you going to tease me from now on? Torture me for having feelings for you?”

“No you idiot I just needed to get you to look up.” I giggled.

Before he could respond I wrapped my arms around his neck and kissed him. He was as shocked as I had been but he quickly returned the kiss. One hand gripped my left arm as if to keep me from disappearing while the other snaked around my torso. My own hands were tangled in his golden hair. Even with his gentle touch though pain still ebbed across my side.

“Ow, that does hurt.”

“Sorry, ibine. Next time tell me when your hurt though. I don't know what I’d do if anything else happened to you.” He pressed his forehead to mine as I chuckled.

“What can I say, your stubborn ways are contagious.”

#fili x reader #fili x y/n #hobbit fanfiction

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megsironthrone · 4 years ago

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Meg's Game of Tales: Tale 1

*familiar characters are, of course, not mine! And the original fairytale is the work of the Brothers Grimm!*

Warnings: Slightly dark, especially toward the end. Some steam?? Angst. Probably an overuse of variants of the word "wolf", and Oberyn is a warning all his own.

Pairings: Oberyn x fem!reader

As you walked through the village, you could almost drown in the fear and anxiousness. That meant only one thing. The wolf had come out again and the people were scared. But not you. You'd never been afraid of the wolf not even when you had grown up to the age of the girls that disappeared. The bodies of the wolf's victims were always found. Except for the young women, usually between 17 and 25. Their bodies were never found.

"Come along. We need to get to your grandmother's," your mother said, pulling your arm gently. You followed after her and used your free hand to wrap your red cloak tighter around you. Winter was coming as was evident by the light coating of snow on the ground and trees.

"Coming, Mother." Your mother smiled at you before you heard a call of her name. You realized that another villager needed your mother's help. You weren't surprised. She was a midwife. She was needed all the time. "Go on. I can get this basket to Grandmother's. I'm not a child any longer and I know the way." Your mother bit her lip, thinking if it was a good idea. When her name was called again, she sighed.

"Very well. Go as quickly as you can, stay on the path, and whatever you do, never-"

"Take off the hood," you finished at the same time. You heard the speech every single full moon. The cloak had been a hand-stitched gift from your grandmother. According to legend, wearing a red clock could keep the wolf at bay and you would be safe. You weren't sure you believed that, but you humored your grandmother by wearing it every time you went out and especially during the full moon.

Leaving your mother with a kiss, you headed out of the village and into the dank, dark woods. To many, the woods seemed haunted. A place no one should ever dare to enter. However, your grandmother lived just on the other side of the wood and you knew your path. You'd been walking it at least once a week for your entire life. The woods held no fear for you. At least, usually.

You took your first step into the trees just as the sun beginning to set. If you hurried, you could be at your grandmother's house just after dark. The basket you carried with your grandmother's food for the week was clutched firmly in your hand as you walked deeper into the woods. A little hum of a song escaped your throat while you walked. For some reason, you felt at home here and it made your steps lighter. You almost felt like skipping until you heard a noise, causing you to freeze on the spot.

"Hello?" you called but received no reply. After a moment of silence you shrugged your shoulders and kept walked. This time, however, you felt like you were being watched. If you hadn't known better, you'd swear you heard a growl. You were so focused on the strange sounds that you never heard him coming.

A scream tore from you when you felt two arms around your middle. You nearly began crying until you heard a familiar voice in your ear. "It is not safe for you to be outside, Flower." You relaxed instantly, spinning in the arms of your lover. "You scared me," you admitted. That earned a cheeky grin. "It's not funny, Oberyn!" He laughed out loud that time before capturing your lips in a searing kiss.

"However shall I make it up to you, my flower?" You rolled your eyes and bit your lip. "Meet me tonight? You know I'll have to stay at Granny's tonight. I could use the company." Oberyn gave you that dazzling smile you loved. "Only if I can sneak in your window. The cold doesn't agree with me, as you know." You giggled. Of course you knew. If you were being honest, it was the cold of the last winter that ended up being the reason you found your way into Oberyn's bed.

"I have to go. I'll see you tonight?" He nodded and kissed you again before leaving you for the time being. With your rendezvous with Oberyn planned, you turned back toward your grandmother's house with newfound energy and determination.

Your grandmother greeted you with a hug and a smile before letting you in. You went to remove your cloak, but a sharp noise from her stopped you. "Y/N, we've told you never take off the hood. Not even inside. Not when the wolf is about." You bit back a sigh. You couldn't understand why she and your mother were like this. It was just a cloak. Surely they didn't really believe it had some kind of magical power attached to it to keep the wolf at bay. Nevertheless, you kept it on until you could retire to the room your grandmother kept for you.

After a sweet, "goodnight, Granny," you closed and bolted the door behind you. As soon as you were safely tucked away, you removed the heavy cloak. "Finally," you breathed out. You began bouncing in anticipation of Oberyn coming to see you. And it didn't take him long. "Little Red, let me in or I'll huff and puff and-" you threw open the window and shushed him. "Granny will hear you. Get in here."

Oberyn hopped in the window, gracefully landing on your bed. You let out a soft giggle. "You are ridiculous." He shrugged before pulling you down with him. He laced his fingers with yours and you hummed in content. You glanced at your joined hands. "You have such big hands." He chuckled while using his free hand to grip your waist. "All the better to hold you with." You rolled your eyes. "My what a wicked tongue you have." Oberyn shifted so your back was on the bed and he hovered over you. "All the better to taste you with," he whispered as his lips pressed against yours fervently.

*time skip*

You awoke the next morning to a pounding at your door. You bolted upright and glanced around in confusion. Oberyn was gone and you were alone once more. "Y/N! Open the door!" you heard your mother call out. You shot out of bed and unbolted the door. "Oh thank the g- Why didn't you answer? And where is your cloak?!" your mother cried, wrapping you in a hug.

"I was asleep, Mother. What is going on?" Your mother exchanged a glance with your grandmother. "The wolf was here. Took out a few of Granny's chickens and sheep. We found tracks outside your window. Both human and wolf." You instantly froze. Had the wolf gotten to Oberyn when he left you? You ran to the window and glanced down. Sure enough there were human and wolf tracks. You grabbed your cloak, pushed passed your family, and went outside to investigate.

Upon closer inspection, you realized that the footprints were both coming and going from your window. But worse than that, they seemed to disappear when the wolf tracks started. Your eyes widened. You'd read stories of wolves that could be human all the time except at the full moon. Then they turned into ruthless monsters. Wolves. Werewolves.

The next thought that came to you nearly had you sinking to your knees. The only person that had been near your window the night before was Oberyn. Was he the wolf? Could the man you loved be the wolf that terrorized the village? You didn't want to believe it. It was almost better to believe that the wolf had carted him off. But you knew that wasn't true when you saw his form rushing toward you.

"Are you alright?!" he demanded, "I heard the wolf had been here. Y/N? Flower, are you alright?" You nodded, not really seeing him but the monster you thought he might be. "I need to talk to you. Alone," you whispered, "Meet me in an hour at our spot." Oberyn's brow furrowed in confusion, but he agreed and left after pressing a kiss to your forehead.

You had to dodge a hundred questions about where you were going when you headed off to meet Oberyn a little while later. You didn't need your family worrying any more than they already were. So when their backs were turned, you snuck out. As you passed by your window, you did you best to ignore the footprints that were slowly being covered in new fallen snow. If you looked, you'd lose your courage.

Oberyn was already waiting for you when you arrived at your spot. He moved to hug you, but you stepped back. The look of hurt that crossed his face almost had you backing down. It was so out of place. "Flower?"

"Are you the wolf?!" you blurted out, unable to stop yourself. Your eyes met Oberyn's and he laughed. "Don't be ridiculous, Y/N." He grinned at you, but this time, there was something different there. Something sinister. He took a step toward you and you backed away. He put his hands on his hips, shaking his head and chuckling under his breath.

"You truly don't know, do you? Very well. I suppose there's no sense in lying to you anymore. But I am not the only one. There's more than one wolf. There always has been. The problem is, once these girls reached the age of 17 and their wolves started fighting to get out, they had no control. I had to do something. So they had to disappear. Believe me, it hurt me just as much. Losing potential pack members is never easy on me."

"You killed them. You really are the wolf. I was hoping…" you trailed off. Your head was spinning. You really had hoped you were wrong. But there was no denying it now; Oberyn was the wolf. Oberyn shrugged a bit. "I couldn’t have a pack of unruly wolves and I didn't have time to train them all to control it. So yes, I hunted them down and carted them off. I was protecting the villages, as I have always done."

"Protecting them?! You've slaughtered dozens of women!" Oberyn shook his head with a sigh. "Slaughtered is a rather harsh term, Flower. As I said, they would have harmed those that aren't wolves deep down. As the Alpha wolf, it my job to keep them in line." You licked your lips. "And what about me? Where do I fit in all of this? The cloak doesn't really protect me from wolves like you, does it?"

Oberyn blinked in surprise for a moment before throwing back his head in laughter. You crossed your arms over your chest and waited for his fit to be done. You didn't appreciate being laughed at at a time like this. "Oh my dear Flower. The cloak was never meant to protect you from me. Once you came of age, it was meant to protect everyone…from you." It was your turn to laugh.

"Right. So you're saying that I'm-" Oberyn's lips were still turned up in a sly grin as your brain struggled to make the connection. It wasn't possible. Absolutely impossible. Oberyn continued on, his fingers playing the edge of your cloak. "Your grandmother was smart, I'll give her that. But she read the wrong information. The red cloak doesn't protect against the wolf's attack. It prevents the wolf from changing at all. Except you, my naughty Little Red, never seem to remember your grandmother's most important rule. Never," he began, taking a step closer to you, "Take. Off. The. Hood."

Your back was pressed up against a tree now. Your heart raced a mile a minute as did your brain. One look in Oberyn's eyes told you that he was absolutely telling you the truth. You were a wolf too. And it made sense. The insistence of your grandmother to where the cloak. The fact that you weren't afraid of the wolf. The fact that your grandmother always lost a few sheep whenever you stayed overnight with her.

But that meant you were still in danger from him. For the first time, you were actually afraid of what would happen next. "W-What are you going to do?" you asked. Your voice was barely above a whisper. Oberyn chuckled darkly, his mouth hovering just by your ear as one hand supported him against the tree and the other moved your throat. "Oh, Flower, haven't you guessed? I'm going to make you mine. Forever."

The End??

(a/n: I hope you enjoyed our first tale! Come back next week for tale #2! Tag lists for Meg's Game of Tales are open and separate from my normal taglists!)

#meg's game of tales #game of thrones #fairytale au #little red riding hood au #oberyn martell #oberyn martell x reader #oberyn x reader

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bubonickitten · 3 years ago

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Fic summary: Jon goes back to before the world ended and tries to forge a different path.

Previous chapter: AO3 // tumblr

Full chapter text & content warnings below the cut.

Content warnings for Chapter 29: discussion of Jon’s & Daisy’s restrictive diets & associated physical/mental deterioration (and potential parallels with disordered eating etc.); arguing & relationship disputes (that are not immediately resolved in-chapter); self-harm (burning oneself with a lit cigarette); cigarette smoking; discussion of suicidal ideation; panic & anxiety symptoms; discussions of grief & loss; cyclical mental health issues (post-traumatic anniversary reactions; related self-loathing, internalized victim blaming, & survivor’s guilt; generally speaking, Jon’s relapsing into self-isolating, worse-than-usual headspace, esp towards the end of the chapter); depiction of parental neglect/rejection (Martin's mother). SPOILERS through S5.

There’s also a Hunt-themed statement that contains descriptions of indiscriminate violence & unprovoked warfare against a civilian population. Oh, and a cliffhanger.

Let me know if I missed anything!

_________________

“Statements ends,” Jon says, somewhat breathless as he fumbles to stop the recording.

“You alright?” Daisy asks.

“Fine.” The word is punctuated by a click and a whirr as the recorder resumes spooling.

“Are you, though?”

“Yes.” Scowling, Jon jabs his finger at the stop button – only for it to keep recording.

“It’s the Hunt, isn’t it.” Daisy sighs, rubbing the back of her neck. “Sorry it’s been so prominent for the last few. I’m… not quite scraping the bottom of the barrel yet, but–”

“It’s fine, Daisy.”

“Still, I–”

“I said it’s fine–!” Jon winces at his sharp tone. “I’m sorry, that was… I’m just – on edge, I suppose.”

Which is an understatement, really.

Because it’s September. It’s September, and after September is October, and October is–

Well. These days, he can’t even look at a calendar – can’t even look at the time and date on his phone – without icy dread coursing through his veins.

Sporadic flashbacks have become an everyday occurrence, set off by the smallest of stimuli: a dropped glass shattering on the breakroom floor becomes a window bursting inward into shards; a thunderstorm heralds a fissuring sky, marred by hundreds upon thousands of greedy, unblinking voyeurs; his own voice is a doomsday harbinger, a key crammed into a lock he can’t keep from unbolting. The memories are too immediate, too vivid to feel past-tense.

It’s to be expected. Studies, common knowledge, and anecdotal evidence all point to the impact of anniversaries on mental health. He knows what a textbook post-traumatic stress response looks like. Monster or not, in this particular sense he remains overwhelmingly human. No matter how much he rationalizes it, though, intellectually understanding a psychological phenomenon does little to soften the lived experience of it.

And it does nothing to temper the chilling knowledge – bordering on conviction – that it may happen again.

“Would be worrisome if you weren’t stressed out, considering… you know. Everything.” Daisy leans back in her chair, stretches her legs out in front of her, and rolls her shoulders. “Speaking of the Hunt. Any new developments?”

“I mean… nothing since yesterday? Everything I know, Basira knows.”

“Basira… isn’t keeping me updated,” Daisy says, shifting uncomfortably in her seat.

“Ah,” Jon says, with tact to spare. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize.”

“It’s fine.”

“Is it?”

Daisy sighs. “She thinks that I think she’s wasting her time.”

“And do you?”

Daisy gives a jerky shrug. “Don’t you?”

“Not… necessarily,” Jon hedges. Truthfully, his answer to that question is as mercurial as his moods these days, shifting from hour to hour, sometimes minute to minute. Daisy gives him an unimpressed look. “I won’t lie and say I’m optimistic, but that doesn’t mean it’s not worth trying.”

“You sound like Martin.”

“Well, he spent ample time drilling it into me,” Jon says with a wry smile. “I don’t have the same capacity for hope as he does, but improbable doesn’t mean impossible. If I’d had it my way, I’d have lain down and died ages ago. I’m only here now because of him.”

“Mental health check,” Daisy says automatically.

“Not thinking of hurting myself,” Jon replies, just as rote. “You don’t have to do that, you know. I’ve told you, I’m physically incapable of killing myself even if I wanted to.”

“That doesn’t stop you brooding.”

“Anyway, I wasn’t referring to anything recent.”

“Weren’t you, though?” At his blank look, Daisy gives an impatient sigh. “It hasn’t even been a year since you woke up, Sims. Up until six months ago, you were wandering an apocalyptic wasteland–”

“…I found myself utterly alone. Facing down a room full of nothing eyes, willing myself to take action. I never did, though–”

“–I wanted to act, to help, to do something, but – my mind had all but seized up, and I felt helpless to do anything but watch as events progressed–”

“–there was nothing I could do to save him – he died – so did any hope I had of – doing good in the world–”

“–there’s a sort of numbness that you adopt after months or years of bombing–”

“–I did spend a lot of time just… slumped in despair – had no reason to think it would help, but I could see no choice but waiting for death–”

“–hoping against hope that – it wouldn’t be forever–”

“Hey!” Daisy’s voice finally breaks through the rush of static. Or perhaps it was the pressure: Jon looks down to see her bony fingers caging his own in a bruising grip.

“Sorry,” he says, catching himself as he starts to list woozily.

“Not to say ‘I told you so,’ but…” Daisy gives his hands another light squeeze. “You sort of just proved my point there.”

“I’m well aware that I’m – traumatized, or whatever–”

“Not ‘or whatever’–”

“–but I’m not a danger to myself, so could we please just move on?” Jon mumbles, averting his eyes. “You wanted a Hunt update.”

Daisy scrutinizes him for a long moment before she allows the conversational pivot to stand.

“Basira said you’ve heard back from that Head Librarian,” she says, “but she blew me off when I started prying.”

“Zhang Xiaoling,” Jon says, his shoulders relaxing. “She was able to confirm some of Jonah’s intel. They do have a statement about a book matching that description in their records, and she agreed to forward a copy once it’s been digitized. They’re further along in their digitization process than we are–”

Daisy snorts. “Probably because they’re actually working on it.”

“That, and they have the benefit of a Head Librarian who actually has a background in archival studies,” Jon says drily. “In any case, they have a large archive, so it’s a work in progress. She’s processed our inquiry, though, and she says she has someone on it. We should hear back by tomorrow at the latest.”

“Huh,” Daisy says. “Sounds…”

“Like a functioning archive?”

“I was going to say ‘streamlined,’ but sure.”

“The wonders of a hiring process that prioritizes job qualifications as opposed to a candidate’s apocalyptic potential.”

