#that anecdote of them breaking their phone screens at the same time is such a fave for me sdjfs loved to finally gif it <33 | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

cobaincreates · 4 years ago

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body count

warnings: language, jealous rafe ;) & uh smut 18+

count: 3k+

hiiiii!! not my gif! bye!!!!

songs (that you’re not prepared for :)) (also crank them at full volume otherwise you won’t get the full effect) — keep lying & metal man by donna missal

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body count never mattered to you. in fact, whoever created the notion that body counts were important or a need-to-know fact could shove it. you always felt that it was degrading and a useless piece of information. what did anyone gain from acquiring that knowledge? sure, it was smart to keep track for hygiene reasons, but not for social reasons, or for future relationships.

so when rafe posed the question, you couldn’t help but scrunch your face up in discomfort. he was curious and you understood that, especially at this stage. you had only been dating for a couple months and it had been great so far with a handful of late night dates and mid-afternoon rendezvous’ in between classes. you rarely became nervous around him anymore, but you couldn’t push away that uneasy feeling at the current topic.

“can i guess?” he asked, looking at you under his baseball cap.

tonight, rafe had taken you out for ice cream only a couple miles from campus. he had picked you up in his car, even clearing the front seat off that usually held a stack of papers ranging from returned tests to scribbled notes. he brought you to a small hole-in-the-wall restaurant and ordered a brownie sundae right off the bat. he knew what you liked.

“are you going to be rude about it?” you countered as you scooped up a generous amount of brownie and vanilla ice cream.

“are you implying that there’s a lot?” he eyed you, stopping mid-scoop.

you chewed what was in your mouth, the ice cream cold against your teeth. you hid your mouth behind your hand so you could answer him. “don’t be so shocked. i’ve had my fair share of hookups.”

rafe couldn’t help the broad smile as he ate. “but you’re so innocent-looking.”

“oh, please.” you groaned.

there was a pause as rafe continued to smile to himself. you took another bite, knowing that the conversation was far from over. if rafe wanted to know something, he would eventually get the answer.

he stared at you from across the table while you spent several moments looking around the diner. you weren’t trying to prolong the answer you were going to give him, in fact you knew you didn’t have to prolong it because it wasn’t a big deal. you supposed you were just stubborn since you didn’t like the topic anyway.

“what?” you asked rafe when you found his eyes still on you.

“how many hookups have you had?” he asked, some sort of amusement in his eyes.

“does it really matter?”

“is it more than one hand?”

“now i don’t want to tell you.” you laughed lightly as you leaned over the table, dipping your spoon back into the dish.

“i’m just curious.” he shrugged.

biting the inside of your lip, you looked at him under your lashes. you weren’t sure why you were giving in, but you set your spoon down and held your hands up. you showed him with your fingers how many people you had been with intimately, including relationships. rafe’s smile seemed to falter just a bit.

“not so innocent anymore, huh?”

you could see the tiny sliver of disappointment as he tried to pull the smile back on. without commenting, he picked up his spoon.

“who’s the best you ever had?”

you knew he was just being curious, or nosy, but you could also tell that he was asking because he was jealous. you saw it in the way his gaze changed, how he couldn’t fully look at you anymore. his shoulders seemed tense.

you already had an answer in your head, but you didn’t dare say it out loud. you knew for a fact that he wouldn’t like it. you took a sip of your drink as if you were thinking about it. looking around the restaurant again, you focused on the waiter at the register and the smell of fried food filling the room.

“just some guy.” you shrugged, your shirt falling off your shoulder. the cool air meeting your skin calmed the thoughts brewing in your mind so you didn’t bother fixing it.

“do i know him?”

you bit down on your straw and locked eyes with him. this could go two ways, you told yourself. either you could tell him the truth or you could lie and hope it would end the conversation. but you had gotten off to such a good start with him and there was no need to ruin it now. if he wasn’t staring at you as closely, you would’ve buried your head into your hands.

you weren’t even close to answering him when a body appeared beside your table. “hey guys!”

your stomach dropped. now you had to will yourself not to bury your face into your hands. both you and rafe looked away from one another to the soft-smiling face of his best friend, topper. what a coincidence. rafe looked back to you without your notice, hoping you wouldn’t forget about your conversation.

“hey, top.” you said in a deep breath, praying your voice didn’t shake. honestly, you couldn’t tell with the blood pumping in your ears. “you getting food?”

“yeah, just needed a break from studying for finley’s exam. you ready for that?” topper lowered his head, looking down at you.

rafe watched the two of you for a moment, letting go of his spoon and sitting back in his chair unbeknownst to you. you were too uncomfortable to look in his direction, which he surely took note of.

“maybe?” you shrugged a shoulder and leaned your cheek in your palm propped on the table. yes, you had most definitely been trying to separate yourself from rafe’s eyes. “i did some studying earlier, but i definitely need to do more. i can’t get past the moral error theory, i think i’ve re-read it about seven times.”

rafe’s eyebrows furrowed, wanting so badly to interject in the conversation with his own anecdotes. he let his jaw slack slightly, leaning back onto the table as he shifted in his seat.

“i don’t blame you. finley seems like a madman with a whole exam covering five completely different things.” topper said.

you laughed, mostly out of awkwardness. you glanced at rafe then and felt your laughter quickly dwindle. he had set his elbows on the table, his clasped hands propped against his mouth. you looked away when the dark eyes under his hat latched to yours. your stomach dropped and if you weren’t careful it felt like it was going to fall apart completely. topper continued your conversation for another minute, but you had no idea what he was saying. you didn’t register it as you could only think about rafe and question everything. did you say something wrong? were you too friendly with topper? did he know?

“i’ll see you guys later.” topper backed away to the cash register then, leaving the two of you alone. you averted your eyes to your spoon sitting in the dish in the middle of the table. you suddenly had the urge to eat the rest of it.

“there’s a little brownie left. you want it?” you pushed the small piece closer to rafe in the dish. your voice felt quiet, but you knew he heard you.

“no, i’m good.” he said and sat back, dropping his hands to his lap. you peered at him under your lashes again as you popped the brownie into your mouth. the sugar didn’t make you feel any more at ease as you chewed.

rafe dug out his wallet and placed his card on the edge of the table for whenever the waiter came over. you sipped the rest of your drink, not knowing what to say. you wanted to pick up where you left off in your conversation, but you weren’t sure how to go about it. so instead you bit the inside of your lip as rafe took his phone out and tapped his fingers along the screen.

“all done? can i get you two anything else?” the waiter asked as they took the dish and spoons off the table. both you and rafe looked up at them at the same time. you shook your head while rafe said no, he held his card out to them then dropped his gaze back down to his lap. you looked at the hat on his head, wanting so badly to reach over and take it off.

rafe was kind of his usual self as you left the restaurant. he held the door open for you and walked along your side to the car, but he was completely quiet and he didn’t touch you. he was all for physical touch, either an arm around your waist or his hand holding yours. you itched for it as you parted ways around the car and got in.

you stole glances at him as he drove. his hat seemed lower over his face as if he were hiding. was he relaxed or defeated as he rested against the seat? at the next green light, he went straight instead of turning left. you figured he just wanted you to come over to his apartment instead of ending the night earlier than usual. you also speculated that he wanted to continue the conversation before topper showed up. god, why did topper have to pick up food? why did he have to be hungry like any other human?

it was a longer silence as you followed rafe into the building, sniffing that familiar sanitary scent of the lobby. could he hear the buzzing in your head reverberating off the metal walls of the elevator? you tried to think of what you were going to say, of how you should explain in the best way. but then you thought that rafe didn’t need an explanation, you were free to sleep with whoever you wanted before him.

“do you want to watch a movie?” you tried adding a happy tone to your question, setting your bag down and shuffling your jacket off your arms. rafe turned to you from the front door, looking taller than he really was.

you watched him as he came over to you, towering over your shorter frame. his hands came up to your face, pulling you closer to him for a kiss. you melted completely in his hands, touching his sides to make sure you were still on solid earth. you had shared plenty of kisses, but you still felt that rush when his lips were on yours.

“topper?” he questioned, pulling away from you.

your bliss quickly broke, eyebrows furrowing and your dopamine levels dropping. you swallowed noticeably as your hands left his waist and his disappeared from your face. “what about him?” you nearly whispered and immediately regretted it. you didn’t like playing dumb and you could tell by the way rafe’s jaw clenched that he didn’t like it either. what had you gotten yourself into?

“take your clothes off.”

you blinked rapidly, your stomach leaping. did you hear him correctly? “what?” you closed your eyes for a moment, trying to comprehend where this was going and how his words were jumping all over the place.

“you heard me.”

you couldn’t take your jaw from the floor as you stared up at rafe in astonishment. you had never seen this stern side of him and it was making your head all jumbled in thoughts. your lungs felt short of breath now.

rafe stepped closer to bring his chest flush against yours. his head lowered, his eyes piercing intensively. you wanted so deeply to look away. his lips were right in front of you and they looked very tempting but you were trying desperately to understand what he was trying to do. he didn’t give you much thought as his lips came over yours again, this time much firmer and more incessant. you made a noise against him and rafe soaked it in, letting it disappear into his mouth as he opened your lips further. you moved your hands up to his face, trying to get your mind moving to the pace of his lips. it seemed impossible as he knelt down and grabbed ahold of your thighs to lift you up.

you felt rafe start to move, his legs carrying the both of you somewhere further in the room. you didn’t know where exactly until his hands disappeared from you and you dropped down onto the couch with a slight bounce. you gasped and looked up at rafe in front of you as he tore off his hat and jacket, sending them both flying somewhere behind him. next went his shirt before he bent down toward you, his tongue quick to enter your mouth.

you tried your best to match his pace, your eyebrows furrowing in concentration. it wasn’t until his hands went up your shirt that you pulled away from him with a deep breath.

“wait, wait, wait,” you said as rafe’s lips went to your neck momentarily. “slow down, rafe.”

this wasn’t how you expected or imagined your first time with rafe. he pulled away without a word and propped himself on the back of the couch, bent directly over you. you swallowed and reached up to touch his shoulders, the kitchen light sending a warm glow over them.

“talk to me.”

“i don’t want to talk.” he said as he fisted the back of the couch. you noticed his arms flexing above you.

“what are you trying to do?” you begged, searching for anything.

rafe let out a noise before he pressed a few kisses along the underside of your jaw, making you tilt your head up and close your eyes. you brushed your face against his as his breath hit your ear. “i’m going to show you the best you’ve ever had.”

you couldn’t help the moan from slipping out. it clearly egged rafe on as he kissed you again.

“take your clothes off.” he said once more as he pulled away. you wanted to kick him for leaving you again, especially with how quickly your anticipation was increasing. instead, you sat up, moving closer to the edge of the couch, and pulled your shirt over your head. rafe watched you as you both reached for your bottoms. the adrenaline started to kick in as you noticed the way he was looking at you and your movements.

you bit your lips together as rafe grabbed ahold of your pants and tugged them the rest of the way off. he glanced at your underwear next and you leaned against the back of the couch to push them off, lifting your hips. he leaned down for another searing kiss, your breaths mingling together. you breathed him in next, opening your mouth wider and moving your fingers into his hair. you gripped it softly as you felt his hand appear on your thigh, slowly traveling up and maneuvering over the new territory. the only thing you two had ever done was innocent petting over clothes, but you managed to shiver just as much at his touch.

rafe didn’t make a trail of kisses down your front or spend time caressing your skin like the many times you imagined he would. he didn’t go down on you or hold your legs tightly around his head as he tasted you, like you hoped he would. as he remembered why he was doing this in the first place, his kisses became impatient and sloppy.

“turn around.” he commanded when he pulled away just centimeters from your face. you were just about to pull his hips closer to yours, your own impatience pooling between your legs.

a wave of nerves ran through you and you swallowed as you did as he said. once you were turned around, your arms propped on the back of the couch and your eyes trailing over the bare wall a few feet away, your breath hitched. rafe’s lips pressed to the back of your thigh.

you let out a sudden yelp as rafe touched you for the first time. his hand pressed into you, his fingers gliding your wetness around. your belly clenched. your head seemed to sense his movements, leaning toward him as he came to your ear again.