“What are the chances their institution is also led by a centuries-old corpse with a god complex?”

“Non-zero, I imagine.”

Daisy wrinkles her nose. “Ugh, don’t say that.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I don’t have evidence one way or the other.”

“It doesn’t. Does she know about…” Daisy waves her hand vaguely. “All of this? The Fears, Rituals… Jonah?”

The question gives Jon pause. He thinks back to his meeting with Xiaoling all those years ago – well, last June, from her perspective.

“Some of it, I think,” he says slowly. “She seemed familiar with some of the Archivist’s abilities. There were parts of my visit that struck me as odd at the time. I didn’t realize until later that she had been speaking both Chinese and English at different points in our conversation.”

Daisy frowns. “She didn’t clue you in?”

“She didn’t, no. But…”

Elias made a good choice, the Librarian’s voice echoes in Jon’s mind. I did offer him someone, but he thought the language might be too much for him.

It does tickle me, Jonah’s voice chimes in, that in this world of would-be occult dynasties and ageless monsters, the Chosen One is simply that – someone I chose.

“I don’t know if she’s aware of Elias’ true identity.” Jon swallows with some difficulty, his mouth suddenly dry. “Or his intentions.”

“So is it really smart to trust her?”

“If she’s in communication with him, there’s nothing she can tell him that he doesn’t already know. We’re just following up on information he gave us. And he’s likely spying on our correspondence whether she’s in contact with him or not. Not much we can do about that.”

“She could have her own ulterior motives,” Daisy says.

“True enough, but… I got the sense that her primary interest is curation. Studying phenomena, building a knowledge base–”

“In service to cosmic evil,” Daisy says pointedly.

“W-well, yes, but – I don’t think she has delusions of godhood herself, and I don’t think Jonah has tempted her with the idea.” Jon huffs to himself. “He wouldn’t want to share his throne.”

“Hm.”

“I’m not saying we trust her or the Research Centre as a whole. I had reservations about their motives then and I still do. It’s not unthinkable that they’re a front for something more sinister in the same way that the Institute is. But… I don’t think there’s any especial danger in utilizing their library.”

“Sims,” Daisy sighs, “your danger meter is broken beyond repair.”

“In my defense,” Jon says, bracing one arm on the desk to leverage himself to his feet, “at this point, everything is just differing degrees of dangerous.”

As the two of them leave the tunnels, Jon’s phone buzzes in his pocket. When he glances at the screen, he sees a text notification from Naomi – in addition to two missed calls. He frowns to himself. The two of them text regularly, but she rarely calls.

“What’s up?” Daisy asks, her brow furrowing in concern.

“Naomi,” Jon says distractedly, already returning the call. Naomi picks up on the first ring.

“Jon?” Naomi’s voice sounds thick and tear-clogged.

A cold weight settles in Jon’s stomach. “What’s wrong?”

“I j-just” – Naomi pauses to clear her throat – “just needed to hear a familiar voice.”

“What happened?” Jon asks – and realizes too late that in his urgency to discover the source of her distress, he’s poured too much of himself into the question.

“Nothing.” What starts out as a self-deprecating little laugh quickly deteriorates into a half-sob. “Nothing new, anyway. It’s always like this, this time of year. Evan and I didn’t have an exact date planned, but we’d talked about an autumn wedding. Thought it would be fitting, since we met in September, you know? Tomorrow is our anniversary, actually. Or – or it would’ve been. A-and then by the time I’ve picked myself back up, the holidays will have crept up on me, and that’s always hard, and – and then before I know it, it’s March, a-and that’s its own kind of anniversary, and it’s just… it’s a lot.”

“Oh, I – Naomi, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to–”

“It’s fine,” she says with a sniff. “Don’t think I would’ve been able to get it all out, otherwise.”

“S-still, I–”

“It’ll be three years this March. And it still feels like it was yesterday. I spend six months out of the year feeling like I’m still stumbling through that cemetery, and I just…”

This time last year, Jon thinks with a lurch, I was still the monster in her nightmares.

And even now, he still pulls her there whenever they’re both asleep.

“When does that stop?” Naomi laughs again, a desperate, pleading thing. “When does the healing come in?”

“I… I don’t know,” Jon says truthfully. “Anniversaries are… they’re hard enough on their own. It doesn’t help that… well, it’s difficult to heal from something when you’re still living it.”

“What do you mean? Evan’s dead,” Naomi says, her voice breaking on the word. “He’s not coming back. It’s… it’s over.”

“There are still the dreams. The narrative might have changed, but the stage dressing is still the same.” Jon draws his shoulders in, one arm pressed tight to his stomach. “Keeping the memory fresh.”

“It’s not so bad.” Naomi sniffles again. “Better than being alone.”

“‘Alone’ or ‘nightmares’ shouldn’t be your only options.”

“I have my own nightmares, you know,” Naomi counters, sounding slightly annoyed. “When I’m asleep and you’re not. And they’re worse, because in them, I actually am alone. Nothing supernatural about it. It’s just… me.” She sighs. “This time last year – and the year before – I didn’t have anyone. And I just… I didn’t – I don’t want to be alone.”

“You’re not,” Jon says. “Not anymore.”

“I – I know, but I…” Naomi takes a breath. “I was… I was thinking – maybe tomorrow I could come by.”

“I’m sorry,” Jon says gently, “truly I am – but it’s not safe. Especially for you, especially right now. Not with Peter here.”

Naomi is already the equivalent of an unfinished meal to the Lonely. That, together with her association with Jon, is more than enough to mark her as a potential target should Peter take notice of her.

“Feels safer than being alone,” Naomi says. “The Duchess helps – a lot – but I…” She lets out a fond but tearful chuckle. “I can’t expect her to grasp the nuances of… grief, or loneliness, or what have you.”

“How about this,” Jon says. “We tell Georgie what’s going on – as much or as little as you’d like, even if it’s as simple as ‘I don’t want to be alone right now.’ I doubt she’d be opposed to having you over.”

“I wouldn’t want to impose. I mean, I – I’ve not spent much time with her outside of just… spamming the group chat with cat photos. I like her, but she’s your friend. I’m just… a friend of a friend.”

Nestled between the words is a familiar sentiment, unarticulated and nonetheless resounding, echoing all of the earnest conviction it had when first she made such a confession: All my friends had been his friends, and once he was gone it didn’t feel right to see them. I know, I’m sure they wouldn’t have minded, they would have said they were my friends too, but I could never bring myself to try. It felt more comfortable, more familiar, to be alone…

“People can have more than one friend,” Jon says. “I can’t speak for Georgie, but she wouldn’t go out of her way to talk to you if she didn’t like you.”

Indeed, that might be the reason Jon was able to open up to Georgie in the first place. He observed early on that she had no qualms disengaging from people whom she had no interest in getting to know. Whatever Jon might have felt about himself on any given day, the simple fact of the matter was that Georgie would never have let him get so close if she hadn’t seen something redeeming in him.

And she likely wouldn’t be letting him stay close now if she didn’t still see something worth salvaging.

“It’s up to you, of course,” he says. “I won’t pressure you. But I think Georgie would be more receptive to friendship than you expect. And I think – I think you’d get along with Melanie, too.” Naomi is silent on the other end of the line. “At the risk of overstepping, I… I know being alone feels like the natural state of things, but it doesn’t have to be. If you want, I can talk to Georgie. Lay the groundwork. I won’t give her any of the details – it’s not my story to tell – I’ll just let her know that you’re feeling alone and could use some companionship.”

“Okay,” Naomi whispers. “Just… let her know she’s not obligated.”

“I will. On the extremely off chance she says no, or if she’s busy tomorrow, I can keep you company remotely. We can spend the whole day holding up the office landline if you want.”

“It’s a Friday.”

“And?”

“It’s a work day?”

“Naomi, my job is wholly comprised of monologuing to any tape recorder that manifests within a six-foot radius and doing my utmost to render my department as counterproductive to both the Institute’s professed and clandestine organizational objectives as humanly or inhumanly possible.” Naomi barks out a startled laugh. “I won’t be fired no matter what I do – which is a shame, seeing as it became my foremost professional development goal somewhere between finding out my boss murdered my predecessor and virtually dying in an explosion at a haunted wax museum. Barring a sudden and unexpected apocalyptic threat – which, admittedly, is unlikely but not unthinkable– I’ve already cleared my non-existent schedule for you.”

“Okay.” Naomi makes a sound somewhere between a sniffle and a chuckle. “Thanks. Really.”

“Any time.”

_________________

The statement is an unnerving, circuitous thing: a firsthand account from an unnamed member of the Drake-Norris expedition in 1589. In many ways, it’s eerily similar to the last statement Jon accessed from Pu Songling’s archives: Second Lieutenant Charles Fleming’s shellshocked, guilt-fueled confession of atrocities committed under orders.

The historical record is rife with accounts of Francis Drake’s cruelty, Jon knows: his role in the transatlantic slave trade, the unprovoked massacres committed in his name, the preemptive strikes that incited further bloodshed. The statement giver speaks in awestruck horror of the bloodlust lurking in the man’s eyes, the vitriolic fervor with which he undertook his campaign to seek out and destroy the remnants of the Spanish fleet – and the depths of his rage when his efforts ended in defeat. Humiliated, he turned his vengeful eye to the Galician estuaries.

The writer tells plainly of his own complicity in the sacking of Vigo, razing the town to the ground and slaughtering its inhabitants with indiscriminate zeal. For four days Drake’s men carried out their rampage, retreating only when reinforcements arrived to stem the tide.

“You may ask yourself,” the Archivist reads on, “how it is that a man born into the reign of Good Queen Bess sits before you today, some four centuries past his due?

“You see, as we left the shores of Galicia that day, I heard from behind us a vicious braying, as if someone had set loose a great host of hounds. They were close – close enough for me to sense their stinking breath hot on the back of my neck. Such a thing was impossible, for we were by that time far from shore, having already rowed half the distance between the beach and the waiting armada. That did not stop me dreading the dogs lunging and tearing into me at any moment.

“I am not ashamed to admit that I let out a whimper.

“As the seconds ticked by and the pack failed to descend upon us, my curiosity grew to outweigh my terror. I turned to look – and was thus ensnared. It was, I realize now, the instant at which I became beholden to the blood. My greatest folly.

“Perhaps I oughtn’t have been so surprised to see no hounds surging toward us atop the waves, but you must understand that the proximity of their snarling was far more convincing than their visual absence. In looking behind us, though, I was able to appreciate the havoc we left in our wake: the great plumes of ash rising from the smoldering rubble, backlit by a flickering orange glow, and wails of despair so profound as to combat the noise of the wind, the waves – even the discordant shrieking of the hounds.

“It was a scene of such devastation as I had never seen before or since. Looking back, I think upon the acrid stench of charred flesh on the breeze with horror and… indescribable remorse. It shames me now to admit that at that time, I had never felt such… rapture.

“That was when a motion caught my eye. Between the distance and the billowing smoke, it should have been impossible to discern such detail, yet there he was: quarry I had left for dead, emerging from the debris and staggering away from the ruins of his… wretched life. As he looked out to behold our retreat, I could see the grief playing on his face, the fury, the fear – but what most set my blood to boiling was the spark of relief I saw in his eyes.

“It awakened something in me – a famished and merciless thing, composed of tooth and claw and a mind beginning and ending and utterly encompassed by the call of the pack. With a roaring in my ears and a single-minded violence supplanting my sensibilities, I deserted the rowboat and swam to shore. A chorus of howls carried me forward, and I let them be my wings, steering me down the swiftest, straightest path to my target.

“I slowed for nothing, and I made certain my prey did not live through the night.

“As you can likely guess, the chase did not end there. Those baying devils who had so called me forth continued to hound my steps, nipping at my heels, spurring me ever onward to the next quarry. Those who once knew me would scarcely have recognized what I became. Whenever I dared look into a mirror, I would see in myself a dogged, seething violence so akin to that which had lived in the eyes of my former commander. A cruelty that once had frightened and repulsed me had become the blood and breath of me.

“For a time I sought to refrain from the chase. The longer I refused the call, the weaker I became. The hounds’ breath on my neck grew hotter; their braying swelled louder. I found myself wasting away: always hungry, never sated. Eventually my faculties began to slip. I would lose myself to such… bestialimpulses, and only the stain of blood on my teeth would return to me my reason. It pains me to confess to you now that it did not take long before I ceased my resistance entirely.

“It was at the turn of the sixteenth century that I happened upon the artefacts now in your possession. Their previous owner was a formidable adversary. I spent nearly a fortnight tracking him before I managed to run him down, and he fought like a tempest before he fell.

“Ordinarily I did not linger after a kill, instinct hastening me ever onward to the next great game. As I turned to leave, though, I was overcome by the sense that the hunt was… unfinished. Troubled, I reached down to check the man’s pulse. I was reassured to find him quite dead, but as I drew back, I noticed the brooch.

“It was a simple thing made of tarnished copper, fashioned into an incomplete ring, the ends of which resembled the heads of dogs. The moment my fingers brushed that ornament, I knew it was meant for me. It went into my pocket with nary a conscious thought.

“The itch of the hunt was still crawling down my spine, though; the frantic snuffling of phantom hounds yet filling the air all around me. I continued to search his person until I found what was calling out to me: a thin volume bound in leather. Curiosity ever my folly, I opened it.

“Up until that point, I had never learned to read nor write Latin with any degree of mastery. Yet I could understand the text within with perfect clarity. The script did not transform to English before my eyes, nor did the book render me proficient in the language. No, I simply… beheld the pages, and the meaning flowed into me.

“The story tells of Herla, legendary king of the Britons, who visits the dwarf king’s realm. Upon leaving, he is gifted a hound and warned not to dismount his horse until the dog leaps down. When Herla and his men return to the human world, they discover that not days but centuries have passed: all those they had known have long since perished, and the Saxons have taken possession of the land. In their distress, some of the men dismount, whereupon they turn to dust. Herla warns the survivors to stay in their saddles, to wait until the dog leaps down.

“‘The dog has not yet alighted,’ the author tells us, ‘and the story says that this King Herla still holds on his mad course with his band in eternal wanderings, without stop or stay.’

“The next several pages are unreadable. The language resembles none I have ever encountered, and I have yet to find a soul who can decipher it. I can however attest its hypnotic qualities. I have spent many hours mired in those words, but I could not for the life of me tell you what I saw there. Others to whom I presented the text found themselves either enthralled or agitated, though none could recall such episodes once lucidity returned to them. I expect you mean to unravel its secrets, but you may do well to let its mystery stand.

“The final passage – a single page, this written in English – tells of Herla’s escape: how, weary and driven to despair, he casts the dog from the saddle and into the River Wye. The instant the hound hits the water, Herla and his band crumble into dust, at last meeting the same fate they spent so many hundreds of years trying to outpace.

“I have had hundreds of years of my own since first reading the tale to digest its message, and that is why I come to you today. Although I have killed several times since these items came into my possession – it should come as no surprise that there are those who covet them – I have not sought out a single hunt since I vanquished the man who yielded me these trinkets. The hounds at my heel have not ceased their clamoring, but so long as the brooch is on my person, they cannot sink their teeth in me. I am always hungry, yes – but I am no longer starving.

“But I am also weary. I have come to understand that even as the hounds can never catch me, they will never leave me. In my four hundred years, I have played the role of both the hunter and the hunted, and have learned that they share the same ultimate plight. Whether I be predator or prey, I am trapped in the throes of an endless pursuit. So long as I should live, my blood shall never quiet.

“And that is the key: so long as I should live. Even now, the fervor in my blood insists that the hunt is eternal, but I know now that one cannot outrun one’s end forever. Much like my constant, howling companions, Death will always be nipping at my heels. In that sense, he is perhaps the ultimate hunter. Just as I have delivered to him so many souls, neither can I escape his judgment. If ever I am to rest, I must bow to his supremacy.

“And so, like Herla, I shall cast the dog away from the saddle. I leave it in your care now, and the book. I should be so lucky to exit this life with the dignity I denied so many others, though I fear I shall be found undeserving of such a swift end. I can only hope that, whatever my comeuppance should be, I shall have the grace to accept it without complaint.”

With a heavy exhale, Jon depresses the stop button on the recorder, then puts his head in his hands, putting pressure on his closed eyes.

“You alright?” Basira asks.

“More than I’d like,” Jon mutters.

“If I thought there was any chance this guy was still alive, I wouldn’t have given you the statement to read.”

“I know. Just…” Jon waves his hand vaguely.

“Unpleasant, yeah.”

And rejuvenating, Jon thinks bitterly. It’s only been a few days since his last statement from Daisy, and already he had begun to feel famished.

“They sent along some supplemental records,” Basira says, rifling through printouts. “The statement is cross-referenced with two objects in their Collections Storage – here.”

The document she slides across the desk contains two catalog listings:

Item No. 9820702-1

Description: Pennanular brooch, copper alloy. Geometric and interlace motifs. Confronted zoomorphic terminals (canine profile). Moderate surface oxidization and patination. Dimensions: 5.5cm x 4.5cm body; 12.5cm pin. Artefact dated ca. 500–700 CE.

Properties: Primary subject (Case No. 9820702) reports mediating effect on the Hunter’s affliction (unverified). Item implicated in subject’s alleged abnormal longevity (unverified). Further study suggests dormancy and/or lack of reactivity to unafflicted subjects (see associated Investigation Log).

Storage: Special Collections – Inorganic Storage, Container Unit No. 982-05. Acid-free board housing, etherfoam packing. Environmental parameters in brief: maintain stable temperature (16-20°C); relative humidity, 32-35%; light levels, <300 lux. Handling protocols as per Acquisitions & Collections Policies and Procedures §3.5.3: Artefact Preservation – Metals – Copper and Copper Alloys.

Access: Upon request. Curator approval required prior to initial visit. Applicants may submit statement of intent to Acquisitions & Collections Department Head Curator for clearance. Terms, procedures, and degree of supervision subject to Curator’s discretion.

Provenance: Surrendered 2nd July, 1982 upon receipt of accompanying statement (Case No. 9820702), subject name unknown. See also Item No. 9820702-2.

Appendices:

· Investigation Log No. 9820702-1;

· Supplemental Documents Nos. 9820702-1.01 through -1.03.

Cross-reference:

· Case No. 9820702;

· Item No. 9820702-2;

· Acquisitions & Collections Catalog §3.6.4: Antiquities – Adornments and Jewelry (Inert).

Item No. 9820702-2

Description: Bound manuscript. Front and back covers unembellished leather (source undetermined) stretched over wood board (source undetermined). Leather cord binding (calf, bovine). Paper and parchment leaves. Ink corrosion and paper degradation present but minimal (fair condition inconsistent with age and media). Dimensions: 8.8cm x 14.0cm x 2.5cm. Artefact dated ca. 1190–1450 CE.

Contents: Eighteen (18) pages total, one-sided.

· Title page (1) iron gall ink on parchment (sheepskin): Gualterius Mappus – De nugis curialium – xi. De Herla rege

· Pages two (2) through four (4) iron gall ink on paper (hemp pulp, linen fiber): Medieval Latin (ca. 12th century) script.

· Pages five (5) through sixteen (16) ink (chemical composition undetermined) on paper (cotton fiber): alphabetic script (unknown roots); refer to Supplemental Document No. 9820702-2.03 for comparative linguistic analysis (inconclusive).

· Page seventeen (17) ink (chemical composition undetermined) on paper (cotton fiber): Middle English (ca. 15th century) script.

· Page eighteen (18) parchment (sheepskin): blank.

Transcripts and translations (where possible) provided in Supplemental Document No. 9820702-2.01*.

Properties: Primary subject (Case No. 9820702) reports total comprehension of Latin portions of the text despite lack of proficiency. Text alleged to diverge from source material (De nugis curialium – Map, Walter, fl. 1200). Both claims verified upon further examination (see associated Investigation Log). Probable association with the Hunter’s affliction.

Storage: Special Collections – Secure Storage. Environmental parameters in brief: maintain temperature at 20-22°C; relative humidity, 32-36%; light levels, ≤50 lux. Housing and handling protocols as per Acquisitions & Collections Policies and Procedures §2.5.5: Document Preservation – Premodern Inks – Iron Gall and §9.2: Special Precautions – Occult and Esoteric Texts.

Access: Restricted.

Provenance: Surrendered 2nd July, 1982 upon receipt of accompanying statement (Case No. 9820702), subject name unknown. See also Item No. 9820702-1.

Appendices:

· Investigation Log No. 9820702-2;

· Supplemental Documents Nos. 9820702-2.01* through -2.07;

· Incident Report No. 9930214.

Cross-reference:

· Case No. 9820702;

· Item No. 9820702-1;

· Acquisitions & Collections Catalog §2.1.1: Archival Media – Occult Books (Active);

· Interdepartmental Bulletin No. 9941002, “The Library of Jurgen Leitner: Lessons Learned.”

*Addendum, 16th February, 1993:Supplemental Document No. 9820702-2.01 reclassified as Restricted Access. Direct all inquiries to Pu Songling Research Library Head Librarian or Acquisitions & Collections Department Head Curator.

“So?” Basira prods. “What do you make of it?”

“Well, assuming the statement is a reliable account, it seems…”

“Promising, right?” Basira says, her eagerness tinted with relief. “If we can–”

She stops abruptly as the tape recorder on the table clicks back on.

“I think that’s our cue to move this conversation elsewhere,” Jon says.

Not that it will stop the tape recorders from listening in, but he has no desire to make Jonah’s surveillance any easier for him.

_________________

It takes some hemming and hawing, but Jon manages to convince Basira that this really ought to be a group discussion. As she recaps the statement and shares her own remarks, Jon keeps a close eye on the other two people in the room. Martin is listening attentively, leaning forward slightly but otherwise at ease. Daisy, though… she’s all corded muscles and jittery legs, taut and precarious on the edge of her seat.

All the while, Basira appears impervious to the storm brewing in Daisy’s eyes, even as Martin catches on and begins chewing on the inside of his cheek, darting nervous glances between the two of them. By the time Basira finishes her overview, the tension in the air is palpable, nearly electric.

For several seconds, no one speaks.

“So,” Martin says, his voice a bit pitchy. He clears his throat before continuing. “Magical, Fear-resistant brooch, huh?”

“It wouldn’t be unheard of,” Jon says. “Remember what I told you about Mikaele Salesa?”

“The apocalypse-proof bubble? Yeah.”

“That camera of his didn’t just protect him from the Eye, it hid him from the Powers in general.”

“What was the catch?” Daisy asks pointedly. “Got to be a catch.”

“Does there?” Martin asks. His hesitant smile falls at Daisy’s blank stare, and he tilts his head back with a sigh. “Yeah, alright.”

“It’s… not entirely benign, no,” Jon says. “In Salesa’s statement, he called it a ‘battery’–”

“–charging itself on all the quiet worries that come from living in hiding, and then when the sanctuary collapses, all that fear flows out at once. No doubt, if my oasis breaks before I die, the Eye will get quite the feast from me, but in this new world–”

“That’s enough of that, I think,” Martin says, resting a hand on Jon’s arm.

Jon bites his tongue, shuts his eyes, and takes a deep breath in, only daring to speak once the tingling on his lips subsides. “Sorry.”

“Nothing to apologize for.” Martin offers him a reassuring smile. “Just didn’t want you getting bogged down.”

“That’s one term for it,” Jon says, not quite under his breath. It’s true enough, though. Sometimes it feels like the Archive is pressed up against the door, watching for the tiniest crack, waiting for any opportunity to surge through and drag him under. Lately, Martin has grown uncannily adept at sensing when to interrupt these lapses before they spiral out of control – likely because they’ve been growing more frequent.

“That’s what I thought,” Daisy says. Puzzled at the apparent non-sequitur, Jon glances at her, but she isn’t looking at him. All of her attention is focused on Basira. “This thing is probably the same. It’s not some… some harmless miracle solution. If we mess around with it, it’s bound to blow up in our faces sooner or later.”

“I’m… not sure about that, actually,” Jon says. “The brooch didn’t free the Hunter, it just made it so he couldn’t be caught. I think that’s what it was feeding on – the Hunter’s gradual awareness that he was no different from the hunted, that sensation of being perpetually stalked from the shadows by a greater predator. It spent centuries charging itself on that fear, and it culminated in the realization that he would never escape it. He would always be waiting for the axe to fall, and Hunt was happy to keep him as perpetual prey. If he wanted the chase to end, he had to give up the artefact – and once it was no longer keeping him in stasis, he had a choice to make.”

“Go back to hunting, or let it catch him.” Daisy breathes a humorless laugh. “The Hunt, or the End.”

“But it would keep you alive,” Basira says. “It would buy us time to find a way to free you for real.”

“What about the Leitner?” Martin asks. “That’s what Jonah sent us after in the first place.”

“Turns out it’s not actually from Leitner’s library,” Jon says. “No bookplate, and it seems the statement giver had it in his possession since the 1500s. It’s… difficult to tell from the statement whether it had any significant effect on him. He called it ‘hypnotic,’ but he was already a Hunter by the time he found it. I imagine it might have different effects on someone not already under the Hunt’s influence.”

“He sort of alluded to that.” Basira takes a moment to peruse the statement, running her finger along the page until she finds the relevant line. “Here – they ‘found themselves either enthralled or agitated.’ A bit obscure, but… he says it like it’s an afterthought. If it outright turned anyone into a Hunter, he probably would’ve said so.”

“That doesn’t mean it isn’t dangerous,” Daisy says.

“I never said it wasn’t,” Basira replies coolly. “The record references a transcript, so I assume they had someone read it at some point. And it also mentions an incident report.”

“What was the incident?” Martin asks.

“Don’t know,” Basira says. “They didn’t provide any of the supplemental documentation, just the catalogue listing and the statement itself. But they acquired the book in ‘82 and didn’t make the transcript restricted until ‘93, so… either it was dormant when they first studied it and became active later, or they didn’t study it closely enough to activate its effects, or it doesn’t affect everyone the same way, or – or maybe their workplace safety guidelines just changed and they decided not to risk studying it anymore.”

“Jonah did say something about its effects varying depending on how much of it a person reads, right?” Martin asks. “Though who knows where he got that from.”

“There might be some truth to that,” Basira says. “The catalogue entry does describe what’s on the title page, so I’m assuming that part at least is safe. I’m most curious about the untranslated chunk in the middle.”

And I’m a universal translator, Jon thinks, fidgeting with the drawstring of his hoodie. Basira’s eyes flick to him, as if reading his mind.

“I… suppose I could–”

“No,” Martin and Daisy say simultaneously.

Jon scowls. “You didn’t even let me finish the–”

“You threw yourself into the Buried – twice – to save me,” Daisy says severely. “You can’t keep sacrificing yourself at every opportunity.”

“I wouldn’t be–”

“What, re-traumatizing yourself by reading a Leitner?” Jon shuts his mouth, pressing his lips tightly together. “It’s not worth it, Sims.”

“Daisy,” Basira begins, but Daisy cuts her off.

“No. I’m not having him throw himself to the wolves just because you’re curious.”

Basira flinches, hurt momentarily crossing her face before her expression goes stony.

“You really think that’s what this is about?” she says, her voice shaking. “Knowledge for knowledge’s sake? Me being curious?”

“You can’t tell me you’re not,” Daisy says, and then her expression softens. “And I love that about you, I do – you’re brilliant, Basira – and driven, and passionate, and…” She sighs. “But sometimes… sometimes you need to let things go.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Jon notices Martin cross and uncross his legs, his lower lip captured between his teeth. When Jon catches his eye, Martin jerks his chin minutely at Basira and Daisy, a grimace on his face. All Jon can offer is a helpless, equally awkward shrug. Near as he can tell, Basira and Daisy seem to have momentarily forgotten that they have an audience, and judging from their locked eyes and thunderous expressions, he doubts either of them would appreciate a reminder right this second.

“Let you go, you mean,” Basira says tersely. “When you say ‘it’s not worth it,’ what you really mean is that you’re not worth it.”

“Well, I’m not.”

The cavalier tone is the last straw, it seems.

“Why won’t you just let me help you?” Basira slams her hand down on the rickety table, straining its wobbly legs. “You’re just so ready to–” She lets out a frustrated groan. “You never used to give up this easily.”

“Maybe should’ve done,” Daisy says flatly. “Might’ve lowered my body count.”

“Giving up Hunting doesn’t have to mean giving up on living,” Basira says. “I might have finally found an alternative, and you won’t even consider–”

“I’m not doing anything that’s going to hurt someone, and that includes exposing Jon to a fucking Leitner.”

“I’m right here, you know,” Jon mutters testily, the friction finally getting the better of his nerves. “Don’t I get a say?”

“No, you don’t,” Daisy says, rounding on him. Now that all of her brimming agitation is funneled in his direction, he regrets saying anything at all. “Because lately, whenever I ask you if you want to hurt yourself, the best you can give me is ‘it doesn’t matter because I can’t die anyway.’”

“Jon?” Martin says urgently, his eyebrows drawing together.

“Th-that’s not what I–”

“You’re not thinking rationally,” Daisy speaks over Jon’s stammering. “You’re thinking like a condemned man with a rope around his neck and something to prove, and I’m not going to be the noose you use to hang yourself with.”

“Will you listen to yourself?” Basira says heatedly. “You get on my case about double standards–”

“That’s enough!” Martin bursts out. “This isn’t helping. Daisy’s right, Jon. You’re not going anywhere near that book – I don’t want to hear it,” he adds before Jon can retort. “Not now, anyway. We’ll talk later. But Basira’s right, too,” Martin says, turning his attention to Daisy. “You can’t make amends by dying, and you can’t do better going forward if you’re not alive to try.”

“Who says I deserve a chance?” Daisy says.

“Whatever you think you ‘deserve’” – Martin gives Jon a meaningful glance as he says it – “you’ve got a chance, and people who want to help you through it, and you ought to consider that before you assume you’d do more good dead than alive.” He exhales a sharp breath. “Anyway, forget the Leitner, and forget what Jonah said about it. The brooch seems like the more promising option here.”

“I agree,” Jon says, cowed. “Between the book and the brooch, the statement giver credited the latter with keeping the Hunt at bay. And perhaps my bias is showing, but truthfully I – I’m not inclined to see those books as anything but tragedies waiting to happen.”

“What’s the difference?” Daisy says flatly. “It took a decade for something bad enough to happen for them to make the Leitner’s transcript restricted. The brooch could be just as much of a time bomb. Just because it doesn’t have any ‘incidents’ connected with it now doesn’t mean it never will.”

She isn’t wrong. Looking back, Jon had found it infuriating that Leitner would continue meddling with the books even after he witnessed the horror they wrought, all while claiming to have learned from his hubris. Just because this particular artefact isn’t a book doesn’t make it any less ominous.

And yet…

“I think it’s already shown its more sinister side,” Jon says slowly.

“You think,” Daisy scoffs.

“It doesn’t give a Hunter strength, it makes them perpetual prey. It… won’t be pleasant for you, I’m sure,” Jon admits, “but Basira’s right – it could keep you alive while we search for a better solution.”

“There might not be a better solution,” Daisy says stubbornly.

“Which is what I said before you browbeat me into taking statements from you,” Jon counters.

“I didn’t browbeat–” Jon raises his eyebrows. Daisy gives a flustered groan. “It’s just – it’s different, okay?”

Much as Jon wants to disagree, he knows better than to argue. They’d only end up talking in circles.

“I think it’s an avenue worth pursuing,” he says. “Given the alternatives.”

“Please, Daisy,” Basira says. “Just… consider it, at least.”

The for me remains unspoken, but Jon can hear it loud and clear. As can Daisy, it seems – the defiant set to her jaw falters for a moment before she tenses again.

“Fine,” she says grudgingly. “But if it starts to go south–”

“If it manifests any new properties, we’ll prioritize containing it over interacting with it,” Jon says.

“You promise?” Daisy asks, but she looks at Basira when she says it. It takes a moment, but Basira does nod.

“Do you think Pu Songling will let us have it?” Martin asks. “Seems like their protocols are…”

“Rigorous?” Jon supplies.

“You’d almost think they were running an academic institution or something,” Basira says drily.

“Yeah, but treating the artefacts like museum pieces, it’s… it’s weird, isn’t it?” Martin says. “It’s not as if they’re fragile, right? They’re held together by… nightmare alchemy, or whatever.”

“I suppose it’s to be expected,” Jon says. “I know the Librarian has a degree in information science. And I recall her telling me that the Curator is an historian with a background in museology. But you’re right – it would be nice if Leitners were as delicate as the average old manuscript.”

“At least they’re flammable,” Daisy mutters.

“We spoke with the Head Curator,” Basira says. “She’s willing to work out a trade.”

“A trade?” Martin asks.

“Knowledge for knowledge,” Jon says. “An artefact for an artefact. I get the impression that the Librarian and the Curator are both very… collections-oriented. True to their titles, I suppose.”

“Hold up,” Daisy says. “‘The Librarian,’ ‘the Curator’ – are those just job titles, or are they, like… Beholding Avatar titles?” Jon blinks at her, perplexed. “I mean – the way you keep saying them, it’s sort of like…”

“What, ‘Archivist’?” Jon gnaws on his thumbnail as he pauses to consider. “I… don’t know, actually. I wasn’t really doing it consciously? It just…” He shrugs helplessly. “It felt right.”

“Is it coming from the Eye, then?”

“I have no idea, Basira.” Jon leans forward, props his elbows on his knees, and digs the heels of his palms into his eyes. “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“Hm.”

“In any case…” Jon exhales slowly, forcing himself to sit up straight again. “They seem to take the research and curation aspects of their roles to heart. They aren’t reckless with their pursuits, they take ample precautions, but the scholars at Pu Songling do study the items that come into their possession. And from what I understand, the Curator takes avid interest in adding to their collection. Same as the Archivist’s role is to record stories. To what extent her efforts are driven by her connection to the Eye versus her own innate curiosity, I couldn’t tell you, no more than I can make that distinction in myself.”

“Sort of a chicken-or-egg situation, then,” Daisy says.