“are you this wet for me?” he whispered huskily.

“yes.” you said and leaned your head against his, your eyes slipping closed. you focused on his fingers, the thickness of them, the assured way they moved.

“were you this wet for him?” he asked next as his fingers teased your entrance.

“no, rafe.” you mewled and moved your hips back in search of some friction.

“don’t lie to me.” he said. his head disappeared as he pressed a kiss to your shoulder blade, his teeth making an appearance for a subtle bite. your head lulled forward onto the cushion as your hips pushed against his hand.

your body pressed into the cushion as rafe’s fingers were replaced with him. you moaned lowly as he pushed into you, your eyes rolling in pleasure. you could feel yourself pulsing around him and his size and you wanted to stay just like this for a while.

rafe had no intentions of keeping still. he planted his hands at your hips, adjusted his knee beside yours, pulled back out and hit you harder this time, rocking you deep into the cushions. you barely had time to adjust to him, wincing slightly as he moved.

you lifted your head up just as he thrust forward. reaching a hand back to him, you gripped his wrist. “god, rafe, be nice.” you groaned as he thrust again.

“you fucked my best friend.” he accused through a clenched jaw and a harder thrust.

“twice.” you gasped, your head dropping back to the couch.

rafe groaned and managed to pull out nearly all the way and hit you even harder going back in. you moaned, feeling him pause for a second before doing it again. each time he pushed, you lost your breath, only having two seconds tops to get it back. you could feel his jealousy in his movements and his total frustration at learning that you’d slept with topper. it had been months before even knowing rafe. it was fun while it lasted and you now had that experience to thank since it brought you to where you are now— in rafe’s apartment, fucking him for the first time. you didn’t regret sleeping with topper at all.

now you pushed yourself up on your hands, arching your hips back to give rafe a new angle. you brushed your hair over your neck, turning to get a glimpse of him. he was relentlessly thrusting into you and showing no signs of stopping any time soon. you could feel yourself getting somewhat close to your release and you wanted nothing more than for rafe to bring it to you.

you let out a high-pitched moan, one you never heard before, as rafe took it upon himself to smack your backside. he eased the sting as he rubbed his palm over it.

“did he make you feel like this?” he panted, so clearly close to his end too.

“stop talking about him.” you chided.

rafe only laid down another smack, this time gripping your backside harshly afterwards. you fisted the cushions and squeezed your eyes shut as it brought your climax closer.

“don’t stop,” you begged. “please, don’t stop.”

you felt the sting as rafe removed his hand and brought it to your clit. your mouth dropped open, a slew of curses and moans pouring out as he drew circles in time with his thrusts. his touching you, moving inside of you, and the periodic smacking of your skin was enough to throw you overboard. you grabbed onto the couch, holding on tightly as you came over rafe and said his name in bliss.

his hips stuttered at the feel of you coming, your walls pulsing around him. he panted as he took it in then went right back to his fast pace, chasing his own high. your hand stretched back, searching for him, and wrapped around his wrist tightly. he gripped your hip then, your touch encouraging him. it was another moment before he was pulling out of you and coming onto your back.

he breathed in deeply through his nose, staring down at the mess on your skin, your sides moving as you breathed. he brushed his hair off of his forehead, now slick with sweat.

rafe wiped the mess clean with his shirt then pressed a kiss to your shoulder. he collapsed beside you and rested his tired muscles. you sat down and blinked around at the room, trying to remember little details about tonight and how you had gotten there in the first place.

rafe’s head rolled to look at you, his eyes now tired. “how was it?”

you grinned at the question and couldn’t help poking fun at him. “you’re so jealous.” you jabbed at his chest. a second later you pressed your hand onto his sticky skin. rafe didn’t deny your statement, instead continuing to stare at you in a daze. “there’s room for improvement,” you teased and pecked his shoulder before getting up. rafe didn’t miss the slight limp you had as you went behind the couch.

“where are you going?” he asked with a smirk.

“i have to pee.” you called to him.

“i’m not done with you yet,” he called back, making you laugh and close the bathroom door behind you.

#rafe cameron #outer banks #third times a charm #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron imagine #rafe cameron oneshot #rafe cameron smut #college!rafe cameron #rafe cameron x fem!reader

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moralesispunk · 4 years ago

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It Means A Lot

Marcus Moreno x Female Reader

Part 3 of the Caramel Latte series

Master list / < part 2 here / part 4 here >

Summary: with Missy staying at Marcus's mums this weekend, he invited you over for a dinner date.

Warnings: smut, oral (f), penetrative sex, unprotected sex, this is an 18+ blog

You and Marcus went on a few more dates, sharing with each other your favourite restaurants or visiting museums together.

Every date would end the same way - Marcus standing in your hallway kissing you goodbye. You would be leaning against the wall, hands gripping tightly onto his biceps as his hands grasped at your waist. You would kiss each other until you were both breathless and quietly moaning into one another.

Before it went any further one of you would pull away knowing he would have to go and let the babysitter away or head to pick Missy up from her swimming practice.

“I’m sorry, I- I have to go,” he would whisper, his hair messy and eyes dark from excitement.

“I know, it’s okay,” you reply, gently taking his face in your hands and kissing him once more.

He would lean into the kiss, intoxicated and under whatever spell you had him under making it harder to pull away.

“I’ll call you.”

You were making tonights dinner as you danced around the kitchen to the music playing from your phone speaker. The song was interrupted by a phone call with Marcus’s name flashing on the screen along with a photograph of him in front of his favourite of the art exhibits you visited on his third date.

“Hello there,” you answer, putting your phone on speaker.

“Hey honey.”

Honey. The name he gave you on the same date you took the photo of him as he called you over to look at a painting. He wasn’t sure how you would react, the name slipping from his mouth before he could stop it. When you turned and he could see your smile however he knew he would keep calling you it to see that smile again.

“How was work?” you ask as you reach for a spoon to stir the pot in front of you.

“The usual,” he sighs, “looking forward to the weekend.”

“Me too, we still on for tomorrow?”

“That’s what I was phoning about. Missy is going to stay at my mum’s so why don’t you come here and I’ll make us dinner?”

“I would love that!”

“Good,” he replies, hearing the smile in his voice, “my mum is going to come get her about 4 so what about dinner at 6?”

“Works for me, do you want me to bring anything?”

“Just yourself.”

You spent the rest of the time you make dinner on the phone talking about your days until the cooker timer goes off. As you sit down to eat you think about tomorrow night. You had been in his house once before as he finished getting ready for your date and it was exactly as you expected. It was clean and tidy but full of photographs and memories that made it feel like a family home. There was some of Missy’s artwork hanging on the fridge, photographs of the two of them on holiday, pieces of art that showed more of Marcus’s personality.

You didn’t know how tomorrow was going to go but the thought of going to Marcus when Missy was at his mums for the whole night had your stomach filled with butterflies.

You had both become more comfortable with one another, learning more about each other on every date (and night you spent hours on the phone with one another) and you were enjoying spending time together, but as a single dad it was difficult for Marcus to cross the line into the next stage. While you both knew that neither of you were going on dates with anyone else and content with one another there hadn’t been a conversation to define “what you were”.

Partially because other than the few hours Marcus had free to go out with you he was busy with work or being a dad. That meant you hadn’t had a chance to spend a full night together no matter how much you both wanted to. Also because Marcus wouldn’t want to become too serious for it not to work out. While he knew he liked you, in fact he knew he had fallen for you, he didn’t want to bring someone into Missy’s life for them to leave.

He had spoke to Missy about you with her asking him a million questions whenever he got home from dates and she was still up. She could see how happy you were making her dad and she wanted nothing more than him to be happy. If that meant you, she wanted to have you in her life too.

You and Marcus knew this conversation was coming soon but you were patient. You enjoyed spending the time you had with him and you would wait as long as he needed to go further.

You hadn’t been nervous the next day, taking a relaxing day to watch films before getting ready, but as you knocked on his door the butterflies began to play in your stomach.

“Just coming!” you heard from inside.

Marcus opened the door, wearing a t-shirt and nice pair of jeans. His hands were in a towel that hung over his shoulder, cleaning them off before opening the door wider to let you in.

“Hey,” he said before leaning down to kiss you.

“Hey back,” you uttered against his lips before kissing them gently again, “what are you making, it smells amazing!”

“My famous spaghetti meatballs! I know its not anything fancy but its my go to. Come on, let me go sit you down,” he walked you towards the kitchen.

He pulled out a chair at the table in the kitchen, waiting till you had sat down before leaning down and placing another kiss to your lips.

“Can I get you something to drink?”

“Oh, wait! I brought some wine for us.”

You pulled a bottle out of your bag to place on the table.

“I told you that you didn’t have to bring anything,” he playfully scolded, “but thank you, I'll get some glasses.”

Marcus poured two glasses of the wine, placing one in front of you and lifting the other with him as he finished making dinner. You watched as he cooked, taking his glasses off when the steam hit them as he drained the spaghetti.

Once the dinner was plated up he carried both plates over to the table.

“Bon appetit.”

“Wow, Marcus. It looks great, thank you.”

You spent the dinner talking about your week and sharing more anecdotes.

"You did not!" You laughed.

Marcus nodded, laughing as he finished his glass of wine before pouring you both another. He had been telling you of a time he and Miracle Guy ended up staying for an extra hour after their annual sports competition.

"He was a sore loser! I bet him by half a second and he wanted to go until he beat me."

"And did he?"

"Of course not, I might not look it but I am quite fit."

"I don't doubt that," you smirked back, making him blush.

After finishing the bottle of wine, you insisted on washing the dishes to help tidy up since he made dinner for you. Once you had washed and he had dried all the dishes you retired to the couch in his living room.

“I’m so glad we get to do this,” Marcus moved closer to you so his arm was placed behind you on the couch.

“Me too,” you smiled as you leaned further into his side.

“I’m sorry we’ve not got to do this before, just with Missy I-”

“Marcus,” you stopped him as you placed your hand on his thigh, “I don’t mind. I know things have to go slower because you have Missy. It’s not easy finding time and you don’t want to rush into anything but I love what we’re doing. Just getting to see you the way I do now is enough for me.”

“That means more than you could even know,” he replies, taking your hand in his free one.

Both your eyes suddenly flick down to one another’s lips before back up to your eyes. A smile plays on his lips as he leans forward to press his lips against yours, his hand moving up to hold your cheek. His lips brushed across yours lightly, feeling the softness of yours against his. Your hands found their way into his curls, pulling him closer to you as his tongue grazed your lips before finding its way into your mouth.

Marcus had you quickly moved onto his lap, pulling you against him with his hands wrapped around your back while yours wrapped round his neck. Your hips started gently rocking against one another without noticing, both of you trying to deal with the longing you had for one another.

He moaned into the kiss, breaking away to kiss down your neck and shoulder before back up to your lips again. You pulled away to look into his eyes, the same dark and neediness that you had seen so many times before at the end of every date.

“Do you- uhh- do you want to go to the bedroom?” he asked and you giggled, “sorry I’ve- I’m-”

You stopped his rambling with a kiss before pulling back again.

“Take me to bed, Marcus.”

His shy smile was suddenly replaced with a smirk as he lifted you with him when he stood. He playfully threw you over his shoulders as he carried you towards his bedroom, the sound of your laughter calming his nerves a little.

When he got to the bedroom he placed you down in front of him, taking your face in his hands and kissing you deeply before you could say anything. He walked towards the bed, stopping when his knees his the edge and sitting to bring you onto his lap again.

You lean back, stretching your neck slightly as he leaves sloppy kisses down your neck to your chest. He stops when he reaches the collar of your shirt, looking up at you.

You lift your arms, letting him pull it over your head. He stops, his hands gently running down your bare arms and back up again, holding the side of your neck as he looks back to your face. You can tell he looks a little nervous and reach your arms back to unclasp your own bra. He helps the straps down your arms. His eyes look at your chest and back at you before back down again.