“From an evolutionary perspective, the egg came first,” Jon says automatically. “Amniotic eggs have been around for over three hundred million years. Birds originated in the Jurassic, true galliforms didn’t evolve until at least the Late Cretaceous, phasianids don’t appear in the fossil record until about thirty million years ago, and chickens as we know them were only domesticated about eight thousand years ago–”

“Oh my god,” Daisy groans, putting her head in her hands.

“What?” Jon says, heat rising in his cheeks as Martin muffles a snicker beneath his hand. “I’m not wrong.”

“Pu Songling’s Collections Department is larger than our Artefact Storage,” Basira interjects, “but the, uh… Curator has a shortlist of artefacts she’s been on the lookout for. I checked our records and found a match. A ring – probably belongs to the Vast, based on the reports surrounding it. Looks like the Institute purchased it from Salesa in 2014, shortly before his disappearance. The Curator considers it an ‘equitable exchange,’ but she still wants to assess the ring in person before making the trade.”

“And we still have to talk to Sonja,” Jon adds. “On the one hand, she likely wouldn’t object to being rid of an artefact, but on the other hand… I imagine she won’t be keen on letting it out into the world.”

“I think it would be a harder sell if you were just going to swap it out for another artefact – something unfamiliar that they’d have to develop all new protocols for,” Martin says. “But yeah, even if you won’t be making the brooch her problem, she’ll probably still want to know what we want with it. And I can see her pressing the Curator on why she wants the ring when she gets here.”

“The Curator won’t be coming here,” Basira says evenly, casting a surreptitious glance at Daisy to gauge her reaction. “Says she’s too busy to travel.”

“So you have to haul the ring up to her,” Daisy says.

“I mean” – Basira breathes an uneasy laugh – “it’s a ring. Not much hauling involved–”

“Oh, don’t start–”

“–and there are precautions I can take. Looks like Artefact Storage has relatively thorough documentation for this one.”

“‘Relatively’?” Daisy repeats, unimpressed. “You were just complaining about how sparse their records are. ‘Relatively’ isn’t saying much.”

“Well, it’s better than nothing.” Basira rubs at her face. “I have to do this. Just… trust me.”

“You know I do–”

“Then let me have your back,” Basira says, practically pleading. “Let me help you.”

“Fine,” Daisy mutters, her posture going slack. “Do what you want.”

It’s not exactly a resounding endorsement, but it’s as good as they’re likely to get.

_________________

Despite Daisy’s lack of enthusiasm, Basira immediately throws herself into making arrangements. The Curator at Pu Songling is more than accommodating, seemingly as eager as Basira to make the trade. The real challenge is the Head of Artefact Storage.

It takes over a week of cajoling, lengthy justifications, and a concerted, collaborative effort from Basira, Jon, and Martin before Sonja finally, albeit reluctantly, agrees to discuss the matter with the Curator. Over the following days, Basira and Jon facilitate negotiations between the two: mediating a fair amount of (professional, but nevertheless pointed) verbal sparring early on, and later arbitrating the terms and conditions of the trade.

“You’d think that in the course of dealing with literal supernatural evil on a daily basis,” Basira gripes at one point, “bureaucracy wouldn’t be the biggest priority.”

“I’ve found that the bureaucratic process gives me ample time to make assessments,” Sonja says, unruffled. “Red tape has a way of bringing out the worst in people. Sometimes that’s a procrastinating student who woke up this morning, realized their deadline is next week, and ‘needs access to our materials, like, yesterday,’” she says, complete with finger quotes and a mocking tone. “And sometimes it’s some shady rich snob who’s been consistently cagey about his motives, and eventually he starts to go from impatient and entitled to desperate and frustrated, and that’s when the red flags start popping up crimson. After a while, you learn to distinguish the mundane sort of desperation from the more sinister sort.”

“Huh,” Jon says, smiling to himself. He knew Sonja was clever, but he never knew she was so calculating. It seems Jonah made the same mistake with Sonja as he did with Gertrude – overestimating a person’s curiosity and malleability, underestimating their prudence and pragmatism, and then promoting them to a position where they were free to act in a decidedly un-Beholding-like manner.

Once Sonja is sufficiently assured that the Curator has no intentions of utilizing the artefact or allowing it to venture beyond the secure confines of Pu Songling’s Collections Storage, the process starts to go a bit more smoothly. As expected, Sonja is amenable to the prospect of having one less piece of malignant costume jewelry, as she puts it, provided the Archival staff take full responsibility – both for the ring once Basira signs it out and for the artefact they receive in exchange.

“The ring has a compulsion effect,” Sonja tells them. “Makes people want to put it on – and once it’s on your finger, it’s not coming off until you hit the ground. Luckily it’s not a particularly active artefact, at least not compared to some of the other things we have here. I wouldn’t call it safe, obviously, but” – she raps her knuckles on the wooden beads of the bracelet on her opposite wrist – “it’s never breached containment.”

The how and why become abundantly clear upon seeing the closed ring box, so caked in earth and grime that it’s impossible to make out the color or material underneath.

“Buried, I take it,” Basira murmurs, giving Jon a sidelong glance.

“Yeah.” Jon grimaces at the phantom taste of soil on his tongue. “An artefact to contain an artefact.”

“Looks like the Curator is getting a twofer,” Basira says.

“Fine by me,” Sonja says with a nonchalant shrug. “That’s the box it came in, actually. Don’t know why it works, but it does, and that’s all I care about. So long as you keep it closed, the worst you’ll get is vertigo. As far as we’ve observed, anyway. There’s always a chance that an artefact has more secrets than it lets on at first glance. Assuming you know everything there is to know is a good way to end up in a casket.”

“We’re well aware,” Jon says. “Believe me.”

“Seriously, though – if this goes tits up, I don’t want to hear it,” Sonja says sternly, all but wagging a finger. “And if you call up here a few months from now to tell me that you’ve got a rogue artefact wreaking havoc in the Archives, and I’ve got to put my people at risk to contain it, I will unleash unholy hell.”

The funny thing is, Jon believes her.

_________________

Despite the progress they’re making on obtaining the Hunter’s brooch, dissent continues to simmer within the group – particularly where Daisy is concerned. As the escalating tension in the Archives becomes ever more tangible, Martin begins to feel claustrophobic under the weight of all the things left unspoken.

Daisy is consistently ill-tempered: bellicose in one moment and taciturn in the next, frequently seeking out solitude whenever her agitation gets the best of her. Martin suspects that her volatile mood has as much to do with her deteriorating condition as it does to do with her lingering aversion to the rest of the group’s efforts. Although she and Basira haven’t had another row – so far as Martin is aware, anyway – there’s been an undeniable friction between them. On the worst days, Basira keeps to herself, burying her head in her research while Daisy slinks off to some dark corner of the Archives to brood until Jon comes to drag her away from her thoughts.

Not that Jon is much better. He’s been sullen lately, growing more withdrawn, sleeping less and jumping at shadows even more than usual. Martin often catches him in a trance, staring vacantly into space and droning horrors under his breath. More and more he lapses into statement clips mid-sentence, regardless of how recently he’s had a statement. Sometimes, all it takes is a momentary slip for Jon to lose his footing and devolve into a frenzied litany of back-to-back, fragmentary horror stories. On a few recent occasions he’s lost his voice entirely, though luckily it’s only been for an hour or two at a time.

(So far, Jon says morosely after each episode.)

Most unsettling, though, is the chronic faraway look in his eye, like he’s seeing something else. Like he’s somewhere else, lost across an unbridgeable divide.

Martin is well-acquainted with the sensation of feeling alone in the presence of others. That doesn’t make it any less distressing. It’s not that Jon intends to be distant. He might not even be aware of it; would likely be mortified if he knew just how much that detachment stirred Martin’s longstanding fears of isolation and abandonment. Jon’s still affectionate, after all. Although he seems reluctant to actively seek out comfort these days, he’s still prompt to take an outstretched hand, to lean into a kind touch, to accept a proffered embrace. Still makes a concerted effort to muster, however feebly, a soft smile whenever Martin enters a room. Still attempts to be present and attentive and open.

But sometimes it feels like Jon is out of reach, separated from the rest of the world, watching it pass him by through layers of frosted glass. Martin knows the feeling. What he doesn’t know is how to fix it.

Before long, Basira is set to leave for Beijing, an artefact of the Vast nestled away in her luggage amidst assurances to Sonja that, yes, under no circumstances will Basira attempt to take it on a plane or into the open ocean because, no, Basira does not have a death wish, thank you very much.

Martin half-expects another quarrel to break out on the eve of Basira’s departure, but Daisy is oddly subdued. Perhaps she just doesn’t want to part ways with angry words and unresolved arguments, or perhaps she’s simply come to accept the rest of the group’s decision to move forward with the plan. Considering the dark circles under her eyes, though, it’s just as likely that she’s simply too fatigued to start a fight.

A few days later, Martin descends the ladder into the tunnels to find Jon standing at his makeshift desk, staring down at the map unfurled across its surface – the product of the group’s ongoing efforts to survey the sprawling tunnel system of the former Millbank Prison. The blueprint-in-progress is an equally sprawling thing: sheets of mismatched paper layered one atop the next and taped together, its irregular borders comprised of haphazard angles and dog-eared edges.

The hand-drawn map on its surface is chaotic, reflecting the penmanship of four different authors. Jon’s contributions might be the messiest – the burn scar contracture on his dominant hand renders his lines shaky at best, and his handwriting has always been a tad chickenscratch. Daisy’s isn’t much better. Conversely, Basira’s additions are the neatest, her strokes as steady as the persona she tries to project to the world. Martin’s are passable, if only because, unlike Jon or Daisy, he actually has the patience to use rulers and book edges to trace straight paths.

To be fair, it would probably look a mess no matter how painstaking they were in constructing it. The tunnels are as labyrinthine as expected: a vast network of arterial corridors with offshoots along their lengths, branching into three- or four-way forks, most of which lead to dead ends. Occasionally, they find a path that loops back around and connects other parts of the maze, creating a series of meandering, convoluted closed circuits. It’s difficult to tell just by looking, but they are (Martin hopes) making progress. At the rate they’re going, they have to be on track to find the Panopticon before the winter solstice.

In any case, as Martin approaches the desk, he sees that familiar vacant look on Jon’s face, as if he isn’t actually seeing what’s in front of him. The effect is underscored by the cigarette burning away in his hand, hanging limp and forgotten at his side. Martin clears his throat lightly, in deference to Jon’s hair-trigger startle reflex. He doesn’t count the fact that Jon doesn’t jump at all as a success. If anything, it’s cause for concern.

“Jon?” Martin tries. There’s a slight delay before Jon glances over, giving Martin no acknowledgment aside from a sluggish blink before lowering his head again.

“I, uh…” Martin offers a weak smile, attempting to keep his tone light. He gestures at the cigarette. “I thought you quit?”

Jon shrugs, refusing to meet Martin’s eyes. “Not like it’ll kill me.”

“Might catch up with you later, though,” Martin says, scratching at his neck. “You know, once we find a way out of here.”

“There is no ‘out’ for me,” Jon says mulishly.

“You don’t know that. Or Know it.” Jon’s only reaction is to press his lips tightly together, like he’s biting back a retort. “Look, I’m not trying to nag you, I just wor– Jon!” Martin yelps as he watches Jon put his cigarette out on the back of his hand.

Martin lunges forward, grabbing Jon’s hand and yanking it close to inspect the damage. It’s the same hand that Jude shook, already textured and pitted with webs of hypertrophic scarring. Somehow, Jon managed to plant this newest burn on a patch of previously-undamaged skin, sandwiched between two bands of knotted tissue.

The contours of her fingers, Martin recognizes with a queasy lurch – followed by another when he thinks to wonder whether Jon sought out that scrap of healthy skin on purpose just now.

Jon barely reacts, staring into space with wide eyes and dilated pupils. Martin looks down again to see the circular singe mark already knitting itself back together, leaving only a small, shiny patch of discoloration ringed with a dusting of ash. In all likelihood, even that will be gone by morning.

If only all wounds would heal so easily.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Martin hisses, fighting to keep his voice even. He brushes a soothing thumb over the spot, as if to apologize to the abused skin on Jon’s behalf.

Jogged out of his reverie by Martin’s sharp tone, Jon stares daggers at him, his mouth open as if to unleash a scathing reprimand, the set of his jaw so reminiscent of those early days in the Archives. An instant later, though, he withers, cringing away and fixing his eyes on the floor.

“I wasn’t,” he mumbles, at least having the decency to sound contrite. “Wasn’t really paying attention.”

It’s not the first time Martin’s witnessed a self-inflicted injury. When pressed, Jon always claims that it’s not a deliberate, planned form of self-punishment, but rather a reflex reaction that kicks in when he starts feeling adrift in time. Somewhere along the line, it seems, he convinced himself that physical pain is as good a shortcut as any – a sort of panic button to bring him back to the present when he needs grounding.

Whatever his intentions, though, and no matter what rationalizations Jon wants to dole out, it’s not a healthy coping mechanism. And it’s difficult for Martin to believe that self-punishment doesn’t factor at all, considering Jon’s obsessive guilt spirals and his blasé attitude towards being hurt.

“‘S already healed,” Jon says with a spiritless shrug. He drops the snuffed-out remainder of his cigarette on the floor and unnecessarily grinds it under his heel.

“That’s not the point.” Martin doesn’t realize how tightly he’s grasping Jon’s hand until Jon winces. Although Martin relaxes his grip somewhat, he doesn’t let go. “It doesn’t matter how quickly your body heals, or that you’ve had worse, or whatever other justifications you want to make. You’re still getting hurt. That’s not okay, and – and if it were me in your shoes, you’d be telling me the same thing.”

“I’m sorry.” Jon’s hair falls to cover his face as he ducks his head.

It’s fine, Martin almost says – except it’s not, is it?

“Come on,” he says instead, guiding Jon to sit in the nearest chair before taking a seat next to him. Where before Jon was all stiff limbs and rigid spine, now he looks like he’s given up the ghost, drooping like a wilting flower.

Though he allows Martin to keep hold of his hand, Jon doesn’t return the pressure. And Jon’s skin is freezing – no doubt partly due to the damp chill of the tunnels, and partly because he has, by his own admission, always had shit circulation. Combined with his limp fingers and loose grip, though, the overall effect is far too reminiscent of those months spent keeping vigil over Jon’s hospital bed, his hand nothing but cold, dead weight in Martin’s.

It took too long for Martin to admit that he had been foolish to hope that Jon was still in there somewhere, aware of Martin’s presence, fighting to regain consciousness. The whole time, Martin was just keeping his own company. Jon wasn’t just unreachable – he wasn’t there at all.

(Martin had been wrong about that in the end. He doesn’t know that he’ll ever forgive himself for not being there when Jon woke up.)

Martin bites his lip as he formulates a response. He’s learned over the years that when Jon is like this, it’s best to strike a careful balance between docility and defiance. Push too hard too fast, and Jon will dig his heels in; approach him too tentatively, and he’s liable to interpret concern as pity; force him to talk about his feelings, and he’ll bolt; smother him with tenderness, and he’ll balk.

Granted, Jon has become much more receptive to tenderness over the years. Most of the time, anyway. When his skewed self-worth and convictions about what he does and doesn’t deserve don’t get in the way.

“At the risk of being a nag–”

“You’re not a nag,” Jon says softly.

“When’s the last time you had a statement?”

“A few days ago.” The response is too quick, too automatic.

“A few days ago,” Martin repeats, allowing a bit of disbelief to seep into his voice.

Jon nods stiffly. “Monday, I think.”

“Today is Tuesday.”

“I–” Jon cuts off his own retort, turning to blink owlishly at Martin. “Is it?”

“Yeah,” Martin says, his heart sinking. Jon must be losing time again. “So you had a statement yesterday?”

“No, I – I don’t…” Jon squints up at the ceiling, wracking his brain. “I don’t think so? It’s – I think I would recall if it had been shorter than one day.”

“So, last Monday?”

“I don’t – I don’t know,” Jon says, growing testy. “I suppose. Must’ve been.”

“Are you hungry?”

“I’m always hungry.” The admission is devoid of all the simmering agitation that had been there only moments before. Now, he just sounds tired.

“Well… I think you might be due for one.” Although Martin had been striving for gentle suggestion, there’s a harsh edge to the words. Rather than get Jon’s hackles up again, though, he seems to crumple under what he doubtless reads as an accusation.

“You’re right,” he says hoarsely. “And I’m sorry. I know lately I’ve been…”

“Tetchy,” Martin offers, just as Jon says, “a bit of a prick.”

“Your words, not mine,” Martin says with a tentative grin. Jon returns his own feeble half-smile, but it quickly falters.

“I’ve almost exhausted Daisy’s catalogue,” he confesses. “Only a handful left now. I’ve got to make them last until the solstice.”

An apprehensive chill runs down Martin’s spine at that. “And then what?”

“I haven’t thought that far ahead.”

There’s virtually no chance that Jon, prone to rumination as he is, hasn’t been dwelling on it.

“Basira said she has a few statements, right?” Martin asks. “Which… if you already have a statement about an encounter, can you still get nourishment from other statements about it, so long as it’s coming from someone else’s point of view?”