You reach down to the hem of his shirt, helping him lift it off and throwing it with your growing pile of clothes on the floor. He takes his glasses off and placed them on the bedside table as your hands run down his chest, feeling the muscles that are under his soft skin. He keeps his eyes on yours, his breathing heavy as he feels your soft skin on his. You shuffle forward slightly, letting your chests press against one another. You both gasp at the feeling of your skin touching, cold and soft, with electricity passing through.

Your hands slide up to hold the back of his neck, fingers tangled in his curls as he leans back to move his mouth down your chest. His lips kiss across your collarbones and down your sternum while his hands hold tightly onto your back before moving across to your nipple. He looks up at you as he takes one into his mouth, his tongue swirling round it while one of his hands moves round to play with the other. He releases the one in his mouth with a pop before moving to give the other the same attention.

You you out a moan, his lips expertly working your nipples. He releases the other, standing up and wrapping your legs around his waist as he turns to kneel and move up the bed, placing you down on the pillows. He leans down to give you a kiss before moving back down your body.

He stops as he reaches the button on your jeans, his hand running along the waistband. As you nod he kneels to undo the button and zip before sliding them down your legs. He reaches up again, bringing your panties along with them.

He kneels between your legs and takes a look at you laid out in front of him. His eyes trace over every inch of you as his hands rest on your thighs, growing harder in his own jeans.

You sit up on one of your elbows, the other arm reaching out to trace along the skin just above his jeans. He lets out a small whimper and your eyes flick back up to his, both of you smiling wide at one another.

"Shall we let him out of there?" you whisper.

Marcus nods moving to stand off the bed and reaches for his zip.

"Can I?" You ask and he nods.

You shuffle down the bed, kneeling in front of him and reaching for his button and zip. You undo them, dragging his jeans down his legs and helping them out of them, taking his socks with them. Looking back up at his face you notice his eyes on yours, his mouth hanging open as he watches you. You reach back up for his boxers, slowly releasing him from them as well.

A small moans comes out from your mouth as you take in the sight of him. You lean forward before slowly licking up the underneath of his cock, keeping your eyes on him. His head is thrown back as a groan is released from the back of his throat.

He reaches down, grabbing onto your shoulder as he gently pulls you to stand. His hand holds the side of your neck as he kisses you deeply, moving so you were now back lying at the top of the bed.

Marcus kisses back down your body, resting between your legs as his shoulders hold them open for him. He looks up at you, smirking slightly before attaching his lips to your clit. Your hands reach straight for his hair, tugging on it slightly as he finds the right pace.

He keeps his eyes on yours, watching as you come undone under him. Your hips start to lift of the bed and he moves an arm across your stomach to hold them in place. His other hand reaches up to hold yours, your fingers locking together.

"Marcus, I'm close," you whine to him.

"I know honey, let go. I've got you," he mumbles against you.

You feel the wave rush over you, your head thrown back as Marcus keeps going. He doesn't stop until your legs are limp around his shoulders and he pulls back, pressing a kiss to the inside of both your thighs before your stomach.

"Come here," you moan as you pull him up towards you.

He leans down, his tongue in your mouth as he kisses you deeply.

"You taste so good," he moans into the kiss.

"I need you," you whine.

"I know, I need you too. Condom?"

"I'm clean and on birth control but we can if you would prefer," you say looking in his eyes.

"I'm clean too," he smiles down at you.

You lean up, pressing your lips to his as he holds himself above you with one forearm while he lines himself up at your entrance with the other. He pushes in with one slow move of the hips, the both of you braking away from the kiss to moan.

You move one hand up to hold his hand next you your head, the other staying in his hair as his free hand grips your hip. With your legs wrapped around his waist he keeps his hips moving with slow, deep thrusts.

"You feel so good," he groaned before placing kisses down your neck.

"Marcus, please," you begged.

His hand moved from your hip you between your bodies, wanting you to cum one more time before he did.

"Oh god, Marcus. It feels so good."

"One more for me honey, I know you can," he moved to kiss your lips as you came round him again.

His thrusts began to lose any rhythm, him moving his arm underneath the bottom of your back to hold you close with his other hand still in yours. He came with your name repeated out of his mouth, his face buried in your neck.

His arms couldn't hold his weight off you completely anymore, giving out slightly as he pressed you further into the bed. You traced along his back and sides as he turned his head to kiss into your neck before lifting his weight off you. He walked to the bathroom, coming back to side on the edge of the bed and clean you slightly with a cloth.

He threw it into the basket, moving to lie on his side on the bed. You turned on your side to face him.

"Hey," you whispered.

"Hey," he laughed quietly back, "was that okay?"

"Okay? It was amazing Marcus," you laughed, shuffling closer to his chest.

"Sorry, just been a while," he laughed back.

"Was it okay for you?" You asked, moving your head to look up at him properly.

"It was perfect," he moved to kiss your forehead, "you tired?"

Just as he asked you let out a yawn and he laughed, moving so he was lying on his back and you were pulled onto his chest.

"Go to sleep, I've got you," he whispered into your hair.

"Goodnight Marcus," you turned to kiss his chest.

"Goodnight honey, sweet dreams."

Marcus waited as you fell asleep, tracing circles along your back and arms as your body went limp in his arms. He smiled, looking down at you in his arms, before he let himself fall asleep.

You sleep in the next morning, Marcus waiting up before you with you still asleep on his chest. He pulls you in tighter, kissing your forehead and lets himself fall back into a light sleep until you wake up. When you finally stir you look up to find him with a lazy smile on his face.

"Good morning," you groan as you stretch out.

"Good morning, you sleep well?"

"I really did, did you?"

"Better than I have in forever, I was thinking about going for a shower before making some breakfast," he smirks.

"Want some company?"

You both share a lazy shower together, washing each other after Marcus takes you up against the wall. You place kisses all over each other before he finally turns the water off and helps you out. You're glad for packing your toothbrush and some clean underwear, Marcus giving you one of his t-shirts to wear with your jeans.

He does downstairs, getting a start on breakfast as he leaves you to dry your hair. When you finish you find him cooking away in the kitchen, swaying his hips to whatever is playing on the radio.

"Someone woke up in a good mood," you laugh as you move to stand next to him.

"Hmm, guess that's what happens when I wake up next to a beautiful woman." He leans down to give you a kiss. "I hope you like pancakes."

"Who doesn't? Anything I can help with?"

"No, I'm good here, maybe just take the coffees over to the table for us?"

You walk to the kitchen table, setting down the coffees before sitting down at the table. Marcus soon joins you, placing the pancakes in front of you.

You eat the pancakes in a comfortable quiet as the radio plays in the background, Marcus's hand occasionally moving you squeeze your thigh. When you finish he takes the plates and sits them in the sink before coming back to join you.

"I was thinking we should maybe have a talk... about us," he says as he turns his chair to fully face you.

You nod, letting him know he can go on.

"I really like you, and I care about you. If you're okay with it, I think I'd like you to properly meet Missy. Means we can spend more time together by spending some time as the three of us?"

"Does this mean I'm officially your girlfriend, Marcus Moreno?" you giggle.

"God, I feel like I'm sixteen again asking you to be my girlfriend but yes, I'd like that."

"I'd like that too," you lean over to give him a kiss, "it means a lot that you want me to meet Missy."

"Well, you mean a lot to me," he brushes some hair behind you ear, "my mum's dropping her in about an hour if you want to wait?"

You and Marcus move to the living room, finding something to watch as you wait for Missy to come home. As time goes on you get more nervous. Marcus reaches over to place his hand on your shaking leg.

"You don't have to be nervous."

"I know but... what if she doesn't like me?"

Marcus laughs before taking your hands in his.

"She will. She already does. She sees how happy you make me and she wants to meet you," he reassures you.

Just as you nod you hear the door open and Missy shout goodbye to her grandma. Marcus stands to meet her in the hall and you hear them talk.

You stand to your feet, not able to sit still while you wait. Marcus's voice suddenly cuts through all your thoughts.

"Missy, I want you to meet someone again."

Marcus and Missy appear at the doorway, Marcus introducing you both for the second time. Even though you had technically met once before it had only been for a few minutes.

"Hi," she bounds over to stand in front of you, "my dad really likes you."

You laugh at her comment and how much it makes Marcus blush as he stays standing in the doorway.

"Missy!"

Missy turns to laugh at her dad before looking back at you.

"Are you staying to watch a film with us?"

"I don't see why not? If that's okay," you look up to Marcus.

"Of course it is, Missy why don't you go put your stuff in your room and you can come back and choose a film?"

She nods and smiles back at you before walking out the room. Marcus walks over to you and gently grips the top of your arms.

"Thank you for this. I know it must be a lot meeting your boyfriends daughter properly."

"Thank you, Marcus. I know it's a lot to have me meet her."

You both smile, giving each other a kiss before settling down on the couch with enough room between you for Missy.

When she comes down the stairs she takes the remote from her dads hand, choosing the first Avengers film to watch.

"I love these films," you say as she presses play.

"Really? Me too!"

You watch the first avengers and the second before Marcus asks if you want to stay for dinner. He orders some pizza for you to eat as you put on Infinity War.

He spent more time watching you and Missy than he did the films, laughing at how you playfully argued over who was the strongest superhero as the films went on.

When the third film of the day finishes Missy begs her dad to watch Endgame but he shakes his head.

"It's a school night, Missy."

"But Dad..."

"Why don't we save Endgame for another day, after a proper Marvel movie marathon?" you say.

She turns and nods, making you pinky promise before she goes for a shower before bed.

"I had a really good day with you," Missy says before giving you a hug.

"So did I," you hug her back.

Once she is upstairs you get your stuff ready to head as well with work the next day.

"I had an amazing time this weekend," Marcus says as he walks you to the door.

"So did I. It was really nice getting to meet Missy properly too."

"I'm glad we can spend more time like that now."

You stop at the door, turning to face Marcus completely. He leans forward, taking your face in your hands to give you a kiss goodbye.

"Will we sort something for during the week?" Marcus asks.

"Sounds good to me. Bye Marcus."

"Bye, honey."

He waits till your safely in your car and pulling out of the driveway before he closes the door behind you, leaning against it as he does so.

"You really like her, don't you Dad?" He hears Missy call from the top of the stairs.

"I really do."

////

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slythraco · 4 years ago

Note

Hi! Can you do this imagine where Tom’s gf is pregnant and he’s live and the fans see her in the background and it’s call cute. Xx

Author’s note: Thanks for your request ! I really had fun writing it ! ☺️ I hope you’ll like it !

Warnings: None, it’s pure fluff !

Words count: 1,2K

Masterlist

———-

“Hello my lovelies !” You heard from the other side of the room. You turn your head and understand what’s going when you see your boyfriend talking to his phone. Tom was doing another live, you look at him for a second before grabbing your phone to go to Instagram and watch it just to be able to see the comments without moving from the couch.

Indeed, you weren’t allowed to move a toe without having Tom screaming at you to stay lying in the sofa. The reason ? Your were pregnant of your first baby, Tom was overly protective over you, he was always making sure you were feeling okay. He was the sweetest boyfriend to be honest.

“Is it Y/N‘s legs in the background ?” Said Tom, reading the comments on his live. “Yes !” He answers as he turns the tripod holding his phone to let the people see you in the background. You straighten up gently and wave at the camera, smiling brightly. “Hi guys !” You said loudly. “You’re watching the live aren’t you ?” Tom asked as he turn on his chair to look at You. You giggle as you nod looking at your phone. “Yes...I just want to read the comments, since I can’t get up !” You said teasingly to him, making his eyes roll.

You smile while looking at the comments that were appearing on your screen.

“Omg ! Baby bump !!! 🥺”

“Her belly 😭😭😭”

And it kept on going, everyone was going crazy over your apparent baby bump, you run your hand over it and delicately caress the skin of your belly. You recently entered your sixth month of pregnancy so yeah, it was really visible. While Tom was talking to the camera of his phone for the live you suddenly feel your little baby moving.