“Probably.” Jon shrugs one shoulder. “The factual details of the encounter are less important than the subject’s emotional response. Different perspective, different story, different lived experience of fear.”

“Then… you have my statement about the Flesh attack, but there’s still Basira’s. And – and maybe Melanie–”

“I’m not taking another statement from Melanie,” Jon says tersely. “She’s been tethered to me for too long without say, and I’m not dragging her back in.”

“But if it’s consensual–”

“It won’t be, because I don’t consent.”

“If the alternative is literally starving–”

“I’ll find another alternative. Or I won’t. But I’m not asking Melanie for a statement.” Jon keeps his head bowed, but he looks up at Martin through his lashes. “The first time she quit, I was worried that she might show up in my nightmares again, but she didn’t. I don’t know if her severance from the Eye will keepher out of my nightmares if she gives me a new statement, and… I can’t risk it. I can’t do that to her. Even if the nightmares weren’t an issue… I’m not going to ask her to relive yet another traumatic experience for my benefit–”

“–I shall choose to die rather than take part in such an unholy meal–”

Jon claps a hand over his mouth, a panicked look in his eye.

“…nor shall I take my own life, whatever extremity my suffering may reach,” he tacks on, too much of an afterthought for comfort.

“Which means we need to plan for the future,” Martin says, forcing calm into his voice despite the way his heart picks up its pace.

“But it can’t involve Melanie,” Jon says – gentler than before, but still firm.

“No, you’re – you’re right,” Martin relents. “It wouldn’t be fair to her. But we could still ask Basira.”

Jon makes a noncommittal noise, his expression rapidly going pinched and closed off again.

“Lately,” Martin says, licking his lips nervously, “lately it feels like you’ve been shutting everyone out again. It isn’t healthy–”

“Healthy?” Jon’s glare could burn a hole in the floor. “I don’t need to be healthy, I just need to be whatever it wants.”

Once, Martin might have been daunted by Jon’s scathing tone. By now, he knows that Jon is all bluster – and that the brunt of it is turned inward, against his own self.

“Please, Jon. Tell me what’s going on. You’re worrying me.”

Those, apparently, are the magic words, because Jon finally capitulates.

“It’s October,” he tells the floor.

“It… is October, yeah.” Bewildered, Martin waits for elaboration. When a minute passes with no response forthcoming, he prompts, “Is that… bad…?”

“Historically, yes, it has been,” Jon says with a tired, frayed-sounding chuckle.

“I… Jon, I need you to help me out here,” Martin says helplessly. “I can’t read your mind.”

“October is when it happens, Martin.” Jon glances at Martin once, quickly, before returning his gaze to the ground. He’s twisting one hand around the opposite wrist now, fingers curled tightly enough to blanch his knuckles. “The eighteenth. When everything goes wrong.”

“You mean…”

Jon’s sharp inhale becomes a choked exhale, which in turn abruptly cuts off as the Archive takes its cue.

“…what settled over me wasn’t dread; there wasn’t enough uncertainty for that. It was doom. I was certain that some sort of disaster was on the horizon–”

“–something bad. Something unspeakable. And I would have helped make it happen–”

“–the fear never really went away. I’ve heard that being exposed to the source of your terror over and over again can help break its power over you, numb you to it, but in my experience it just teaches you to hide from it. Sometimes that might mean hiding in a quiet corner of your mind, but–”

“–soon enough, I could no longer fool myself–”

“–the calm I had been getting accustomed to had been torn away completely, and where it had been was just this horrible, ice-cold terror–”

“–that – we can’t escape the ruins of our own future–”

“–a future where – humanity was violently and utterly supplanted, and wiped out by a new category of being–”

“–there are terrible things coming – things that, if we knew them, would leave us weak and trembling, with shuddering terror at the knowledge that they are coming for all of us–”

“–I think in my heart, I have been waiting for this moment. For the final axe to fall–”

“–we create the world in a lot of ways. I suppose it shouldn’t be surprising that, when we’re not being careful, we can change it–”

There’s a breathless pause before Jon continues, in a nearly inaudible whisper: “What could I have chosen to change? Would a different path have been possible?”

“It is,” Martin says firmly, “and we’re on it. What happened last time won’t happen again. We won’t let it.”

Jon doesn’t acknowledge the reassurance.

“I should’ve known,” he says with a quiet ferocity, in his own voice this time. “It was too peaceful. I should’ve known it wasn’t going to last. And – and on some level I did know – I knew it wasn’t over – but I just… I didn’t want to be the one to shatter the illusion, I suppose.” His expression goes taut. “Didn’t much matter what I wanted, in the end. But I still should’ve seen it coming. Can’t let my guard down again.”

“How could you have known?” Martin doesn’t intend for it to come out as exasperated. He tries to reel it back, to gentle his tone. “You’ve said yourself that you can’t predict the future–”

“No, but I knew Jonah had plans for me. And I knew nothing good could come of feeding the Eye, but I kept on anyway.”

“It’s not like you were doing it for fun, Jon! You needed it to survive, and Jonah took advantage of that. Or…” No – that makes it sound purely opportunistic, doesn’t it? In reality, it was all part of Jonah’s long game from the start. “He made you dependent on statements specifically becausehe wanted to take advantage of that.”

“I made choices,” Jon says tonelessly. “I can’t absolve myself of responsibility just because Jonah was nudging me in a particular direction.”

“You were manipulated,” Martin insists, “and I’m not having you apologize for surviving it. For not starving to death.”

“You don’t understand,” Jon says, growing more distressed, reaching up with both hands and tangling his fingers in his hair. “When that box of statements finally arrived, I… I couldn’t shoo you away fast enough. I was hungry, yes, but I wasn’t starving yet. I could’ve waited longer, but I just… I wanted one–”

“–should have fought harder against the temptation – but my curiosity was too strong–”

“You shouldn’t have to wait until you’re literally on death’s doorstep before you fulfill a basic need,” Martin interrupts.

“I should when that ‘basic need’ entails serving the Beholding,” Jon says heatedly. “And I – I should’ve known better – should’ve known not to jump headlong into the first statement that caught my eye. I’d known for a while that the Beholding leads me away from statements it doesn’t want me to know. It logically follows that it would lead me towards statements that would strengthen it. If I’d had any sense, I would’ve been suspicious of anything in that box that called out to me. It didn’t… it didn’t feel any different, but I – I suppose that somewhere along the line I just got used to… to wandering down whatever path I was led. I didn’t think, I never stop to think–”

“If anything, Jon, you overthink. You’re overthinking right now.”

Martin has known for a long time now that Jon will latch onto the smallest details, allow his thoughts to branch into an impossible number of routes and tangents, tie together loose threads in countless permutations in the interest of considering all possible conclusions, no matter how outlandish. He will apply Occam's razor in one moment before tossing it into the bin, only to fish it out again: lather, rinse, repeat. His mind is a noisy, cluttered conspiracy corkboard, and he’ll hang himself with red string if given half a chance, just to feel like he’s in control of something.

“It’s easy to look back and criticize your past self,” Martin says, “but he didn’t know what you do. If we knew the outcome to every action, maybe we wouldn’t make mistakes, but we’re only human–”

“Not all of us.”

“–so we just have to do the best with what we have in the moment,” Martin continues, paying no heed to Jon’s grumbled comment. No good will come of guiding him down that rabbit trail right now. Anyway, Martin has a more pressing concern–

“Why didn’t you tell me about any of this sooner?” he blurts out, immediately wincing at his lack of tact. “That came out wrong–”

“Why didn’t I tell you how quick I was to chase you out of the house and sink my teeth into a statement the moment temptation presented itself?” Jon scoffs. “Because I’m ashamed. Why else?”

“No, not–” Martin scrubs a hand over his face. It’s a struggle, sometimes, not to grab Jon by the shoulders and shake him until all of that stubborn self-loathing falls away. “About the fact that you’ve got a – a post-traumatic anniversary event coming up, I mean. You haven’t been well, and I thought I understood why – thought it was just… all of it, in general. But here I come to find you’ve been agonizing over the upcoming date of the single worse day of your life–”

“One of the worst,” Jon says quietly.

“What?”

“I didn’t lose you until much later.”

Martin’s breath catches in his throat at that, a sharp pang shooting through his chest.

“Well… you’ve got me now,” he says meekly. “So – so you don’t have to suffer in silence, is what I’m saying. What happened to you – no, what was done to you – it was horrible, and it wasn’t your fault. I know you don’t believe that, but it’s the truth.”

“Either I’ve always been caught up in someone else’s web, passively having things happen to me with no control over my life–”

“–the Mother got exactly the result she no doubt wanted, one that would lead to a fear – so acute that I could later have that horror focused and refined into a silk-spun apotheosis–”

Jon bites down on one knuckle, eyes shut tight as he waits for the compulsion to subside.

“Or,” he says after a minute, “or I do have control, and I can change the outcome, which makes me culpable. I don’t know which prospect I hate more. Which probably says some unflattering things about me.”

“It’s not that simple–”

“It is,” Jon says viciously. “If there is another path, then I should’ve found it last time!” He closes his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose, and takes a steadying breath. When he speaks again, he’s no longer bordering on shouting, but there’s a quaver in his voice, a fragility that Martin finds more disconcerting than any flash of anger. “The way I see it, there are two options. One, what happened in my future was inevitable and nothing I could’ve done would’ve changed it – which certainly doesn’t bode well for this timeline. Or, the outcome can be changed, in which case my choices matter, and had I just made better choices, maybe I could have prevented all of this from ever happening in the first place.”

“You’re not being fair,” Martin says, his hands clenching into fists – but Jon isn’t listening.

“Doesn’t make much difference, I suppose. The consequences are the same either way–”

“–billions of – people making their way through life who had no idea what was right above their heads–”

“–would-be occult dynasties and ageless monsters–”

“–minds so strange and colossal that we would never know they were minds at all–”

“–idiots who destroyed themselves chasing a secret that wasn’t worth knowing–”

“–there, caught up in a series of events that I didn’t understand but that terrified me – I did the stupidest thing I’ve ever done–”

“–running was pointless. To try to escape from my task would only serve to fulfill another. I finally understood what I needed to do–”

“–I don’t know if you have ever drowned, but it’s the most painful thing I have ever experienced–”

“–I do not suppose I need to dwell on the pain, but please know that I would sooner die than endure it again–”

“Would you?” Martin says abruptly. Jon won’t look at him. “Jon, I need to know if you’re feeling like hurting yourself.”

“What would it matter if I was?” Jon still won’t look at him. “I’m categorically incapable of hurting myself in any way that matters.”

Martin blinks in disbelief. “Okay, that’s blatantly untrue.”

Jon has been a glaring portrait of self-neglect for as long as Martin has known him. That simple lack of consideration for himself, together with compounding survivor’s guilt, was the perfect stepping stone to active self-endangerment. Now that Jon’s convinced himself he’s invulnerable to a normal human death, he’s all the more careless with himself.

“I don’t want to die,” Jon whispers. “That’s the problem.”

“What—?”

“Before, I was unknowingly putting the entire world at risk by – by waking up after the Unknowing, by crawling out of the Buried, by escaping the Hunters, by continuing to read statements like it was – like it was something routine, as unremarkable as – as taking tea. Now, though – now I know better. I know what Jonah is planning, I saw what I’m capable of, and still I… I don’t want to die.”

“Well… good,” Martin says. “You should want to live–”

“It doesn’t much matter what I want–”

“–I never wanted to weigh up the value of a life, to set it on the scales against my own, but that’s a choice that I am forced into–”

“–doesn’t get to die for that – gets to live, trapped and helpless, and entombed forever – powerless–”

“–a lynchpin for this new ritual – a record of fear–”

Shit, Martin thinks the instant he recognizes the statement. It’s the worst of them all, virtually guaranteed to send Jon spiraling.

“–both in mind as you walk the shuddering record of each statement, and in body as the Powers each leave their mark upon you – a living chronicle of terror – a conduit for the coming of this – nightmare kingdom–”

“Okay, okay, stay with me–”

“–the Chosen one is simply that: someone I chose. It’s not in your blood, or your soul, or your destiny. It’s just in your own, rotten luck–”

“Jon, can you hear me? Jon–”

“–I’ll admit, my options were somewhat limited, but my god, when you came to me already marked by the Web, I knew it had to be you. I even held out some small hope you had been sent by the Spider as some sort of implicit blessing on the whole project, and, do you know what, I think it was–”

Martin reaches over, taking both of Jon’s hands in his own and squeezing tightly. The pressure seems to do the trick: lucidity sparks in Jon’s eyes and he takes a deep, ragged breath, as if coming up for air.

“There you are. Are you okay?” Martin rubs both thumbs over the backs of Jon’s hands in rhythmic, soothing motions. “Hey, it’s–”

“I don’t want your kindness!” Jon snaps, jerking backwards and snatching his hands out from Martin’s grip.

Both of them lapse into a stunned silence. As mortification dawns on Jon’s face, Martin can feel the color rising in his cheeks. It only takes a few seconds for the blood rushing in his ears to be drowned out by another voice.

Martin can remember with cutting clarity the days prior to his mother’s departure to the nursing home. She had been in (somewhat) rare form, her already-short fuse dwindled down to nothing, sniping at him around the clock, full of caustic observations and spiteful accusations.

I don’t want your help, she had sneered as she entered the cab, swatting his hand away.

It was one of the last things she ever said to him.

“Well, tough,” Martin bites out, “because you deserve it, and you never should’ve had to go without it, and you’re not going to change my mind about that, so you may as well stop trying!”

“Martin, I – I – I’m sorry, I didn’t mean–”

He saw, Martin realizes all at once, his skin crawling with humiliation.

“I’m going to go make some tea,” Martin says, rising to his feet.

Jon reaches out a hand. “Martin–”

“I just need a breather, okay?” Martin says, a pleading note to his voice. His lungs are constricting, his chest is tightening, there’s a lump in his throat, and he really doesn’t want to have a panic attack in the tunnels – or in front of Jon. “I’m not – I’m not angry, okay, I just need some air.”

Jon opens his mouth, then immediately closes it, clutches his hands to his chest, and gives a tiny nod that Martin just barely glimpses before turning to flee.

_________________

“Stop crying,” Jon hisses at himself, furiously scrubbing at his face as the tears slide down his cheeks. “Stop it.”

He plasters the heels of his hands over his closed eyelids. It does nothing to stem the flow, only brings to mind images of pressing himself bodily against a door to hold it closed, only for the crack to continue widening, millimeter after millimeter, the flood on the other side trickling through the gap, rivulets swelling into rivers, frigid eddies biting at his ankles, a whitewater undertow threatening to drag him below the waves–

“Enjoying our own company, are we?”

Once, Jon might have been humiliated to be caught mid-breakdown, raw-voiced and puffy-eyed, especially by Peter Lukas of all people. Several lifetimes spent in thrall to cosmic horrors have a way of putting things in perspective.

“What do you want?” Jon says with as much ire as he can muster.

Peter hums to himself, starting a slow, back-and-forth pace in front of Jon. “It occurred to me that I’ve been derelict in my duties as far as the Archives are concerned–”

“That’s just now occurring to you?”

“–and, as such, I thought it was high time that I met the infamous Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute.”

“Well,” Jon scoffs, gesturing at himself, “you’ve met him.”

“I must admit, I was expecting something a bit more… hm.” Peter taps a finger against his lips. “Formidable.”

“Sorry to disappoint.” The scathing sarcasm is rendered pitiful by an ill-timed, involuntary sniffle. Jon can’t bring himself to care.

“The state you’re in, you hardly seem fit to work.” A pause. “Have you ever considered taking some time off?”

“A six-months hospital stay has a way of eating up your PTO, oddly enough. I’m told that payroll already has already had to make special exceptions for my ‘unprecedented’ circumstances.” Jon chuckles to himself. “On multiple occasions. Did you know the Institute considers a kidnapping in the line of duty to be an ‘unexcused absence?’”

“I think you’ll find that Elias and I have different management styles,” Peter says mildly. “I’m open to making allowances – particularly since your department can function so smoothly in your absence. Your assistants have proven themselves to be quite capable of working independently – and seeing as your approach to supervision borders on fraternization, I imagine they would be more productive without excess drama to distract them.”

“I’ll take that into consideration,” Jon says acerbically.

“No need.” Jon squints at him, and Peter stare him down. “It’s not a request, Archivist. It’s an order.”

There was a time, not long ago, that sneaking up on the Archivist would have been difficult. Only Helen had consistently managed to ambush him, and that was because she didn’t waste time sneaking – she manifested and launched the jump scare in the same instant, giving him no chance to See her approach. Readjusting to a binocular point of view had been a process, but rarely does he find himself yearning for the panoramic field of vision that had been foisted upon him during the apocalypse.

Occasionally, though, there are moments when 360° sight would come in handy. Too late, Jon realizes this is one of those moments.

By the time he notices the tendrils of encroaching fog, they’re already curling around from behind him, pooling at his feet, ghosting across the back of his neck, affixing themselves around his wrists.

“It’s alright,” Peter says placidly, almost soothingly. “You can let go now.”

Jon shivers as his heart pumps ice through his veins, fingers and toes going numb as he struggles for breath.

No. No, no, no, no, no–

“I am not Lonely anymore,” Jon gasps out through chattering teeth.

“No,” Peter says with an air of nonchalance. Then he smiles, sharp and cold and cruel and the only detail Jon can still discern through the fog. “But you will be.”

___

End Notes:

Daisy: hey siri, google what to do if i suspect my bff has been possessed by the ghost of a fussy paleornithologist Jon: why are you booing me????? i’m right

Pretty sure this is the longest chapter yet? Probably bc of the statement. I could’ve split it into two, but, uh. I like that cliffhanger where it is. >:3c (Sorry for that, btw.)

Quite a bit of Archive-speak this chapter. Citations as follows: Section 1: 122/124/011/007/047/155. The Xiaoling quote is from MAG 105; the Jonah quote is ofc from 160; the Naomi quote is from 013. Section 3: 181. Section 5: 058 x2; 144/130/086/143/121/149/134/144/143/069; 147; 017; 147; 057/160/106/111/067/121/129/098; 155/128/160; 160 x3. Section 6: 170, of course.

I’m taking wild liberties with Pu Songling Research Centre’s whole deal. I’m conceptualizing their spookier departments as being like… actually academia-oriented, instead of “local Victorian corpse with illusions of godhood throws a bunch of traumatized nerds with no relevant archival experience into a basement, what happens next will shock you”. Xiaoling is out here like “our digitization is still a work in progress, I’m sure you know how it is” and Jon Sims is like “digitization who? i don’t know her”. (Listen, he tried once. Tape recorder was haunted, he got kidnapped a bunch, there were worms and things, he died (he got better), his boss used him as a battering ram to open a door to Fearpocalypse Hell – it was a lot.)

Likewise, we didn’t get much info about Sonja in canon, so I’m having fun envisioning her as a certified Force To Be Reckoned With (and a bit of a Mama Bear wrt her assistants). Most of the Institute is leery of the Archives (& especially Jon) but Sonja’s seen a lot of shit and Jon Sims doesn’t even rank on her list of Top Spooky Scary Things.

re: the statement – it’s not clear in-text, but I want to clarify that I’m not conceptualizing Francis Drake as being influenced by the Hunt. Fictionalizing aspects of history is tricky, and I’d feel personally uncomfortable chalking up Drake’s real life atrocities to supernatural influence, even in fiction. In the case of this particular fictional member of his crew, he was (like Drake’s real-life crew) complicit in following Drake’s orders for entirely mundane reasons and was only marked by the Hunt at the point in his statement where he first recounts hearing the Hunt chasing after him.

At some point in writing this chapter, I had 137 tabs open in my browser for Research Purposes and like 20 of those were bc my dumb ass seriously considered writing that statement in Elizabethan English before going “what are you DOING, actually.” If I’d tried, it would have come off as inauthentic at best, if not ridiculous, bc I’m unfamiliar with English linguistic trends of the 1500s, and I’d basically be badly mimicking Shakespearean English, which isn’t necessarily indicative of how everyone spoke at the time, and I don’t know what colloquial speech would look like for this particular unnamed character I trotted out as exposition fodder, and it was probably unnecessary to formulate a whole-ass personal history for him for the sake of Historical Realism for a single section of a single chapter of a fanfic, and… In the end, I decided that this pseudo-immortal rando can tell his life story in modernized English, as a treat (to me) (and also to those of you who don’t think of slogging through bastardized Elizabethan prose as a fun endeavor).

Speaking of research – shoutout to this dissertation that had an English translation of the Herla story in Walter Map’s De nugis curialium, and if you want to read the whole story, you can find it on pages 16-18 of that paper. I feel it’s important for you all to know that IMMEDIATELY after Map dramatically proclaims, “the dog has not yet alighted, and the story says that this King Herla still holds on his mad course with his band in eternal wanderings, without stop or stay,” he goes on to say in the next breath “buuuut some people say they all jumped into the River Wye and died, so ymmv. ¯\_ (ツ)_/¯ anyways, can I interest you in more Fucked Up If True tales?” (Herla throwing the dog into the river wasn’t in the original story though. I made that part up.)

Thank you so much for reading! <3

#the magnus archives #tma #tma fic #long post #tma spoilers #magnuspod

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yandere-society · 4 years ago

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hi, can u do jeongguk yandere which he’s a werewolf and the oc childhood sweetheart???

Moon Bound

Jungkook, YN’s childhood best friend, abandoned her their senior year of high school without a word. Determined to forget him, YN attends college across the country. But what will she do when he shows up on her doorstep rain soaked and sharp toothed, confessions and craziness slipping from his lips?

Warnings: Yandere themes

Admin @chimchimsauce

YN always hated storms. Ever since she was but a small tot, the bright flashes of light and loud boom that shook the air after terrified her to her core. Without fail, she would run towards whoever was nearest for comfort.

That’s how she met Jungkook. Her parents and his had decided to get together for dinner after Jungkook and his family moved in next door. It started off fine. Jungkook was shy kid with big eyes and a small smile who agreed to play with the stuffed animals she insisted on bringing over.

After eating, the adults talk about whatever adults talk about while YN and Jungkook play in his bedroom.

“You know,” six-year-old YN said as she raised a purple giraffe into the air, “You don’t talk very much.”

Jungkook’s cheeks went red in an instant and the eye contact he struggled to maintain fell away.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice quiet and small smile gone.

YN could tell right away that she hurt his feelings.

“It’s not a bad thing,” YN found herself saying, “You can be quiet if you want. I can talk for the both of us.”

And just like that the smile was back and a best friendship was formed.

Jungkook and YN were best friends for over a decade. They saw each other every day at school and then saw each other some more during the evening when they hung out. They were inseparable, closer than two people could possibly be.

And it was heaven. Jungkook understood YN better than she understood herself. He supported her when even her parents were against her decisions. He was there for the bad days just as wholeheartedly as he showed up for the good ones. And of course, because he was Jungkook, the sweetest and kindest best friend, the years were incredibly kind to him. He bloomed like a rose, beautiful and eye catching and tempting to all who swarmed around him.

But he never abandoned YN. Because if Jungkook was a rose, YN was the moonlight watching over him. Sure, sunshine brings out the best in people, helps them shine the brightest, but the moon knows your deepest secrets. The moon watches over you with gentle reassurance and a knowing smile, a peaceful friend.

Jungkook’s life was perfect. Perfect, until his senior year of high school when he came home to find a giant beast lurking in his living room. Before he could scream, his mother came out form behind the beast, a gentle smile on her face.

“Get away from that thing, Mother!” Jungkook shouted, rushing towards her and hiding her small body behind his larger one.

“There’s no need to be afraid, darling,” his mother says, “He will do you no harm.”

“He? Mom, it’s a wolf! He could kill us!” Jungkook says, terrified.

“He’s also your father,” his mother says.

One simple sentence changed his life forever. That night, over a steaming hot cup of cocoa he didn’t touch once, his parents explained that Jungkook wasn’t human. They told him of the Moon’s curse and the way it passed from generation to generation, from father to son. They told him of the changes he would soon be experiencing and the role he was to play in this world he didn’t know existed.

“What do I tell YN?” he asked, mind reeling.

He wanted nothing more than to run to her and let her comfort him, tell him that his parents were crazy.

But he’d seen the beast transform into his father right before his eyes. As much as he wanted to, Jungkook knew that there was no way this was fiction.

“You can’t tell her,” his father says sadly, “I know the two of you are close, but that will have to stop. It’s too dangerous. We have to keep our secret to keep us all safe.”

“She wouldn’t tell anyone! I know she wouldn’t! You know she wouldn’t!”

His mother places a pitying hand over Jungkook’s tightening fist.

“YN is a very sweet girl. A very good girl. But she’s also human.”

“SO ARE YOU!” Jungkook roared out, standing up with a force strong enough to send his chair tumbling.”

“But I am your Father’s moon bound,” his mother continues, “The one the mood goddess chose to love him and help continue his legacy.”

“But I love her!” Jungkook insists, desperation beginning to take over.

He’s known YN nearly his whole life. She’s his best friend, the person he trusts more than anyone on the planet.

“You may feel that way now, son, but -” his father starts to say.

“I don’t want to hear it!” Jungkook screams.

“But the moon goddess knows what’s best for you. She will send you the one who is truly meant for you.”

“It’s YN, I know!” Jungkook says, “It has to be!”

“You will find out on your twentieth birthday. That is the day that your transformation will be complete. Until then you have to stay away from her.”

“No!” Jungkook says.

His emotions are all over the place. He’s scared and angry and confused and it swirls together into a violent storm in his brain.

“You could hurt her, Jungkook. These next two years are going to be difficult and dangerous. You never know when your body will change or when your mind will yield to the wolf’s call. You could end up killing her.”

That knocks the air out of his body. He’s never lay a hand on her, never.

“I-”

“That’s why you will be going to the University meant for Werewolves as soon as you graduate. It’s best if you just cut YN off now before anyone gets hurt.”

And that’s exactly what he did. Without a single word to her, Jungkook forcibly removed himself from YN’s life. He ignored her in school, blocked her number, and never answered her when she rang his doorbell. No matter how much she tried to talk to him, Jungkook rbushed YN off like she was an annoying fly, never so much as giving her an explanation.

It hurt. It hurt more than YN wanted to admit. She spent most nights her senior year crying herself to sleep, unaware that Jungkook’s newfound senses caused him to hear her pain. Her grades slipped, she lost weight, and that glimmering personality that she carried with her faded into nothingness.

It was like she was an entirely different person, the old her dead and gone right along with Jungkook’s friendship.

So when she graduated, YN wanted out. She refused to spend another moment thinking about Jungkook, glancing out her window into his with the feeble hope that his blinds would be open. She moved across the country, leaving her old persona behind her, lit with fire to become someone she would be proud to look into the mirror and see.

And she did. For once, YN was the flower, digging strong roots and blooming under the sunlight. The only thing she carried with her from her past was her fear of storms.

Right now, thunder booms loudly in her ears and she huddles under her sheets, trying her hardest to keep calm and breathe evenly. When a loud ring sounds through the air, YN startles, wondering what it is. When it comes again, she recognizes it as her doorbell.

Odd. She doesn’t usually get visitors this time of night. Still, YN goes to answer the door, bringing her blanket with her. It’s too dark for her to see out of the peephole, so YN unbolts the door and opens it fully.

For a moment, everything is black. Then lightning zooms across the sky and illuminates a face she never thought she’d see again.

“Jungkook?” YN asks, breathless.

Thunder booms again and she shrieks, only to be swept up into once familiar arms and ushered back into her home, the door slamming shut behind them.

“I missed you so much,” Jungkook says, his voice muffled by YN’s hair as he hugs her tightly, “So so much.”

“What are you doing here?” YN asks, uncomfortable, “How do you know where I live?”

Jungkook ignores her questions and pulls away to look at her face, caressing it.

“I love you so much. I’m so glad that it’s finally time for us to be together.”

YN rips herself away from him, growing scared.

“What are you talking about? Why are you even here? I don’t want to see you,” she hisses out.

The venom is minimized by the way she jumps when thunder sounds again.

“You don’t mean that. I know i have a lot of explaining to do but -”

“No,” YN says, “I tried to talk to you every day for an entire year. You don’t get to pop back into my life like this. Get out, Jungkook. I don’t want to see you.”

For a moment, all is silent. Jungkook’s face falls in the dim light. He looks so different now, bigger and more filled out. Gone is any trace of the little boy she used to play with.

“You’re going to see me,” he says, his voice completely devoid of any and all emotion, “I didn’t kill my moon bound for you to reject me, YN.”

A chill shoots down YN’s spine. She has no idea what he’s talking about, but she does know that he’s insane. YN grips her wet blanket close to her body, trying to figure out what to do. Maybe she can make a run for it?

Thunder booms again and YN shinks back, terrified.

“Please don’t hurt me,” she says, tears beginning to fall down her cheeks.

“I’d never hurt you, YN,” Jungkook says adoringly, “Never ever. I don’t care what the mood goddess says. I’ve always known you were mine. Why worship her when I have you?” he says, pulling her close once more and nuzzling into her neck.

YN feels something wet and warm glide along her skin and she freezes, stiff as a statue.

“Now why don’t I run you a bath and we get caught up, okay? It’ll be like I never left,” he says, pulling away.

Lightning illuminates the room and YN can see the blood caked onto his fingers and his teeth, much too sharp and much too bright. Jungkook catches her staring and nods innocently, having the gall to look ashamed.

“I should have cleaned up before I came, but I was so excited to see you! I’d kill anyone who tries to keep us apart. Now how about that bath?”

YN can do nothing but nod, looking at the boy she once loved and seeing nothing but a monster.

#nonnie #yandere bts #yandere jungkook #werewolf au #bts x reader #bts yandere #bts yandere au #yandere

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stevenbasic · 4 years ago

Photo

...so here we are.

”...you’re tripping me!”

“I am not tripping you…” I said, as I watched her quizzically examine her keycard, which she had just pulled from her purse as we stumbled down the fifth-floor hallway, towards her room, “you’re just...really drunk.”

“I am…” she said, voice suddenly serious, playfully so, “I really am…”

And then she laughed like a banshee...

”Melissa shhhhh…!” I hushed her - a few drinks deeper than I thought I’d be this evening myself and trying to keep from laughing, “people might be sleeping..!”

“Ppppsssfhh… “ she sputtered, slipping her keycard into the top of her dress and waving me off dismissively, strutting ahead of me several paces. I watched her totter on her huge heels, admiring the sway of her womanly hips even in her drunken state. “It was sooo fun tonight with the band,” she said, again entirely too loudly, raising her hands above her head, now starting to slowly writhe to her own music as she walked.

”You were certainly having a good time,” I commented, outright staring now at her ass as she rolled it lasciviously, dancing by herself. In her skintight dress her cheeks shook with their own breathtaking swagger, more aggressively wanton than anything she had done earlier, and now entirely for my benefit. She was just being playful, she was sloshes out of her mind, but the end result was earthshaking, jaw-dropping.

As she strutted, her swollen glutes slid up and down in syncopated rhythm stretching the material of her dress to the limit with every hit of the unheard bass. Three horizontal folds were now stretched across the apex of her butt, bunching the inadequate fabric with every surge and gyration of her deliciously voluptuous rear. I watched as her dress rode further up her thighs until she giggled, reached behind herself, and pulled the hem back down.

“Dr J were you looking at my butt when I was dancing tonight?” she asked, plainly.

“What?? When?!?” I stammered, remembering pointedly the times earlier when I’d been doing just that, “N-no..!”

“It’s really, really filled out recently,” she continued, all the while popping and gyrating her womanly hips to an unheard beat, causing her powerful looking glutes to bounce back into action. Oh god, they practically had their own gravitational pull and despite myself I still couldn’t look away. “I mean, look - itz a tank -” With that she shook her impressive glutes even more aggressively, in an earthquake of flesh and muscle, back and forth, back and forth, punctuating each swing of her hips with a “Boom, Boom, Boom!”

“M-Melissa..!” I implored, trying to laugh, and trying not to moan...or faint - she may have more muscle in that rear than I have in my whole body - “Someone might see!”

At that she laughed and turned back, eyes half-lidded, and stepped right up to me as she spoke up. ”Oh shusssh it’s jush us...” she chided, throwing her arms heavily around my neck and looking down at me with a sozzled twinkle in her eyes, “...shorty.”

She giggled.

I looked up at her. Christ, she was so tall: with her heels, six-six? More? I shuddered, immediately feeling so short, so small, eyes right at her collarbone, at the rings of her gaudy golden necklace. She tilted her chin up, making herself seem taller still, and peered down her nose at me.

I felt a sudden surge of her perfume overtake me.

“How’z the air down there?” she giggled, and played her fingers through my hair. I struggled, but suddenly felt myself unable to fight it: I glanced down into her breasts.

Fuck...me.

My heart pounding, I looked back up at her. I saw it in her eyes: her energy was wild, drunken, unpredictable. She seemed to be holding herself back on a short leash, albeit tenuously. If I was going to be the one to stop things, it should be now.

Or, well...soon.

“Here,” she slurred, as suddenly she reached behind herself, steadying her weight on my shoulder with her other hand. Half-struggling in her inebriation, she clumsily removed one shoe, then the other. She threw her arms again over my shoulders, big sparkly stripper-heel sandals dangling behind my head from her fingers. Now, with her barefoot, we were a little more face-to-face.

Who am I kidding?

“There we go…” she purred, still looking down into my eyes, “...that better?”

“s-s-sure…” I stammered. Truthfully, she was still a good five (or more..?) inches taller than me, but at least I felt less...dwarfed. Eyes at her chin, nearly her big, brightly-painted lips...which she pursed for me in a drunken air-kiss.

“Mwah!” she smooched...and then she did it again. She pursed her lips - slowly, more dramatically this time - into a big, glossy kiss, pausing, letting me look at it, and then smacked the air between us again. “Mwah! Mwah! Mwah!”

Then she cackled like a crazy lady.

She laughed, turned, and draped her left arm over my shoulders, her right around my middle. She glomped onto me, putting her - ooof - weight on me, and announced: “Now...where’s my room?”