“Tom ! Come here quick !” You almost screamed, making him turn to you fast, a little worried. He gets up quickly, without caring of shutting the live off. “What’s going on love ? Are you okay ?” Tom immediately thought of the worst, what if you felt pain ? “No babe don’t worry !” You said to reassure him as he crouches down beside the sofa, right next to you. “He moved...” You whisper, Tom’s face illuminate as you take his hand and put it right we’re you felt your belly moving a few seconds ago.

The fans were going crazy over what they were seeing, it was the cutest thing ever to their eyes.

“Alright bye...I died of cuteness”

“Such a lovely couple !”

“I love how Tom didn’t give a shit of the live he just ran to help her”

“That’s so sweet omg 🥺”

“Come on Baby ! Show me your dance skills !” Tom whispers against the skin of your belly as he crash some gentle kiss on it, his thumb rubbing it at the same time. And then you feel a new kick in your tummy. Tom’s eyes widen as he feels it under his hand, it wasn’t the first time but it never fails to amazes him. “You felt it ?” You asked, his gaze say it all before he nods and land a bunch of little kisses all over your stomach. Tickling you, you wiggle under them.

He then raises his head and straightens up to place a soft kiss on your lips. “I love you” He whispers against them before getting up. “I love you too !” You answer, looking at him returning to his live. “Sorry guys for the little baby break !” He said before an adorable giggle escapes his lips.

After a few minutes of just looking at his back, you decide to get up to join him, he jumps when he feels your hand on his shoulder. “Hey ! What are you doing, you need to rest darling !” You roll your eyes as your hand slide on his neck. “Oh come on ! I’m pregnant not about it die !” You giggle at his worried face, it was really adorable even if it’s was too much, you were completely fine except that you were a little tired at the time but that was totally normal, nothing to worry about.

“I just wanted to say ‘hi’ to everyone !” You said with a puppy face he could resist as he passes his arms around your waist to get you to sit on his lap. You smile while your arms make his way around his neck and one of his hand rests directly on your tummy. You gently put yours onto his and start rubbing it delicately with your thumb. “Y/N, how did you announce your pregnancy to Tom ?” You read a comments. “You want to explain it to them ?” You asked your boyfriend. “No go ahead, sweetheart.” He whispers.

“Alright sooo, I announced it to him on his birthday, we were doing something just together so I ordered a cake with a little baby face on it, and I glued the first ultrasound on the upper part on the cake’s box. You should’ve seen his face when he opened it, it was so adorable !” You start blushing thinking about that moment, it was so magical. You remember being so scared of his reaction even though everyone around you didn’t stop telling you how much he wanted kids.

“Yes...It was the best day of my life really ! And I can’t wait to see his little face.” You listen to him as it warms your heart while he plant a quick kiss on your cheek. “Did you chose a name ?” You read the next question. “Yes we did ! But it’s a secret !” Tom responded. “A little anecdote, it took us the longest time because we couldn't come to an agreement !” You continued as Tom chuckles, looking at the floor, remembering all your little fights about the name of your son. “Is his name, Scorpius ?” You laugh after reading it, “No ! I’m not naming my son over Harry Potter’s characters !”

Tom giggle at the comments. The comments were essentially talking about how cute you two were. You smile as you start rubbing your tired eyes, Tom’s frowns when he sees you. “You should really go rest my love...” He said worryingly, you gently nod, ‘a nap can’t do no wrong’ you thought. “Yes...I’m going !” You smile to him as you slowly get up after you left a chaste kiss in his lips. “Call me if you need anything alright ?” He tells you before before you disappear in your bedroom.

You let yourself fall into your bed and cover your body with a blanket. You try to sleep but something is missing, Tom’s arms. So you grab your phone and write him a message.

“I can’t sleep without you...” you send it and quickly go on his live to see his reaction. He was talking about random stuff until he suddenly stops and starts smiling, you’re sure he received it. “Alright guys, I’m gonna end the live here, thank you all for being here ! Love you all !” He sends a kiss to the camera and the live ends.

A few seconds later, the door of your room opens on him, making you giggle a little bit. “I really can’t resist you !” He sigh before joining you under the sheets, right behind you. He sticks his chest to your back and place a few kisses in your shoulder, making you shiver as his arms surrounds your body. Of course, his hand rests on your belly like every time you sleep together, he draws some circle on it, caressing lovingly your skin. “Only 3 months left...” He whispered against you skin which make you smile before falling asleep in his warm arms.

•••

#imagines #one shot #tom felton #tom felton x reader #tom felton fluff

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bubonickitten · 4 years ago

Text

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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vanessakirbyfans · 4 years ago

Link

Vanessa Kirby suggests we meet on the Mall, the central location for her on-screen triumph as the young Princess Margaret in The Crown. I’m standing outside the shuttered Institute of Contemporary Arts when she strides into view, a slender, leggy figure with bleached hair and brilliant blue eyes, clad in trademark black, but for her gleaming white Converse trainers.

"I haven’t been here since we were filming!" she marvels through her mask, gazing up the processional avenue towards Buckingham Palace. "I was whizzing up the road on a motorbike, holding onto the back of Matthew Goode [as Antony Armstrong-Jones] and feeling so exhilarated about what on Earth was happening to my life – being in a job I loved, playing someone I loved."

Her ebullient mood was dented when Margaret’s handbag, into which she’d put her own phone, was blown away from between her feet, and an opportunistic passer-by ran off with it. "By the time I could check Find My iPhone, it was already in Leicester Square," she says. "Of course, the costume department were furious because the bag was vintage and a one-off." We both laugh, rather ruefully, for such anecdotes already seem to belong to a more carefree time. This bright, crisp lunchtime in lockdown, the Mall is all but deserted –there would be no need for roadblocks or filming at dawn today – while the roles Kirby is here to discuss are light-years away from her embodiment of a pampered royal party girl.

The morning of our meeting, Pieces of a Woman has launched on Netflix to rapturous reviews and critical acclaim that has seen Kirby, in her first lead role, picked as a front-runner for the award season’s most coveted best-actress gongs.

It is not, however, an easy watch. Kirby plays Martha, a first-time mother whose baby dies moments after being born; the film follows Martha’s subsequent disintegration, alongside that of her close relationships. Her labour, which comes at the start of the film, is some 26 minutes of one unbroken take that manages to be simultaneously intimate and menacing as the camera swoops around the apartment and hovers beside the traumatised protagonists.

Kirby’s performance is astonishingly unselfconscious, which is the more surprising since she never went to drama school (turning down the offer of a place at Lamda in favour of stage roles at Bolton’s Octagon Theatre) and says she couldn't bring herself to dance in front of her friends. "I’m the one who sits in the corner and watches." She describes seeing herself on-screen as "disconcerting", and "not a very natural human experience", and indeed even finds making Zoom calls a trial. "There’s nothing to hide behind!"

For Pieces of a Woman, the director Kornel Mundruczo decided that the birth scene would be the first to be shot, she tells me, as we stroll around St James’s Park, conducting ourselves like a couple of spies in a Le Carré novel. "I knew I’d have to be naked, and literally open my legs and give birth in front of a group of strangers I’d only met that morning. I was actually quite thankful – I thought, the rest of it’s going to be a lot easier."

In fact, she says, she found herself swept away by the emotion of the story. "Normally, it’s so hard to forget there are machines in your face, but I had no idea that a camera was even there." Was it traumatic to act? "The first time we shot it, I was literally sobbing for 10 minutes afterwards. I couldn’t get out of it. My brain was telling me it wasn’t real, but my unconscious didn’t know the difference, especially with having a real baby in my arms.

"Kornel came over onto the bed and held me so tight. He didn’t let go of me for five minutes, and he said, 'Just remember this feeling.' That really helped me for the rest of the movie, when the character doesn’t express anything, but almost has to be doing the howling without speaking a word."

Kirby took her research seriously, even asking a mother-to-be –a total stranger – to allow her to be present in the delivery room at the birth of her son in a north-London hospital. "I remember every single second of it," the actress says emphatically. "I was there, glued to my seat, for seven hours, not even a loo break! I was just amazed, in awe. I saw a woman completely surrender and go on this spiritual journey, which involved indescribable pain, clearly, but also ecstasy. It gave me a whole new respect for women and how powerful they are, and a new empathy for men, because they feel so helpless. And obviously, seeing the baby come out was the most incredible thing in the world I’ve ever seen, by far. After he was born, all of the mother’s colour returned, she looked like an angel, she had a kind of holy glow." Bathetically, it was only then that the couple recognised Kirby. "They were going, 'Oh my God, it’s Princess Margaret! This is so weird!'"

The experience has given her a new philosophy on life, she says. "I was watching the mother go through these contractions, which were excruciating, and the pushing, and then there was a moment of calm, and of expansion. And so, when I’m going through things in my life, I say to myself, this is like a contraction, surrender to it, because there might be something born from it. Sometimes we don’t want that; when we’re feeling something horrible, we want it to pass as far as possible. I’m teaching myself to allow it to be there and not resist or push it away, and that’s because of that woman."

But her character’s storyline also demanded that Kirby understand the experience of stillbirth. A friend introduced her to a woman who had lost her baby Luciana under eerily similar circumstances to those in Martha’s narrative. "She shared everything with me." They have become close friends, and the film’s ending is dedicated to Luciana. Kirby continues to work with Sands, the Stillbirth and Neonatal Death charity, and is voluble in her admiration of the Duchess of Sussex and Chrissy Teigen, both of whom have recently spoken out about their own experiences of miscarriage.

"I feel so close to them and so proud of them for breaking that silence," she says. "Meghan is probably the last person who would feel comfortable sharing her very personal, intimate feelings. It’s that courage that I want to continue to honour. What they’re saying is, if you’ve been through it, we have too, we share your story. I think that makes you feel less lonely. But one in four pregnancies ends in miscarriage, which is far more than I knew about. Society finds it difficult to hold space for that kind of pain."

Her parents, to whom she is very close, have both seen the film and wept throughout, she says. As if on cue, her phone pings, and her eyes soften when she checks the message; it’s a childhood friend who herself miscarried, getting in touch to say how much the film has meant to her.

The integrity of Kirby’s performance has already netted her the Volpi Cup for Best Actress at the Venice Film Festival. "It doesn’t seem real," she says. "I have it in its case – I wouldn’t have it on display, it looks like a football trophy – but occasionally I glance at it and think, 'Did that really happen? Or did I make it up in a weird dream?'" In a similar vein, she is reluctant to engage with the Oscar buzz surrounding her. "I don’t even know when they are," she admits. "My 13-year-old self would have a heart attack. It’s ridiculous, isn’t it!"

Kirby’s other film, The World to Come, is set in mid-19th-century America but touches on the same themes of bereavement and redemption. The central character Abigail, played by Katherine Waterston, has also lost her young daughter, and in her grief, turns away from her husband to have an affair with Tallie, her free-spirited, flame-haired neighbour. "I was glad I was playing Tallie rather than Abigail, because it might have been a bit too much," Kirby confesses – though without giving away spoilers, that role is pretty traumatic too...

The screenplay is taken from the short story of the same name by Jim Shepard, which was inspired by an entry he found in an antique diary: 'My best friend’s moved away, and I don’t know if I’ll ever see her again.' "It was one woman’s voice, like an echo from the past, and we’ll never know who she was," says Kirby. "The World to Come really educated me about what life was like for women not that long ago. They didn’t have a choice about anything they did with their time. You were owned by the house, and the man, and you had no freedom outside that. The best thing about doing this mad job sometimes is having your ignorance illuminated. I gravitate towards things that push beyond my experience, I want to go to places I don’t know, I’m not familiar with."

The experience of making both films has changed her profoundly. "I can’t do anything unless it means something to me now," she says. "It’s a better way to work, because you’re not focused on yourself at all. So maybe I’ll only work once every 10 years!"