“You’re so drunk, Melissa,” I replied, as I slowly began again to guide her down the hallway, acutely aware of the press of her big, soft breasts into the back of my right arm.

“It’ss your own fault...“ she slurred, “you an’ that...bartender, you wanted to get me drunk didn’t you? <giggle!>” She was stepping clumsily, feet entangled in mine.

“Oh my god am I going to have to carry you?" I joked, struggling to keep her upright, keep her from listing into the wall. Jesus she was heavy.

"haha yes!!" she laughed, suddenly putting both arms around my neck and leaning into me, putting her full body wei-

Aaahhhgh..!!

“Ohhhhahahaha!!” she laughed pulling me down. We fell right over, me careening into the wall on my left, both of us crumpling to the ground in an awkward heap, she on top of me.

“Melissa..!!”

Her laughter filled the hallway. “Am I that big??” she screeched, laughing again and, as she slowly started to extricate, to untangle her limbs from mine, she got to her knees, then to a crouch. She offered me a hand, as I was still righting myself. I took it and, as she began to stand, she told me “Looks like I should be the one carrying YOU!"

As soon as I got to my feet, I was swept off them.

"WHoOOAhhhh...!" I cried, as Melissa reached her right arm under my knees, her left supporting my back, and scooped me off the floor. Suddenly I was in her arms, cradled to her like a-

“Melissa!!” I exclaimed, shocked. How is she..?!?

“Hush now, mommys got you!” she laughed, hoisting me up a bit more, settling my frame in her arms, and setting off again in a walk. “You just shush and let her take you home!”

“Stop..!” I cried, at once both humiliated at my new situation - I was being carried like a child by my new Office Manager - and awestruck. How strong is this woman?!? “Melissa put me down!!”

“You’re so light!” she marveled, as she strode with shocking ease down the hall, bearing me with less effort than seemed possible, “How much do you weigh??”

“I, uh, I d-dunno…” I answered, finding myself flabbergasted into submission by this show of strength, “like...o-one fifty?” The power in her arms and the soft press of her chest into my right side had cowed me, and I was now passively letting her carry me, arms pinned helplessly. I looked down the hall, her door was approaching. We didn’t have far to go, and I coul-

”Omigod I outweigh you by almost forty pounds,” she crowed, “and...I just keep getting bigger…and bigger...and <hic!> bigger...<giggle!>”

I looked up at her, she down at me, her thick dark hair framing her face. That hiccup had shook my whole body. She was smiling, obviously amused at the whole situation, while I was thinking-

i’m still losing weight…

“Here we are, my roooooom…” she announced, coming to a halt and turning to the door, number 536. She made no effort to put me down, and merely held me (and her shoes, still) as she asked “Get my key for me?”

“Wh-wh…?” I stammered, confused, “Wh-where?”

“Riiight there,” she said, looking down at her chest which - squashed into my right arm and side - bulged up over her top. And held her keycard. It was tucked into the bodice of her dress. I could just see the tip of it, white edge peeking just shy of where it lay, slipped between the dress’ neckline and her right breast.

Oh no I c-can’t...

“It’s okay...they won’t bite,” she chuckled, and waited for my next move. She hoisted me again, settling me more firmly in her arms, and giggled at my dilemma - I was obviously too frozen by my meekness and modesty to just reach for her tits. “C’mon…” she urged, stifling a giggle, “you can do it…”

I pulled my left arm as free as I could and, heart racing, summoned my courage and gingerly reached for the card. Just as I did, she mischievously took a sudden deep breath, inflating herself up inside her soft, elastic dress just to make my task more difficult. Lord god I couldn’t help but goggle as her huge boobs bulged.. “Melissa…” I complained, hearing myself whine but unable to tear my eyes away. She only laughed at my plight and encouraged me again.

“Itz right there, sweetie…” she cooed, and finally I was able to pinch it, take hold of it without touching her skin, and slide it out while she giggled again at my dilemma. I held the card aloft and, as she crouched a bit for me, slid the card into the lock to unbolt the latch.

“Good boy!” she praised, managing with her right hand to grab the handle and push open the door. With me in her arms, she stepped into the room. “We’re home..!” she announced, as the door closed on its own behind us, with a portentous <thud>.

As she walked us in I saw that her room, of course, looked a lot like mine, just as a mirror image. A single king sized bed dominated the main space, a good-sized flat screen hung from the wall over a long set of drawers. A single chair with a small table sat in the corner, next to the floor-length shades, which had been drawn. The rooms here at the hotel were done in a modern-beachy style, if there is such a thing, sort of like the rest of the resort.

Currently, the lighting was dim, the covers pulled down and pillows arranged: touches from the staff that likely visited over the past few hours. Melissa walked us right up to the bed and, unceremoniously, dumped me onto it, head up near the pillows. I bounced a little on my back; the mattress was quite firm.

Immediately I started protesting. “I should go,” I said, starting to sit up but not moving from my position; Melissa had leaned over the bed, near my feet.

”No no no..! <hic> You need to relax..!”” she charged, as she grabbed one foot and began to pull my shoe from me.

“Uhh...M-Melissa..?” I queried, watching her as she dropped one shoe, and began working on the other, “I...I think I’d best-”

“Shhh, shhh….” she directed, yanking the second shoe off me, tossing it aside, “therrrrre….now you can’t tell me this doesn’t feel better…” She stood up, blew a lock of hair off her face, and-

Jumped on top of me!?!

“MELISSA!”

The bed shook, and she was laughing, as she’d just launched herself off her feet and fell onto the bed with me. I was knocked back as she’d landed at my right side, her arms straddling me, and she immediately fell down, her head hitting my chest, resting itself up near my shoulder.

“Let’s snuggle…” she cooed, purring and clucking, her nose nuzzling into my neck. She was drunk, sooooo drunk; she would of course never be this physically affectionate normally. This was beyond the pale.

“M-M-Melissa…” I began, trying to mount a defense but with the soft press of her body against mine: the face nestling into me, the strong arms around my thin chest, the big breasts squashed into my side and now a huge, long leg draped across my hips...she had me not only immobile but struck helpless. My heart raced. This was too dangerous, too much, but I was paralyzed by my own weakness, unable to move a muscle.

“MMMmmmm thisss feels so nice....” she purred, smacking her lips and rubbing her nose up my throat, “just the two of us, together, finally. I’m so happy…”

Good god I can’t let this happen, I can’t, I thought, the repercussions of infidelity storming through my brain, but being drowned out themselves by the temptations of Melissa’s body, the scent of her hair, the thought, the idea, the possibility of her peeling that dress down and-

Oh my god, what’s happening…? Her leg had found its way on top of me and was moving towards - jesus, I was hard. If that knee or thigh came to- Stop it! I told myself, Stop!

I shifted myself, turning my hips away from her, trying to avoid her leg. She moved, up my body a bit, her leg rubbing against me, still trying to find purchase, find something. She’s doing this on purpose… Jesus just the thought of that drove me harder, swelling me up towards my belly. I can’t let her feel...

In a show of resolve I didn’t know I had, I turned more, away from her to my left, flipping myself onto my left side. to shield myself. I faced away from her, bit my lower lip. My eyes were watering with the effort.

I heard her whine behind me - “awwww…” - but then, undaunted, she cuddled up closer, squashing her big, soft breasts into my back and spooning me. She raised herself up just enough to whisper directly into my left ear.

“Remem...ember when we did the pictures…? On the beach..?” she breathed, her voice so close, filling my head and making my loins clench.

I tried to keep from moaning, and was able to stutter back. “Y-yeah, like...three d-days ago..?” I was obviously aroused, she must have known that. In her drunkenness, she either didn’t care or just found this incredibly amusing.

”Did you have funnnn?” she asked, still purring into my ear. The buzz of her sozzled voice was thrilling, so intimate, and again I nearly groaned.

“y-yeah I did….” I replied, thinking I should just stay quiet, thinking that - if I just waited here, immobile, quietly - maybe she would slowly fall asleep, pass out. But...god help me, I didn’t. Instead, I kept talking. “...I can’t believe how much...different you look, now, compared to back then…” fuck what am I doing…?

“You mean my boobs are bigger?” she said plainly, voice popping in my ear. I could hear her smile, and felt her nose nuzzle my hair.

Again - only because she was drunk, I continued. “W-well...y-y-yes…”

”You’re right,” she purred, so drunk, “They’re soooooooo much bigger. I was maybe a triple-D back then, or an E or something...I dunno….but now I’m…”

Her voice trailed off...but she was still breathing into my ear. Almost imperceptibly, I felt her press her breasts into my shoulders.

“Y-y-you’re w-what…?” I peeped. I couldn’t believe I was asking this.

”Omigod I don’ even know…” she giggled, “an H? Like an H-cup now? But even those, my new ones….they’re sooo tight now…”

“R-r-really..?” I asked, sounding entirely too curious, too eager.

She paused.

”Soooo Dr J…” she began again, “while we were doing the pictures...how you had to keep going into the water? Was that because you kept getting a bonerrrr..?”

“What???” I exclaimed, shocked, “Melissa!!!”

“Well...was it??” she giggled, relentless and pressing in closer.

“Melissa! No!!!” yes.

“Oh c’mon...it’s okay..!” she laughed, starting to sit up a little behind me, “I know it’s hard to hide. Randi told me…”

“Randi told you what??” Oh my god this is a nightmare!

”How...y’know...big you are <giggle!>” she pressed, pausing, looking down at me, “So...how big are you?”

”MELISSA!!!”

“C’mon, tell me!” she cried, playfully, sitting up more and putting her hands on my hip to start to pull them tow-

Abruptly, defensively, I turned onto my stomach, facing the headboard and biting my lip again. I heard her sign in amused frustration.

“Melissa I can’t-”

”Oh shush...we’re frien’s, right?” she persisted, slumping herself again down next to me, “And it’s juss us here…” She put her mouth right next to my ear again, and bit my lobe impishly.

”Melissa this is so i-inappr-“

”....And I just told you how big I was...creepy guys are constantly asking my, like, bra size,” she continued, unvexed, her voice slurring, perceptibly slowing down, “I’ll tell you anythingg. That my waist is twenty-two inches, my hips are thirty-eight. I’m six-one, a hundred and eighty...eight..poundsss...”

Jesus christ. I had to fight to keep myself from rutting my now fully stiff shaft into the mattress, dry humping the bed.

“So, c’mon...you tell me now....how big is it?” Her voice was getting more sleepy.

”oh my god…”

”I know...you, you’re such a gentleman…” she drawled, “I mean I was so drunk tonight you could have totally taken advantage of me...you’re such a good...husband...”

With a pause, as I lay there on my belly tense and stock-stiff, she paused, drunkenly switching gears.

“I’m sorry your wife is so mean...” she whispered, “I’m sorry she’s...the way she is...to you…”

I lay frozen.

"If you were myyy husband I'd…well, I’d be differenttt..”

She was slurring.

“You wouldn have to work so hhard...”

I shuddered as she...oh christ...started kissing my ear, tenderly, gently. God help me I didn’t back away.

“I wouldn' let you lift a finger..."

Oh my god, Melissa...Melissa...

"...and I'd have a million babies for you."

That did it. “M-Melissa…” I whispered, as I turned to her with my lips…

She had passed out.

============================

BIG help from Doubleburger, vman2000, kjm7997 and Antares. And apologies that - tho I did the morph myself on the first image - I don’t know who did the original morph in the second. Plz advise!

#Growing Into the Job

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skiller0dani · 5 years ago

Text

Briefly Mine | Timothee Chalamet

M A S T E R L I S T

smut | vampire au

part 2

requests info

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doesn’t he look like such a daddy in that gif? 🤤

He’d moved in across the street nearly 3 weeks ago and neither you nor your sister had seen him leave the house once. The mysterious man across the street with a head of curly hair and eyes that were shrouded in darkness. You watched the house from out your bedroom window, the house sat a little ways up on a hill, surrounded by trees. He’d arrived late at night, wearing a dress shirt and tail coat- he dressed like he was from a different time. Even though you were sitting safely in your bedroom across the street, he turned and his eyes landed on you. Through the black of night, and the darkness of your bedroom his eyes landed right on you. You feel shudders running down your spine. You continued to search his house for any signs of movement, but not even the lights were on. The windows were dark, the door was always closed and he never leaves. You curiosity was eating you alive, you want to know what’s he’s up to in that big house.

You sit at your bench window, a book you’re not reading perched in your lap as your eyes stay trained on the house across the street. Your sister always tells you that you’re too obsessed with the “creepy Hannibal Lecter’ that lives across the street. But you wouldn’t label this as an obsession you’re just...concerned. About your new neighbor. Who is ridiculously hot. And mysterious. You wrap a blanket around your shoulders as you see a shadow pass in front of one of the windows upstairs. “You should go to bed.” You hear a voice behind you and you squeal, jumping in your skin as you whirl around. Your heart is absolutely hammering against your chest as your eyes land on your Dad. “Dad what the hell, you scared the crap out of me!” You exclaim, a hand over your chest. Your Dad says nothing as he walks over to the window and yanks your curtains shut. “Go to bed, and stay away from him.” He orders, giving you a stern stare before turning out of your bedroom and closing the door behind him.

You focus towards your curtains and take another peek, the house is still and looks empty. You can’t get the intensity in your Dad’s eyes or the gravely serious look on his face before he left your room. Does he know who that guy is? He certainly doesn’t seem to trust him, but as far as you’re concerned they’ve never met. Days pass in a blur, and you still sit at your bench window every night, observing the strange house across the street. Watching as nobody ever enters the house, or leaves it. Your eyes flicker to the overflowing mailbox of letters and you stand from your bench before heading to the door. You’re only being a nice neighbor and bringing him his mail. But when you reach for your door handle, it doesn’t turn. What the hell? Did your Dad lock the door? You turn back to your window before sliding it open and dropping onto the patio roof located perfectly in front of your bedroom window.

As you make your way across the street, you feel your heart begin to pound in your chest as the house looms above you. Your palms tremble when your fingers secure a grip around the big stack of letters before heading up the driveway. Your hand is incredibly shaky as you knock against the wood, and you hear nothing but silence from the other side. You chew on the inside of your cheek nervously, he’s probably not going to answer. From within the house Timothee digs his nails into the wood of his dining table, your blood calls to him. You smell so good, he could smell you before you even crossed the street- living right across from someone who smells so delicious is a special kind of torture he did not prepare for. He can hear your heart pounding furiously in your chest, your nervous breaths growing louder. Timothee feels an aching in his gums and he squeezes his eyes shut to will his fangs to retract. But when his eyes snap open, they’re shining an emerald green and his fangs have fully extended as he turns for the door.

Just as you begin to turn away you hear the lock on the inside of the door unbolt. You bite your lip nervously as the door is slowly pulled open to reveal easily the most attractive man you’ve ever seen. His eyes lock on yours and he looks perfectly collected as he stands behind the door. Upon seeing you, his fangs sink back up into his gums but he can still hear your blood pulsing in your veins. His curly hair is pushed back, with only one stray curl falling over his forehead. “Y-You didn’t get your mail...” You say nervously, stumbling over your words. You hold the mail out to him, and he gently takes it from you. When his fingers accidentally brush against you, you nearly jerk back from how icy cold his skin is. His skin is pale, it lacks the natural rosy color that skin normally has. If you didn’t know better, you’d say his skin lacks life. “Thank you.” He says, his voice smooth like honey and for a moment you just stand there and bathe in it. You want to say more but your voice gets caught in your throat as you look up into his green eyes. While he looks youthful in his face, his eyes look wise. Like they’ve seen more than his skin has, like they’ve witnessed more than the years he’s been alive.

His eyes suddenly snap behind you and in an instant he’s grabbing you and pulling you into his house before swinging the door shut. You feel panic shoot through you as the door swings shut as you press your back against the door. “Your Father.” He explains in a calm voice and you nod slowly, still feeling fear coursing in your veins. Your breathing slows as you stare up at him, “do you know my Dad?” You ask him and he takes a step away from you. Touching you nearly sent him over the edge, he hasn’t fed in too long. But you make it impossible for him to leave his house, he grows intoxicated by your scent. You look so much like her, it leaves him breathless every single time he looks at you. But not even her scent was as delectable as yours, as luring, you are a Vampire’s biggest weakness. Your scent was potent, and your blood would be sugary sweet he’s sure of it. If he were to sink his fangs into you, he would drink your blood right down to the bone. He hates hurting people. “No.” He says simply, his eyes staying firmly off of you.

“I’m Y/N,” You smile, but get no smile in return. You simply receive a curt nod as his hands fold behind his back, his palms are twitching. He’s not sure how much longer he can stay composed in your presence. “If your Father has returned inside, you can see yourself out.” He says, turning on his heel to disappear around the corner and as far from you as he can get in this house. “You’re not going to tell me your name?” You call after him just before he disappears from sight. He pauses, looking to be facing inner turmoil as he turns his head to look at you. “Timothee.” He says simply before continuing his coarse. Timothee. You smile to yourself, that name suits him incredibly well. Timothee collapses against his bedroom door, he shouldn’t have let you in- your scent is everywhere. It surrounds him again, like a blanket it smothers his senses. He reaches into a cooler he has in his room before quickly opening the lid of a jar, which has blood in it. It’s cows blood, it’s disgusting but it does satiate the thirst. He drinks it greedily and slowly feels the agonizing thrumming of his senses easing. He doesn’t hear the door close, have you not left yet. Timothee inhales deeply, and sure enough your sweet fresh scent fills his nose once more.