To ensure that this is not the case, and in order to find more untold, female-led stories, her ambition is now to set up her own production company. "Even a few years ago, a film about a woman losing a baby would have been unthinkable. There are so many voiceless people, and I have a voice in this industry, and I want to make sure the tribe is represented properly."

It is undeniably awkward, therefore, that her male co-stars in the films, Shia LaBeouf and Casey Affleck, both of whom play violent, abusive husbands, have been called out for their treatment of women. In December, the British singer FKA Twigs filed a lawsuit against LaBeouf, her ex-partner, alleging that he "hurts women. He uses them. He abuses them, both physically and mentally". While LaBeouf largely denied the accusations, he admitted in a statement to The New York Times: "I have a history of hurting the people closest to me. I’m ashamed of that history and am sorry to those I hurt. There is nothing else I can really say."

Meanwhile, Affleck was sued by two female crew members working on his 2010 film I’m Still Here, one of whom accused him of sexual harassment. He denied the allegations, and the lawsuits were settled out of court, but he later told the Associated Press: "I behaved in a way, and I allowed others to behave in a way, that was really unprofessional, and I’m sorry."

Kirby is understandably reluctant to get into any of this. "I can’t comment on a legal case that’s going on in someone’s personal life," she says. "I feel really protective of Pieces, so that’s what I want to speak about. Because it came out at eight this morning, all I can think about is the mothers I spoke to, and wanting them to be my focus. I just know my job is to honour them."

Perhaps counter-intuitively, starring in Pieces has awakened in her the desire for a family of her own. "It’s definitely made me want a baby, for sure," she says; but she hasn’t currently got a partner, having split up from Callum Turner (Frank Churchill in last year’s Emma), whom she met when they co-starred in the 2014 film Queen & Country. "This year has made me think a lot about the home I want to create. I like the idea of inviting someone into a space that’s mine, preferably before I have kids."

In the near future, however, Kirby has nothing on her plate except for getting through a third lockdown. "I’m free as a bird! I’ve read a lot of stuff, and said no to a lot of stuff..." She currently shares a flat in Tooting, south London, with her sister Juliet, an assistant director, and two friends. "I was just about to move out to live on my own in north London – my God, I would have been so lonely! My sister saved me. It was so nice to have routines together. We were trying to take a bit of exercise, cooking together, watching films that made us feel better, drinking wine on Friday nights..."

By now, having circled St James’s Park several times, we are strolling back towards the Corinthia Hotel, where Kirby has a full programme of Zoom interviews lined up for the afternoon. "That’s why I’m so happy to have actually had the chance to go out and meet you in real life," she says enthusiastically. "It’s funny when everything in your life closes down, and you have to sit with yourself, and you suddenly notice all the things you have and you’re grateful for. I hope that feeling never goes away – I will never underestimate how lucky I am."

#Vanessa Kirby #Pieces of a Woman #The World to Come #Interview #Articles

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strawberrywritings · 5 years ago

Text

First date.

A/N: Someone asked for a continuation of "Meeting” (linked down). I didn’t have in mind to continue it, initially, but a request is a request eheh ALSO, i decided to make reader a teacher cause why not🤓🤷🏼‍♀️ Fun fact: the ending is a true story, my boyfriend and i’s, to be specific haha and i thought, why not include it?🙈

Anyways, i’m talking too much, i’m sorry. I hope you enjoy💕 xx

Meeting / Masterlist

Once Angel had saved your number on his phone, he immediately wanted to text you… but he had no idea what to say. It had been clear that you were not a big fan of his pick up lines. Should he say a casual ‘hello’? Should ask you out already? He didn’t know, and for once he didn’t want to mess it up. He ended up googling “How to text a girl” while sitting at a table in the club house. EZ happened to have to pass behind him and he did a double take when he saw his brother’s screen.

“Please tell me you have no intention of following these instructions”, the younger brother had an exasperated look on his face, and Angel sighed, putting his phone on the table. “What should I say, then?”. “Just start with a hello! Fuck, Angel, that’s the basis”, EZ went on with what he had to do, leaving Angel alone with his phone again.

He clicked on your number, opening the messaging app and tying a simple “Hello”. Was it too dry? Did he have to add an emoji? Why was this shit so hard? After contemplating, he decided that “Hello 😘 it’s Angel” would do it. He sent the message, exited the app, blocked the screen and just sat there, staring at it, waiting. After a few minutes, your reply lit up his screen: “Hi! I see you got my number”. He did what EZ would do. “Yeah. Sorry for this morning, I didn’t mean to be rude with my pick up line”. Your next message read “Wanna try again?😉”.

What. The. Fuck. What was he supposed to say? He was still sitting at the table, his eyebrows furrowed as he thought what to reply, phone in hand. On your phone, you saw the “typing…”, then he was not typing. Then he was, and again he stopped. You chuckled to yourself, carrying on with what you were doing.

At the clubhouse, the other members entered the main room and spotted Angel, who was still in deep thought. “Everyone! – Bishop said, everyone’s attention on him – Angel is thinking, so brace yourselves: the outcome’s never good”, the president laughed, along with the others. Angel flipped them off and Coco got near him, “What’s going on?”, then his eyes noticed the open conversation on his friend’s phone. His eyebrows rose up and a grin appeared on his face, “Ain’t you gonna answer, hermano?”, Coco patted his shoulder, Angel’s gave never shifting from the object in front of him. “Yeah but I don’t know what to say”. “Just ask her out, man! It’s literally that simple”, his friend laughed. “Yeah, I guess it is”, he grabbed the phone in his hands and started carefully typing his reply. Coco sat down next to him and opened the beer EZ had brought him.

“I was wondering if you would like to have dinner with me sometimes”, he pressed ‘send’ and waited. After a painful 15 minutes, his phone buzzed, and he scrambled to open the notification. “I’d love to, make sure my car is fixed cause this time I’m driving 😁”. You did it, you left him stunned, again. You had him hooked and you didn’t even know it; he definitely had to know more of you. That night, he found himself thinking of you, and the for the first time in a while he wasn’t thinking about a woman in a sexual way.

You had agreed on a time and place for the date, Thursday night at 7. Angel was thankful he didn’t have a shift at the scrapyard that afternoon, because he was obsessing over what he should wear. A shirt? And a pair of jeans? Should he bring flowers? He talked his brother’s ear off with all these questions and thank god EZ was there, because his older brother was a lost cause. “Wear a clean shirt, jeans are fine if she told you to dress casual. And she might appreciate the flowers”, he said.

He showed up 15 minutes earlier to the address he had brought you back to a couple of days ago, parking his bike next to your car; when you opened the door, the first thing you noticed were the flowers, and a small smile spread over your face as you looked at him. “Hello”, your voice was calm and cheerful at the same time. He smiled and tilted the flowers towards you, pink tulips. “These are for you, I hope you like them”. “They’re beautiful, thank you – you took the bouquet from his hands and smiled at him – come inside, I just have to put my shoes on and then we can leave”. He entered your house: small, warm, perfect for one person. He couldn’t help but notice small details, like the pictures in the living room, clothes sitting messily in the rooms, your flip flops by the door, the mug on the counter, random papers on the coffee table and sofa. While he was looking around, you had put the flowers in the closest thing you had to a vase, setting it on the kitchen table and smiling at it. “They’re wonderful”, Angel turned his head as he heard your voice and nodded, “You’re welcome”.

“Ready to go?”, you asked as you put on your shoes, and he now was able to get a good look at you, you were wearing a blouse, jeans and a pair of trainers. You looked good, but you were slyer than him, because you had checked him out without getting noticed. Angel nodded and opened the door for you, “After you”. You smiled as you got out of your apartment and into your car, in which Angel had to adjust the passenger seat as he didn’t fit, you both laughing at the scene. The car ride was filled with small talk, you thanked him again for fixing your car, all smiles, and Angel was painfully aware of how clammy his hands were. He was supposed to be the one that knew how to get a woman, wasn’t he? Why was he so nervous?

When you arrived at the restaurant, it was a small place, probably a family business, that served traditional Mexican food. He complimented your outfit to break the ice and you replied that you loved the shirt he was wearing, it was white, looked soft and he wore it with his sleeves rolled up. It was definitely a good look on him. He noted how he smelled like his cologne and cigarette, and you smelled like flowers, fresh, sweet but not nauseating.

“You left your kutte at home?”, you smiled over the menu in your hands, your eyes drifting briefly to his chest. He chuckled and smiled, “Yeah, figured I could ditch it for the night”, you smiled and gave your orders when the waiter came to the table. Angel surprised even himself when he spoke first, “So what do you do in your life?”, he hoped his question didn’t sound weird cause who words it like that. You smiled, big and bright and sat a little straighter, “I am a teacher”. Angel could hear the pride in your voice and he could see the glint in your eyes, he smiled too: your smile was contagious. “Really? What grade?”. “Middle school”. Angel low whistled and put his elbows on the table. “You must have a shit ton of patience, then”, he smiled and you laughed, shrugging your shoulders. “Sometimes, yeah”. You started talking about teaching and the kids you had in your classes, how much you like preparing the classes, and you soon realized you were monopolizing the conversations. You stopped abruptly and looked at him, a sorrowful expression on your face. “I’m sorry, I’m ranting, you probably wanted me to stop 10 minutes ago”. You gave a nervous chuckle and he reached his hand across the table, putting it on top of yours and smiling, “It’s alright, I love your voice”. You felt your ears get hot and smiled at him, resting you head on the palm of your hand.

“And what do you do, other than working at the scrapyard?”, he told you about the MC (well, the legal parts of it, at least), proudly telling you he was El Secretario, he told you about the carnicería his father owned, he talked about his brother, his friends, funny anecdotes from his life with the club. The food came when he was still talking, and you took a moment to watch his face: his beard, his lips, his nose, how his hair was definitely more styled than the day you met, and his warm brown eyes. “And then we got there- what?”, he stopped talking as soon as he saw the way you were looking at him. You finished your bite and smiled, shaking your head slightly, “Nothing, I love your voice”, you mimicked his words from before and he smiled, both of you continuing to eat and have fun throughout the rest of the night.

When you asked for the check, you and Angel bantered about who was going to pay. “Angel Reyes, if we’re not gonna split the check, you’re not getting a second date”, you reached for the piece of paper in his hand and he withdrew it, a grin on his face. “You want a second date?”, your answer came out in stutters, and he smiled even more at your sudden shyness. “Start thinking ‘bout where you wanna go for our second date, querida”, he let his hand come closer to you and you snatched the paper from his hand, not to show him how the nickname had affected you, your face and neck were hot, you needed some air.

After paying, you decided to go straight home. “I wish I could stay more, but I have an early shift at the scrapyard tomorrow”. You nodded and smiled at him, “It’s fine, I have work in the morning, too”. During the walk to your car, your hand brushed his a couple of times, none of you making a move to hold the other’s, though. The car ride was mostly silent and when you pulled up to your apartment, you smiled at him before climbing out of the vehicle.

Angel walked you to the entrance of the building. He really wanted to kiss you, but he didn’t know if he should. You turned around to face him, keys in hand, both of you looking into the other’s eyes. Everything was silent for a moment, you would’ve had to just extend your arm to touch him, and the tension was back. “Thank you for tonight, I had a great time”, you broke the silence; he simply nodded, too lost in your eyes to even form words. Your bodies were gravitating towards each other. “Can I see you again?”, his voice was hopeful and his hands ached to touch you, even just a hug. You smiled at him and nodded your head, “I’d really like to”.

His body was now almost touching yours, he had to just bend his head and he would be kissing you. You were still smiling when you slid the key in the lock and opened the door to your apartment building, “Good night, Angel”, your voice was soft as you slipped inside and just like that, he had missed his chance. Angel’s eyes widened, he still said ‘good night’, but he was left standing there, dumbfounded and without a kiss. Isn’t that how it goes in the movies? The date goes well, he takes her home and they kiss on the doorstep.

Angel stood there, staring at the now closed door, before he went to his bike and drove home, and for the next three days you were the only thing on his mind.

taglist: @scuzmunkie @gemini0410 @woahitslucyylu @sadeyesgf @elcococruz @cocotheclown @thickemadame @hermankopusortizorsumshite @lady-pswrld

#angel reyes x reader #angel reyes imagine #mayans mc imagine #my writing

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heauxplesslydevoted · 5 years ago

Text

Mommie Dearest (Ethan x MC)

Summary: After 26 long years, Ethan finally comes face to face with his mother

Author’s Note: I wanted this to be out in time for Mother’s Day, but my writer’s block was like “lmao”, but better late than never, right?

Tags: @fanmantrashcan @ao719 @x-kyne-x @colourmeshy @writinghereandthere @paulfwesley @ramseyandrys @a-i-n-a-a-s-h @perriewinklenerdie @aworldoffandoms @thatcatlady0716 @drakewalker04 @canknot @hatescapsicum @lapisreviewsstuff @senseofduties @badchoicesposts @ethandaddyramsey @the-soot-sprite @chasingrobbie @zodiacsign1 @choices-lurker @miyakokurono @trappedinfandoms @my-heart-beats-for-ya @adrian-motherfucking-raines @riverrune @edith-eggs1 @thatysn @bellcat2010 @theeccentricbibliophile @cecilecontrera @junehiratas @choices-love-affair @openheart12 @kaavyaethanramsey @caseyvalentineramsey @adrex04 @desmaranj @mal-volaris @whatchique @nazario-sayeed @aestheticartwriting @mvalentine @nooruleman @ruinedbypixels

~v~

Ethan Ramsey has never been so nervous in his life. Not when he did interviews for medical school. Not when he met Dr. Banerji. Not even when he finally asked out Naomi for a date.

Walking into an Italian restaurant to meet his mother has him at his peak.

She’s been trying to reach out for months now and he’s been able to rebuff her at every turn, but she’s really kicked it up these past few weeks. It all culminated in her showing up at Edenbrook, in front of his office, telling everyone within a few feet of her that she’s Ethan Ramsey’s mother.

Alan wanted him to reach out at least once, to see if the mother and son could actually make amends. Naveen thought so as well. An hour or so of his time could answer a lot of questions, and maybe help him seek closure.

It wasn’t until Naomi spoke up did he actually agree to give it a shot. She said he deserved answers, he deserved to be heard, and his mother owed it to him more than anything to sit down and face him.

So now he’s here. Coming face to face with Margaret Ramsey for the first time in over two decades. He wants to turn around and run. He wants to hide somewhere. He wants to call Naomi and tell her to come to the restaurant and help him muddle through this dinner. But Ethan doesn’t do any of that, instead he powers through.

She’s sitting at a table right in the middle of the restaurant, casually glancing at a wine menu. A gasp catches in his throat at the sight of her. She’s so much different than he remembers her, his memory only ever able to produce a hazy figure, but she’s still so similar, just older. She’s skinnier than he can recall, more frail. She’s wearing a simple green sweater and jeans, her hair in a bun, with a pair of cubic zirconia earrings, but Ethan can tell this is her version of getting “dolled up”.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been standing, gaping at her like she’s some sort of museum exhibit, but Margaret breaks the trance, staring up at him. A wide grin breaks out on her face and she instantly stands up. “Oh my goodness, I’m so glad you came!”

She reaches out to hug him, but Ethan bristles and takes a step back, recoiling from his mother’s touch as if it’d burn him. Margaret flinches, but she doesn’t make a fuss over it. “Sit, sit!”

Ethan slides into his seat as Margaret does the same. For a long while, they just stare at each other.

Again, Margaret is the first one to break the tension. “I know you said you’d come, but I’m still shocked to see you. I really thought you’d change your mind.”

He did change his mind. Multiple times throughout the day, Ethan went back and forth on this decision, unsure if it was the right one. “Well, I’m here.”

“I’m glad.” Margaret looks him up and down. Gone is the lanky 11 year old she remembered, and there’s a grown man in his place. It feels surreal, the amount of time that’s passed. “You look so good. Parents often wonder what their kids are going to look like but wow, seeing you so grown up is...mind boggling.”

She isn’t some distant aunt or third cousin twice removed he’s seeing at a family reunion, but his mother. His growth wouldn’t be such a shock if she actually stuck around. “A lot changes in 26 years.”

“Touche.”

Tense silence hangs above them like a dark cloud. The only reprieve they get is when a waiter comes to the table to take their drink order. Ethan springs for a bottle of wine, needing alcohol to get through this.

“Your father tells me you’re some sort of hot shot doctor,” Margaret starts. “And you have a whole team of people under you.”

“I do,” Ethan confirms. “It’s a diagnostics team.”

“A what now?”

“Diagnostics. We treat the untreatable. When no one else knows what’s wrong, we step in and get things figured out.”

Margaret oohs at the explanation, smiling. “You sound so fancy. Like Dr. House!”

“Sort of. I’m not addicted to opioids though.”

“My son, the doctor. I always knew you were destined for greatness. You came out of the womb smart and wise beyond your years.”

The anecdote might’ve been nice coming from his dad, but hearing his mom say it makes him shift uncomfortably. She’s a stranger, for Christ’s sake. She doesn’t know a damn thing about him, about his potential for greatness.

Quickly, Ethan lifts his glass to his lips and takes a sip. He exhales slowly, carefully measuring his next thoughts and words. “What are we doing, Margaret?”

The question catches the older woman off guard. “What do you mean? We’re having dinner.”

“Okay, but why? Why are we here? Why now? I’m 37 years old, why did you pop back into my life at this point in time? What do you want?”

“It would’ve been a lot sooner, but you weren’t too receptive to a reconciliation,” Margaret points out.

“So it’s my fault? Is that the angle you really want to go for?”

“No! No, of course not.” Margaret’s eyes shift around the dining room, casually observing her surroundings. She feels anxious now, jittery.

Eventually her gaze reruns to Ethan and she gives him her full attention. “I guess I’m just tired of running. I know I’ve missed out on so much, more than I can ever make up for but, I’m here now. I’m here and I’d love to be in your life again. You asked me what I want, I just want you, in whatever capacity you’ll have me.”

“Why’d you leave in the first place?” Ethan asks. “I thought we were a family, I thought we were happy.”

“Ethan…” she doesn’t want to go down this road. “Can’t we leave that in the past?”

“No.”

“I don’t have an answer.”

Ethan shakes his head. “That’s not good enough. There had to be some reason you left your job, your home, your husband, your child. You left and you never looked back. I deserve an answer, any answer. Witness Protection, alien abduction, anything.”

“I was young,” Margaret says. “I was 19 when I had you, I was still a baby. And we just settled into...monotony and routine, and I felt antsy. I didn’t think I could be a good wife and mother, my heart wasn’t in it. I thought no mother or wife would be better than a crappy one, and you guys would be better off without me in the picture.”

“You have some extremely flawed logic, Margaret.”

She only shrugs in response. “I know, but you weren’t anticipating a perfect answer. So...can we please just try to enjoy this dinner?”

Ethan ponders the question. He is starving, and this is a restaurant he’s been meaning to try. While the company isn’t what he’d usually want, Ethan is sure he can make do.

“We can enjoy dinner.”

Margaret smiles, her eyes crinkling slightly as she does so. “Yay! I hope they have a good chicken marsala because I am starving.”

~v~

By the time they’re finishing appetizers, Ethan has relaxed considerably. Maybe it’s the glass of wine, maybe he’s finally ready to ease up around his mother, but whatever it is, Ethan is grateful.

“Tell me more about your job,” Margaret probes. “I may not know all the medical mumbo jumbo, but I’ve seen E.R. I can kind of follow along. How long have you been in Boston?”

“Since I graduated medical school, 11 years now. I did my internship at Edenbrook, and I never left.”

“Do you like it?”

“I love it.”

“You don’t ever want to be somewhere else? Like Stanford? Or Johns Hopkins?

“They’re great, but no. And I went to Hopkins for medical school, I’ve had my fill of them.” Ethan’s phone vibrates in his pocket. “Excuse me.”

He slips his phone out and looks at the screen. It’s a text message from Naomi.

How are things going?

He quickly sends her a reply.

I think they’re going...ok.

And you know I hate texting.

It takes her less than 10 seconds to respond, his phone beeping multiple times.

Yay!! I’m so glad things are going well!

And you love me, so you’ll deal

Ok, I’ll leave you alone now.

That makes Ethan roll his eyes, but he smiles at the message.

“Talking to someone special?” Margaret asks, gaining his attention.

Ethan’s head snaps up and he looks at his mom. “Huh?”

Margaret points to the phone. “Your face just lit up when you read your messages. Your dad told me that you’re seeing someone. Is that her?”

“Yes.”

“What’s her name?”

Ethan doesn’t know if he’s willing to talk to Margaret about something as precious to him as Naomi. Does she deserve to be privy to his personal life?

He decides to take the leap. “Naomi.”

“Ooh, like the supermodel,” Margaret coos. She raises an eyebrow. “Are...you dating the supermodel?”

“No, I’m not dating Naomi Campbell. Naomi—my Naomi—is a doctor at Edenbrook.”

“How long have you guys been dating?”

“Seven months now.”

“Do you love her?”

“Very much so,” Ethan confesses, not a hint of trepidation in his voice.

“Well what are you doing still being boyfriend and girlfriend? Sounds to me like you should lock things down and marry her.”

Margaret Ramsey is the last person Ethan will ever take relationship advice from. “Naomi and I are perfectly fine with the pace of our relationship. I’m not going to rush anything.”

“You’re right, I’m sorry.” Margaret sighs wistfully. “”I just...I've wasted so much time, and I’ve missed so many moments. And now that I’m back, I’m projecting. It’s misplaced, and I overstepped.”

Ethan softens slightly. “It’s fine, no need to apologize.”

“Besides, there’ll be plenty of time for me to one day see you gg walk down the aisle. I don’t know if your father told you, but I’ve been looking for a place of my own.”

“Oh really?”

“Yes. I got a job at a local grocery store, and I’ve been trying to find something close by, ideally in Boston or close by.”

“Good for you.”

Margaret looks around, unable to meet Ethan’s gaze and she rings her hands together. After staring at the passing waiters and patrons for a while, she turns back to the table, though her eyes remain fixed on the tablecloth. “I’ve been trying my hardest recently to get my life back in order after spending so much time aimlessly flitting around New England. But no one tells you how challenging it is to do that.”

Finally she meets Ethan’s eyes. “In my hunt for a place of my own, I’ve come to realize that it won’t be smooth sailing. My savings is abysmal, and my credit is shot, so passing credit checks is hard and banks want such high down payments on houses and even higher interest rates.”

“I know you’ll probably think I’m ridiculous for bringing this up, and I hate to even mention it, but I just thought if in order for you and I to get on the right track, you’d maybe want to help. I guess it’s safe to assume you’re doing well…”

Ethan sees his mother’s mouth moving, but the rest of her spiel fades out like white noise. This is what she really wanted to meet with him for? Money?

A chill runs through his body, starting at the base of his skull, traveling down the length of his spine, and moving outwards. He feels frozen in place, like he’s being forced to sit in this chair.

Everything is jumbled and he can’t form a coherent thought to save his life.

Whatever it is, he wills it to pass. He doesn’t want to cause a scene in the restaurant, and he doesn’t want to be emotional in front of this woman.

It takes a long time for him to regain control of his person, but when he does, he releases a breath. Margaret is still going on, talking about a loan manager, but he holds up a hand to stop her in her tracks.

“You’re good,” he says. “Like...really good.”

She feigns confusion. “Good at what?”

“Acting. You’re so good at being a grifter, the lies and tall tales come so easily to you. You begged me to meet you, forced my dad to beg, and for what? Because you’re flat broke.” Ethan chuckles humorlessly. “What, did you Google me and dig for my net worth? Find out what type of car I drive? Research how much condos in my neighborhood cost?”

“Ethan, I–”

“Save it!” His tone is so sharp, it makes her flinch. The couple at the table next to them stop talking in order to stare. “I can’t believe I let my guard down around you, even slightly. You’re still the same piece of garbage you were 26 years ago.”