He returns down the stairs and sees you peering out the peep hole. “Why are you still here?” He asks and you turn to look at him, your eyes tracing over every detail of his perfectly smooth and blemish free face. “My Dad knows I left my room, I can see my bedroom light on.” You say sheepishly, you feel incredibly stupid at how overprotective your Dad is. He makes you feel like a child. His eyes stay on yours for a moment before Timothee is tearing his gaze away from yours. “He does not know you are here I take it?” He questions, that stupid perfect curl hanging on his forehead looks so soft. You want to run your fingers through his dark curls so badly. “He’d be furious. He specifically told me to stay away from you.” You admit and that doesn’t surprise Timothee in the slightest. Your Father is more well educated about the world than you are, he knows of the monsters and the shadows that wake in the night. Timothee really should have been more careful before carelessly moving into a house across the street from a hunter.

“So then, why are you here?” Timothee asks, raising a brow as his eyes study you. You freeze under his questioning gaze as you stay planted firmly in front of the door. “You didn’t get your mail...” You say unconvincingly with a blush on your face. Timothee has a small smile on his face as he watches you from a safe distance. “You disobeyed your Father, and risked making him furious with you just so you could bring me my mail?” He asks and you blush harder. All you can do is nod as you continue looking into his mesmerizing eyes. Timothee doesn’t know what to make of you, he is however concerned for your safety. Curiosity can lead to danger. If Timothee were a complete monster like some of his Vampire Brethren, he would have drank you dry and dumped your body by now. He tries not to hurt people however, but your curiosity may certainly lead you into trouble. “Curiosity can be quite dangerous,” He comments off hand as you check out the peep hole again. Your Dad tells you the same thing, but he can be really overbearing. “We all live to die someday anyway, what’s the point in not seeking out answers when you don’t understand something.” You reply and he pauses. Not everything that walks this Earth lives to die.

“Come with me.” Timothee says and turns, leading towards a back door of the house. He opens it and steps outside, and you follow him around the back of the house towards the far end of the street. You slowly slink to the fence of your yard and he holds out his hand, stopping you when you go to walk again. To the left of the spot you’ve ducked in, you see shadows pass in front of your living room window. Timothee keeps his hand out as his eyes stay trained on the window, and for some reason that you don’t understand- you feel safe with him. He doesn’t know why he’s doing this, being around so many humans is usually far too tempting for him. You don’t realize the danger you’re in, Timothee is sure your Father loves you but if you discovered the existence of Vampires? He fears what your Father would do then. Once Timothee hears them move away from the window the two of you slink under it towards the gate going to your backyard where the patio roof is, just beneath your window.

You feel adrenaline coursing through you as you follow him to the roof, where you can still see your window slightly open. Timothee approaches the patio and hauls himself on top of the roof before reaching an arm down to you. You take his hand and he lifts you onto the roof with ease, and your eyes widen in surprise. He’s a lot stronger than he looks. You can’t shake how the icy feel of his skin sinks to your bone, why is he always so cold? You reach for your window but Timothee grabs you and yanks you to the side, out of view just as your Dad slams into your bedroom again. Your Mom follows shortly after, “just relax she’s fine-” She starts but your Dad whirls around to look at her. “Fine? If she’s over at that damn blood suckers house, she could be dead already!” Your Dad exclaims in exasperation. Blood sucker? You glance over your shoulder at Timothee, who has an almost sad expression on his face. His eyes flicker down to meet yours and his pupils dilate before he pulls his gaze from yours.

Once you’re stood safely in your room again, Timothee turns to leave when you hear footsteps down the hallway. Before the door opens, TImothee slides into your closet, pressing his back to the wall as the door flies open against the wall. “Where the hell were you?” Your Dad snaps as he glares down at you, you’ve never seen him this angry before. “I went for a walk! I would have gone out the front but you locked me in my damn room like a prisoner.” You snap, and he releases a breath before stepping towards you. His eyes scan over your body, focusing on your neck and wrists. “Did you go see him?” He asks in a low voice and your eyebrows raise. Your Dad glares down at you and you feel your heart race, “no I didn’t see anybody.” You say softly, looking fearfully up into your Dad’s eyes. Your Dad’s serious expression drops as he gently presses a kiss to your head before turning to leave the room. “Good, stay away from him. I mean it.”

When he shuts the door you release a breath you didn’t know you were holding as Timothee emerges from his hiding spot. “Why doesn’t my Dad want me around you?” You ask him as soon as you hear the footsteps down the stairs. Timothee remains silent as he moves towards your window, “please answer me.” You plead softly as his hands lift the window up further. He pauses before glancing over his shoulder and the sight you see steals the breath right from your lungs. His eyes are glowing a neon emerald color and his canine teeth have grown twice their normal length. “Because I’m different. Don’t seek me out again.” He warns before he’s out the window.

The following weeks, Timothee plagued your every thought, both waking and sleeping. You felt like you’d been thrusted into some crappy Twilight fanfiction, because seriously? Vampires? There was something about him, something that kept you wanting more. You wanted to be near him all the time, being around him made you feel alive. You thought of his beautiful eyes piercing through yours as he pushed into you, or those pink lips pressing against your inner thighs. You thought of all the wonderfully dirty things he’d say to you with that smooth voice of his, the way he would use his words to coax you to an orgasm. You spent many nights with your hand down the front of your shorts, picturing his fingers inside you instead of your own. You threw your head back into your pillow, your fingers pushing inside you as you closed your eyes and pictured his head between your thighs. You wondered if he’d be a delicate lover? Full of romance and passion? Or a rough lover? Full of anger and pent up tension? You bit your lip to silence yourself when you began thumbing your clit.

Timothee’s fists curled in on themselves as he took steady breathes to calm his heart rate. It’s time like this that he really curses his heightened senses because right now he can hear your soft groans of his name, and he can smell your arousal. “Fuck Timothee,” He can hear you whimpering under your breath, begging for him- for his cock. He can barely take anymore. Timothee licks his lips as his mouth waters for your blood and your cum. His hard on presses against his jeans tightly and he reaches down to gently palm himself to attempt and relieve some of the tension. He’s so hard it’s actually beginning to ache. He so desperately wants those whimpers of pleasure coming from your lips to be his doing. He wants to hear you cry out his name and drag your nails down his back. Never has his desire for a human being been so strong before he met you. “Fuck,” Timothee groans under his breath as he listens to you cum around your fingers. He can hear your soft panting, he can smell the heavy sweet scent of your arousal, he can practically feel your heart racing. Timothee listens to the sound of your bed squeaking as you stand, and he hears the taps of your fingers against your phone screen. “I need to cum around a cock so badly, hopefully Evan is still up.” He hears you mutter to yourself and Timothee is launching up from his bed in a second.

You scroll through your phone to find Evan’s contact when you hear a gentle tapping against your bedroom window. When you pull the curtains open, the sight of Timothee standing by your window, breathing heavily surprises you. You open your window and as soon as you do, he’s got you pushed up against the wall. “Gonna call Evan huh? Wanna cum around his cock instead of mine?” He husks in your ear, and suddenly it feels like your entire body is on fire. Your phone slips from your hand and lands against the floor with a thud as Timothee traps your hands above your head. “Driving me fucking crazy, every single night I have to sit there and act like I don’t hear you begging for me.” Timothee groans, grinding his crotch up into yours. Up until this point he’s done his absolute best to stay away from you, who he is, the lifestyle he leads, it’s too dangerous for you. Humans who get close to him all end up the same way: as nothing more than blood and bones. “Y-You can hear me?” You whisper, breathless. Timothee’s lips brush over your ear as his hands still hold your arms above your head. “I can hear everything. I can smell your arousal, so wet on your thighs for me.” He growls, an animalistic tone in is voice.

“Don’t you know how dangerous it is for you to get close to someone like me? For you to want someone like me?” Timothee breathes into your ear, his voice serious and strained as he desperately tries to hold himself back. “What’s life without a little risk?” You challenge, looking into his eyes when he pulls his head back to look at you. Your eyes lock for a few torturous minutes before he slowly releases you. “This isn’t the fun kind of risk Y/N, this is the kind of risk that could get you killed.” He says, turning to face away from you. You approach him from behind, reaching up to place a hand on his shoulder. “Not if you make me like you.” You whisper and he turns, a look of pure fear in his eyes as he lets what you said sink in. “No, absolutely not! You don’t want this, you don’t want me. You don’t know me Y/N,” He stammers, the panic in his eyes building. You cock an eyebrow as you sit back on your bed. “I don’t want you? I’m pretty sure you can still smell how wet I am Timothee.” You purr, your voice sultry as you gaze up at him.

Timothee’s pupils blow wide open when you spread your thighs, and move your tiny little sleep shorts to the side- revealing your soaked pussy. “I don’t want to hurt you. Once I start, I don’t know if I can stop.” Timothee chokes out, using what’s left of his self control to hold himself back. Your fingers move to your clit, so swollen and practically begging for attention. You begin to rub small circles into your clit as you look him in the eyes, “if you didn’t want this, you wouldn’t have come over here. And if I thought I couldn’t handle it, then I wouldn’t have been moaning your name.” You whisper, a whine escaping your mouth after you finish speaking. Timothee hovers over you, pushing your back into the mattress as his wild eyes bore into yours. “I’ll only do this under one condition; you never ask to be turned again.” He says, and you can tell he’s serious about this. Your hands slide up his chest and grip his shoulders, “I won’t.” You promise and that’s all he needs before his lips are pressed against yours with a bruising force. His hips grind down into yours and you moan into his mouth.

“Now you’re gonna have to be really quiet baby mkay? Wouldn’t want Daddy to catch us.” He says, his eyes looking down into yours. Your core heats up as you nod, biting your lip. “Yes Daddy.” You smile when you hear his soft groan at the name. But he raises a brow at you, “he’s not Daddy, you are.” You whisper against his lips. Timothee’s hand slides under your shorts as he ghosts his fingers over your lips, “you’re goddamn right I am.” He growls as his lips press against your collarbones. He can hear your heartbeat under your skin and can feel your pulse on his lips but he focuses on his hard cock to control the blood lust. You whine softly as you try to grind your hips against his hand, but every time you move Timothee moves his hand away. Finally you stop moving and wait impatiently for him to touch you while your pulse pounds in your core. Finally he slides 2 fingers inside you and a cry begins to leave your lips before his hand presses over your mouth. “You have to be quieter than that baby, don’t make me gag you.” Timothee threatens in a low voice, but the thought of him fucking you while you’re gagged causes you to moan softly against his hand. Timothee begins to slowly finger you, and you whine in annoyance against his hand.

He keeps his hand over your mouth as he slowly picks up his pace, and he feels his lust rising. Timothee knows his eyes are glowing as he watches you come apart at his touch, and right as you near cumming he slows his pace again, fingering you agonizingly slowly. Tears of frustration from the denied orgasms spring in your eyes as you begin to wriggle underneath him. The slow teasing touches and edging is making you throb, you can’t take anymore. When Timothee removes his hand from your mouth he replaces it with his mouth as he begins to finger you at a quick pace. You begin to pant into his mouth as your body arches up into him, and you feel the heat building and building in your stomach. You feel yourself on the edge of cumming and your arms wrap around his shoulder, and as you begin to fear Timothee will edge you again, he keeps thrusting his fingers into you, watching as you cum underneath him and gush around his fingers. He gently fingers you through your orgasm before pulling you up to your knees on the mattress. You’re panting when he desperately pushes you to the ground on your knees and you immediately begin scrambling to unbuckle his belt.

You yank his pants and boxers down and you hear him hiss in relief as his cock springs free. Timothee winds his hand through your hair and pulls your mouth on his cock, forcing your head down until his tip pushes against the back of your throat. You relax your jaw as he begins to thrust into your mouth, using you only for his pleasure- which you are totally okay with. You see his emerald eyes glowing brighter as you reach down to cup his balls. You love watching him lose control, it’s easily the sexiest thing you’ve ever had the privileged to witness. “Fuck, you suck my cock so good baby.” He groans softly as he continues to thrust harshly into your throat. Saliva drools down your chin and tears run down your face, and he loves seeing you like this. On your knees crying from his cock down your throat. When Timothee feels tingles going down his cock he pulls you off him, he can’t cum in your mouth he needs to cum inside you.

He immediately pulls you up and rips your shorts from your body as he bends you over the bed. When the head of his cock presses into you, you stop him. “Condom?” You ask breathless and he chuckles. “Baby, technically I’m dead. I can’t get anybody pregnant.” He growls before sliding into you. You cry out against the mattress as you feel yourself stretch around him. “I thought I said you needed to be quiet hm?” Timothee says, and you hear a tearing sound. “M’sorry Daddy.” You whimper moments before he’s tying a piece of torn t-shirt around your mouth. “Now I have to gag you because you didn’t listen.” Timothee growls before he begins to pound into you, and you feel a sharp sting every time his pelvis hits yours. Your moans and cries of pleasure are muffled by the makeshift gag as your fingers curl around your bed sheets. You hang on as he continues to slam into you, being pushed up roughly against the bed. “God baby you feel so good around my cock, so fuckin’ tight.” Timothee groans as he reaches down to flip you over, your legs immediately wrapping around his waist. “Evan could never,” he snaps his hips into you, “ever,” he slams against you again, “fuck you like this.” Timothee groans, his thumb moving down to press against your clit.

Your hands reach up to grab at his shoulders and wind around him, holding him tightly to you. Timothee continues you thrust into you, and when he feels you begin to squeeze around him he knows you’re close to cumming. You sob against the gag, the pleasure coursing through you beginning to overwhelm you. When Timothee presses down hard on your clit and slams into your g-spot, you’re exploding around his cock. Your head is thrown back as you nearly black out, you’re so fucked out you almost miss him coming in hot spurts inside you. Slowly, Timothee reaches down to pull the gag over your head and you both sit there and regain your breathing. He stays inside you as his cock softens, and you pull him down to sweetly kiss him on the lips. He presses his forehead against yours as he slides out of you, reaching down to find his pants. “Are you leaving?” You ask, the pain in your voice unmissable. Seeing the hurt look on your face, he gives in and slides into bed beside you. “i don’t really sleep yknow.” He informs you and you roll your eyes and you place your head on his chest. “That’s okay, I do. So please just hold me until I fall asleep?” You ask him with pleading eyes and he nods, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

After your breathing evens out, Timothee gently pries you off of him before reaching to find a pen and paper. He scribbles down a short message before leaving it on your nightstand. He finishes getting dressed before disappearing out your window. Timothee doesn’t want to do this, he really doesn’t but it’s not safe for you to be around him. Sooner or later your Dad will find out, and he’ll either lock you away somewhere, or kill Timothee. He knows you care about him, and he wouldn’t want to put you through the pain of watching him die. It’s just better if he leaves town, start over somewhere new. To keep you safe, and he can only pray that when you wake up...you’ll understand.

When the sun rises the next morning, you didn’t expect Timothee to still be laying beside you. Because your Dad would probably try to drive a wooden stake through his heart. You roll over to where he previously was laying when a little white piece of paper catches your eye. You grab it, with a smile on your face but that smile quickly fades.

Y/N,

By the time you read this I will have already left town. Being near me will hurt you, and I couldn’t live with myself if anything happened to you. I will never forget the night we shared, and I know I’ll never forget you. You made me feel alive again.

Always Yours,

-T.C.

Tears wet your cheeks as you desperately clutch the piece of paper in your hands. You scramble out of bed and throw clothes on before you’re rushing down your stairs and out the front door. The house looks as vacant as it always does, so you hope against hope that maybe he was just lying to keep you safe. Maybe he was still there, maybe he didn’t leave. You pound your fist against the door, not even caring if your Dad catches you. “Timothee!” You cry out, continuing to knock on the door. When you don’t receive an answer you scramble to the back door, and reach down under a rock for a spare key. Much to your delight, you actually find one and quickly throw open the door. “Timothee!” You call out again, your heart sinking in your chest as silence is the only response you receive. You rush up the stairs and throw open his bedroom door, to find his room empty. You begin looking in his dresser drawers, all empty. You look in his closet, which is also empty. You collapse on the bed, tears wetting your cheeks when you spot another paper.

Y/N

I figured you’d probably come here looking for me, and yes I really am gone. Don’t try to find me, I’ve been in hiding for centuries. I’m good at it, and trust me when I say it’s better this way. I can live happy, knowing you’re safe- you should try to do the same. Thank you for being briefly mine, as I will be forever yours.

Goodbye sweetheart.

T.C.

You hold it to your chest and cry, you know he won’t come back. You want to believe it’s better this way, but how could this be better when you hurt so much? You lay down on his bed, tears wetting the comforter as you try to hold on to those notes, they’re all you have left of him.

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