“You know Margaret, I would’ve respected you more if you would’ve been upfront and said you wanted money. Sure, I would’ve still said no, but there was no need for the disingenuous long con. You didn’t have to pull my dad into this, you didn’t need to show up to my job, you didn’t have to pretend to care about making amends, about being a part of my future, any of it.” Ethan hastily stands, pulling out his wallet. Hands trembling and clammy, he pulls out a crisp hundred dollar bill and throws it on the table. “Don’t ever, in your pathetic excuse for a life, reach out to me again.”

Ethan doesn’t bother grabbing his jacket. Instead he just turns around and walks away, ignoring Margaret’s pleas and shouts.

~v~

The drive home is long, silent, and tense, but Ethan makes it without snapping his steering wheel in half or causing a rage induced accident. He’s trying his hardest to remain calm, because who the fuck is Margaret and why does she have the right to get under Ethan fucking Ramsey’s skin? But it’s not working. He can feel all of the emotions simmering under the surface, crackling with a sharp intensity.

He opens the door to his apartment and crosses the threshold. His eyes fall on Naomi, sitting on his couch, curled up in a thick blanket, watching some silly reality show. Jenner’s on her lap, happily watching the show with her as she scratches his ears.

His entrance garners their attention and they look up. Naomi’s eyes widen and she cranes her neck, hoping to get a look at the time on the microwave from her spot on the couch. “Ethan! What are you doing here?”

“I live here, Rookie,” he quips. Ethan kicks off his shoes, leaving them at the door

Naomi rolls her eyes. “Obviously, smartass. I thought you’d still be having dinner with your mom.”

“I don’t have a mom,” Ethan says, his voice taking on an edge she’s not used to. “I had a surrogate who stayed 11 years too long.”

Naomi stands up and walks towards Ethan, who’s heading into the kitchen. She watches as he rinses out a glass and pours himself some scotch. “What happened? I thought things were going well.”

“I thought so too.” Ethan downs the drink in one gulp. “We were doing okay, she asked about my work, she asked about you, about us. And then it all culminated in her asking me for money.”

“What?”

“Yeah, she claims she wants a down payment for a house close by, but who knows if that was the truth. I could cut her a check and she’d be out of the state within an hour.”

Naomi frowns. “Baby, I am so sorry.”

“What is there to be sorry for?” Ethan asks. “Seriously, what? This isn’t your fault. Margaret showed me the type of person she was 26 years ago when she said she was going to the grocery store and she never came back. She showed me who she was when she never once tried to see me. I didn’t hear from her on my birthdays. I didn’t hear from her when I graduated high school, college, medical school, nothing. She wasn’t there when I got my tonsils removed, or when I won the science fair. She disappeared like a thief in the night without a backwards glance and without a shred of remorse. And even tonight, not once did she apologize, she just gave me a shitty excuse about how she thought I was better off without her, and you know what? She was goddamn right. Margaret Ramsey showed her true colors a long time ago, hell, even all those months ago when she stole out of the convenience store.”

“Birthdays, Christmases, 26 Mother’s Days came and went without her. You know what was really fun? Seeing my friends in school have moms that participated in bake sales, and ‘Back to School Nights’ and field trips. It was great having the other parents and classmates take pity on me because I was the motherless child.”

“And she just waltzes back into town thinking, ‘Oh wow the kid I abandoned actually made something of himself. I researched doctor’s salaries in Boston, Google tells me he lives in a multi-million dollar apartment complex, he drives a Mercedes. Maybe I can swoop in and upend his life once more.’” Ethan takes the tumbler in his hand and throws it against the wall. Naomi jumps back, startled by the loud crash. “Fuck her! She’s dead to me.”

Naomi sucks in a deep breath and takes a step closer to Ethan. “You don’t mean that.”

“I absolutely do mean it,” Ethan argues.

“No you don’t. Because if you were truly done with the situation, if you were truly healed, you wouldn’t be so worked up over it.”

Ethan glances at the shards of glass littering his kitchen floor. “No, I think that did it. I think I got it out of my system.”

“I think you should–”

“You know what I think?” Ethan interjects, not giving Naomi the chance to speak. “I think we should move on.” He turns to his girlfriend and takes a step closer, eyes raking over her. “Moving on, hello. I don’t think I greeted you properly.”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine. I’m sorry I even let thoughts of that woman follow me home.” Ethan surges forward, his hand curling around Naomi’s waist, pulling her closer. He bends slightly, inhaling her scent. Her skin is soft and she smells like coconut. “You smell good.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m sorry I even went to that dinner,” Ethan murmurs. “I could’ve been here and showered with you.”

Naomi can see right through him. He’s deflecting, trying to push his feelings aside. He’s so good at it, bottling everything up, but she doesn’t want that to happen. “Ethan–”

He cuts Naomi off again, this time slanting his mouth over hers, enveloping her in a kiss that threatens to steal the breath straight from her lungs. She scrambles, arms flailing as she tries to hold onto something that will keep her upright. Thankfully Ethan walks them backwards until her back is pressed against the fridge.

His tongue sweeps across her bottom lip before invading her mouth, deepening the kiss. Desperate to touch her, Ethan grips her hip in his hand, reveling in her warmth. Naomi is here. She’s here. She’s real. And she’s not going anywhere.

She breaks the kiss, the urge to inhale too strong to ignore. Her palms rest against his chest, and she can feel just how erratic his heartbeat is. Sparing a glance upward, Naomi’s breath catches in her throat as she sees Ethan looking down at her, tears in his eyes.

“Ethan, talk to me,” Naomi pleads, taking his face in both of her hands. “Don’t shut me out, don’t try to deflect.” Ethan shakes his head, unable to find the words, unable to say them out loud. Naomi sighs. If he won’t start the conversation, she will. “I love you. I love you so much, and I am so sorry. I’m so sorry about your mom. You deserve so much more than she’s ever given you.”

That seems to help push things in the right direction, as Ethan slumps forward and rests all of his weight on her, his false bravado gone

“Why does it s-still matter?” Ethan asks, his voice breaking as the sobs settle in, wracking his body. “Why do I still care so much?”

“Because you’re not the robot you pretend to be.”

“I’m so stupid. I should’ve never agreed to do this.”

“You’re the furthest thing from stupid. You needed to see her for yourself. She owed you answers and closure.”

“I didn’t get it.”

“You did, it just wasn’t pretty. Now you know for certain the type of woman she is.”

But why did he have to throw himself back into the lion’s den in order to find out what he already knew? Now all of the old wounds have come back to surface, open and raw, ripe for picking. He feels like he’s been turned inside out and left for the taking.

“All these y-years later, and she still doesn’t...love m-me,” Ethan cries, fat tears rolling down the apples of his cheeks. “She st-still doesn’t want me. What did I do?”

Standing in front of her isn’t her 37 year old doctor boyfriend, but a heartbroken 11 year old who desperately wants his mom to come home from the “grocery store”. His pain is palpable, and Naomi’s heart aches for him. Ethan was dealt a shitty hand, and he didn’t deserve it at all.

His weight becomes too much for her to bear, and they sink down on the kitchen floor. Ethan buries his head in Naomi’s lap and she just cradles him. She’s never seen Ethan this upset and out of sorts, not when Delores died, and not when Naveen was on the brink of death, so she feels like a fish out of water.

“You didn’t do anything. You’re the child, you can’t carry this burden. Your mother is at fault, and it’s all her doing.”

She doesn’t know what else to say to him. She can tell him that he’s smart, and successful. She can tell him that he’s a wonderful guy, and that he deserves the world, and his mother is a selfish idiot for not seeing what she sees, but she doesn’t know if it will help. All the compliments and platitudes in the world can’t make up for your own mother not wanting anything to do with you.

So she doesn’t say anything. Silence falls between them, the only sound to be heard coming from the television and Jenner occasionally whining from his spot on the couch. Naomi simply strokes his hair and other places she can touch on his body.

They stay in that position for a long time, but the cold tiles of the kitchen floor become too uncomfortable to ignore after a while. Naomi stands up and drags Ethan along with her as they make their way to his bedroom.

Ethan is dead weight and doesn’t offer much help, so Naomi rids him of his clothes by herself, until he’s left in nothing but his boxers. His last bout of energy is used to collapse into bed, where he curls into Naomi’s side, holding her close.

“I’m off tomorrow,” Naomi says, breaking their silence. “I think you should take a personal day. You deserve to get some rest.”

She expects him to argue. He’s Ethan Ramsey, a workaholic, and if anything, he’ll use this as a reason to bury himself further in his work.

But he doesn’t argue. He nods and says, “Okay.”

“I’m sorry if I was too aggressive earlier,” Ethan continues, his voice still soft and quiet. “Yelling, throwing that glass, kissing you like that, it wasn’t appropriate.”

“Apology not needed. But thank you anyway.”

Ethan rolls over and stares at Naomi, analyzing her features. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.” Naomi kisses his bicep, too lazy to stretch up and kiss his lips. She rolls over and turns off the lamp at his bedside.

It doesn’t take long and she can feel herself getting sleepy, the events of the past hour taking their toll, a heaviness settling in her bones. As she starts to doze off, Ethan calls out for her. “Hey, Naomi?”

“Hmmm?”

“You’re the most important family I have.”

And with that, he falls asleep.

#playchoices #choices: stories you play #open heart #open heart 2 #dr. ethan ramsey #ethan ramsey #ethan ramsey x mc

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moon-in-daylight · 5 years ago

Text

Night Watch / Davos x reader

Summary: Waking up in the middle of the night, you notice that Davos is gone.

Words: 2.7k

Warnings: Smut implied

A/N: So, I’ve been rewatching Davos’ scenes and I felt the need to write something for him even though it’s garbage lol because he deserves to be loved and accepted and also because we need more Davos’ fics

Still half asleep, you rolled on your side just to find that the other half of the bed was empty.

It took more than a few seconds for you to be startled by it, though. It wasn’t a strange thing after all, you were far more than accustomed to sleeping alone in that enormous and lonely bed night after night… But as your numbed brain tried to remember the circumstances in which you had fallen asleep, you found that something - or rather someone - was missing.

Davos.

Thinking about him immediately made you open your eyes and sit up to inspect the room with worry. Even though it was still dark you had to blink a few times to adjust your eyes, squinting them involuntarily when you tried to look at the blinding screen of your phone. It was 3:24 am and there was no sign of another person being there with you, at least none that your barely conscious state could perceive.

Your first reaction was to think that you had dreamt it all. It was the most logical, plausible explanation. It wouldn’t have been the first time that your subconscious made you think of Davos like that.

You didn’t feel proud of it, but from time to time you couldn’t help but fantasize about him.

Sometimes, when you two were together and he was telling you some anecdote about K’un-Lun and his early life, your mind involuntarily focused on the movement of his mouth instead of on whatever story he was sharing with you. And while contemplating his lips, you usually found yourself daydreaming about kissing them, feeling them against your skin as you pictured the way his hands would roam through your body. Imagining how he would eagerly remove every piece of clothing and the way his skin would feel against yours, how sweet his moans would sound in your ears as he thrusted slowly but deeply into you…

You were usually quick to snap out of those fantasies, but even if you had only been distracted for a few seconds, you weren’t able to quiet the embarrassment that took over you after imagining him that way. You barely could look at him in the eye after having your attention drifted away by those thoughts.

The friendship you shared was vital for the both of you and you didn’t want to ruin it with unrequited feelings.

You had met after he had escaped prison and, since the first moment after he had rescued you from being mugged, you felt safe with him. The tranquility you felt while being with him was such that you even offered him to stay at your place when he casually mentioned he was running away from justice. It was a risky decision to let a stranger into your apartment that easily, especially when he was a convicted criminal that chattered all kinds of nonsense about dragons and rightfulness, but you could see his intentions were good. There was something in you that trusted him blindly, even when you were convinced that the things he talked about didn’t exist.

It wasn’t until you observed with your very own eyes the way he made his fist glow a bright red during one of his training sessions that you realized that everything he talked about was real.

Hearing his story and how his home had been destroyed, you were quick to position yourself by his side. You knew he had done some bad things, but he was good at heart and you tried to help him see where he had gotten wrong. Surprisingly, he seemed to listen to you and care about what you had to say. It was clear he cared about you too, worrying whenever he saw you weren’t feeling good or taking care of you when you were ill.

It was heartwarming the way you supported one another despite your radically different backgrounds, the way you helped each other improve and see the world from another point of view. It didn’t take long for Davos to become one of the most important people in your life.

Finding out about each other issues and going through them together had been extremely helpful for you both. To talk about them and listen to each other’s advice when you didn’t know what to do. Davos had been through a lot of abuse during his life, and you liked to think that he had finally found in you someone to rely on, just as you had in him.

As he taught you to meditate and control your anxiety, you tried to make him see that he was a person worthy of dignity and affection, not ‘the second best’ as he had been told after losing the Iron Fist to Danny Rand back in K’un-Lun…

It wasn’t easy to erase the toll that years of constant abuse had left, but you had made so much progress while being together… You feared that you would be throwing it all away if he ever found out about your little fantasies. You didn’t want him to know what you felt for him because the last thing you wanted was to make him uncomfortable, especially because you knew how he had been raised and what he thought of sex. And, of course, he had told you how violent his only ‘sexual experience’ had been like…

But the images of him being all over you still creeped into your dreams from time to time, and your half-awaken, dazed-self supposed that was exactly what was happening that night.

Yet, as you slowly roused, you found that the sensations that your mind recreated were too intense to be fictional this time. In fact, you almost could feel as if his touch still lingered on your skin, the phantom feeling of hot, gentle kisses remaining on your neck and collarbone. That was when your mind finally cleared up and you realized it had actually happened.

You had slept with Davos.

Your mind slowly went through the events of that late evening, remembering that you had had dinner together and that you had watched a film in your couch afterwards.

It was normal that he didn’t get most of the inside jokes and implications of American culture in movies considering he had been living in a monastery most of his life, so you always enjoyed sitting in front of the TV with him and explaining every cultural reference that confused him. But that night he hadn’t asked you a single question, nor showed any of his usual discomfort towards the disgraceful and reproachable way in which the characters acted.

Not giving his silence a second thought, you quietly watched the movie until a sex scene appeared.

Looking at your friend from the corner of your eye, you watched him squirm uncomfortably on his sit, the images probably taking him back to the humiliating moment of his ‘sacrifice’, as he usually referred to that unfortunate event.

“We can fast forward this part.” You were quick to grab the remote and skip the frames until a different scene appeared on the screen.

“Have you been practicing lately?” He asked, unprompted. It took you a moment to realize he was actually talking about the Kung Fu lessons he had been imparting you.

As soon as you shook your head, he encouraged you to leave the movie half way through and go over some of the movements he had already taught you in previous training sessions. Truth was you weren’t really into what you were watching anyway, and you supposed it was too awkward for him to keep watching it. Since you had been the one to ask him to teach you how to fight, you willingly got up from the couch and started to show him the little progress you had made.

He didn’t let you finish showing him, though, as he immediately started to point out the flaws in your inexperienced technique, correcting your posture and reminding you to breathe properly to channel your Chi into your every move.

Davos was a harsh professor and he wouldn’t forgive a single mistake from you, telling you that you couldn’t afford to commit any error in battle, as your enemy wouldn’t miss a chance of exploiting your weaknesses. As demanding as he was, you knew that he was being especially tender and easy going with you, at least by his standards. It broke your heart to think about the strict way he had been trained and raised, how severe they had been with him when he was only a child.

Following his instructions, you started to throw punches and kicks at him, attacks that he easily blocked without breaking a sweat. You were definitely glad that you didn’t have to actually fight against him, being well aware that he would be able to end you in the span of ten seconds, maybe even less.

“You have to hit stronger.” His voice commanded you. “Faster.”

You did as you were told and increased the effort put in the fight, but immediately stopped the second he didn’t avoid your punch and your fist impacted against his chest.

“Don’t stand still.” He grabbed your hand and pushed it away. “Now you got it, come on.”

Without saying a single word, you resumed your offensive with the same intensity of that last punch. Unluckily for you, Davos seemed to be more alert now, anticipating each and every one of your movements before you even knew you were going to make them. With a few swift motions, he easily overpowered you, immobilized both of your arms and pinned you against the wall.

You tried to steady your breathing as you did your best to ignore what his proximity was arousing inside of you. Waiting for him to release you for another round, you found yourself growing more and more tense when he simply stared at you in silence, uncomfortably swallowing the lump in your throat when his grip on you didn’t loosen up.

The images of every time you had dreamt about him clouded your mind without you being able to do anything to ignore them, the growing heat between your legs becoming more unbearable with every second his deep brown eyes kept fixed on you. You closed your eyes in hopes that you could distract yourself, think of anything other than the man standing in front of you. But every attempt at doing so immediately failed when you felt the warmth of his lips pressing against yours.

Getting out of your thoughts, you rubbed your eyes as you recalled everything that had happened from that moment. The last thing you remembered the feeling of utter peace and tranquility that invaded you as you fell asleep in his arms.

That calm was completely erased from you now that you realized that he had left in the middle of the night, without saying goodbye or at least leaving a note.

Your heart raced as you mentally slapped yourself for having allowed that to happen.

How could you be so stupid? It was true that it had been him the one to take the first step by kissing you, but you should have known better. You should have figured that he would only disobey his moral code like that in a moment of weakness, a weakness that you had unconsciously taken advantage of. Now he probably had regretted everything and had ran away not wanting to see you or hear from you again.

You feared that your friendship was ruined beyond repair.

Maybe if you called Davos in the morning and talked about what had happened you could still sort it all out. You didn’t want to lose him, to have him walk out of your life just because you had gotten carried away in a moment of lust…

Deep down you knew what you felt for him extended far beyond simple lust, but you were willing to ignore those feelings, to act as if they weren’t there for the sake of keeping him by your side.

You buried your head in the pillow in an attempt to hold back the tears that already started to form inside your eyes, an intense ache inside your chest forming at the thought of having messed up so badly with Davos. He was the person you cared for the most and thinking that you may have caused him any wrong made you feel a profound disappointment on yourself.

It wasn’t until you felt an arm surrounding your waist and a slight shifting on the other side of the bed that you lifted your head, finding Davos laying down next to you again.

“Where were you?” Your voice was a bit husky from having just waken up a few minutes ago. You wanted to lay your head on his chest, but didn’t in case it would make him uncomfortable.

“I was checking the perimeter.” He said, as if it was the most natural thing to do at 3:00 am. “Did I wake you?”

You carefully shook your head as you avoided looking into his eyes.

Judging by the calm tone in which he spoke, you could tell that he wasn’t angry and you felt slightly stupid for having panicked and jumped into the conclusion that he had abandoned you so fast. Still, things weren’t solved up yet. As you finally looked up at him, you wondered in which state was your relationship at.

Davos had been taught that a living weapon should not get involved sexually or emotionally with anyone. And, even if you always tried to convince him that he was a person before a warrior, you weren’t sure he actually believed your words. You weren’t even sure he had ever even considered having a romantic relationship before that evening, but looking at the way he lovingly stared at you, it almost seemed as if he wanted you too.

“What would you check the perimeter for?” You asked in confusion. Was he in danger? Had Danny found him and wanted to bring him to justice? You started to become preoccupied as you thought of all the worse scenarios.

“I do it every night. This neighborhood is full of thugs and criminals, like the one trying to mug you when we first met.” He clarified, gaining a frown from you that silently asked him to explain further. You only hoped he hadn’t gone back to being a ‘vigilante’, it had taken you a lot of effort to talk him out of it. “By making guard I can make sure you’re safe.”

Instantly after hearing his words you felt your heart warming up, moved by the fact that he cared about you to the point of watching over you every night. Hesitantly, you got closer to him and taking the fact that he didn’t pulled back as a silent sign of consent, you placed a tender kiss on his lips.

“Thank you for taking care of me, but you don’t need to make guard every night.” You gently brushed your fingers against his stubble, your eyes on his as you spoke softly. “You need to take care of yourself and get a full night of sleep. Would you do that for me?”

The second he slowly nodded his head a gentle smile formed on your face. You pressed your lips against his once more before cuddling beside him, letting your head rest on his shoulder.

The calming sound of his breathing was enough to quickly made you sleepy again.

“Davos,” You mumbled his name with your eyes closed, feeling consciousness slowly fading from you. “I love you.”

You were too numbed to notice, but Davos’ body clenched at your words. You didn’t know, but it was the first time someone ever dedicated those words to him. He had fought all his life to get approval, travelled to the other side of the world to make the ones he loved proud, hoping they would show him the affection he had always craved for. When K’un-Lun was destroyed, he lost all hope of having someone say those words to him, of gaining someone’s love. And yet, there you were, right between his arms.

You were already asleep when he pressed a kiss on your forehead.

“I love you too.”

#Davos x reader #Steel Serpent x reader #Sacha Dhawan #Iron fist #Iron fist fanfic #Sacha Dhawan x reader #Sacha Dhawan x you #Davos #Steel Serpent #Davos one shot #Steel Serpent one shot #When I first watched Iron Fist 3 years ago I never thought I would be writing fanfiction for it #But look at me now #I just love Davos #It's all Sacha's fault

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dresupi · 4 years ago

Text

I Remember You - Sherlolly

for @mcgregorswench 1,068 words Rated T I Remember You - Skid Row

~~~~~~~~~~

Molly took a sip from her tea and placed the cup back on the counter top, swiping through the article on her iPad. She wasn’t really reading it. She was thinking about something.

Someone.

Someone she shouldn’t be thinking about.

Someone she shouldn’t be giving another thought to. Who didn’t deserve the real estate in her mind.

But here she was thinking about him again.

And as if on queue, her phone buzzed on the counter. His name popping up on the screen and she watched it ring for a long moment, wondering if this would be the time she wouldn’t answer the thing. Just let her voicemail pick it up and wait until he was desperate to see her. Give him a taste of his own medicine.

Except she knew Sherlock. And if she didn’t answer, he’d do one of two things: He would move on to the next person on his list, or he’d come barging in to ensure she was alright. And if she was alright, she really should answer when someone phones her.

Sighing, she picked up the phone, answering the call, and holding it to her ear. “Hello?”

“Molly,” he said, sounding a bit manic. “Thought you weren’t going to answer... is everything alright?”

“It’s fine, Sherlock. What do you want?”

He was silent for a long moment. “I deserved that,” he muttered, almost to himself. “I was just calling to see if you’d like to go get coffee.”

“Coffee?” she repeated.

“Yes, Molly. It’s a brewed drink, usually served hot, but iced coffees have become quite popular in recent years.”

She almost laughed, but she didn’t. “I’m aware of what it is, Sherlock. I’m just not familiar with you wanting to go get some. With me. Or do anything with me for that matter.”

He was silent again. “Is there something else you’d rather do?”

She was almost stunned. Did Sherlock really want her opinon on things to do? Probably not. He was likely just trying to butter her up for something he needed ‘his pathologist’ for.

“I’d rather if you just told me what you’re on about.”

“I remember you once asked me for a coffee and I... I insulted you and coerced you into getting one for me... I simply wish to make amends.”

“Amends?”

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

That was how Molly Hooper found herself in a crowded coffee shop with Sherlock Holmes, sipping an artisan coffee blend while he attempted small talk.

He wasn’t the best at this, so It was tiny talk. Microscopic talk.

“Anything interesting come into Bart’s?” he asked.

Ah. There it was.

“What have you heard?” she asked, letting her arm fall onto the tabletop, feeling rather stupid for falling for his ploy yet again.

“Nothing,” he said, furrowing his brow. “Why? What’s there?“

“Nothing...” she replied, watching him curiously. “What did you hear was there?”

“Nothing,” he repeated. “I simply want to hear about your work.”

“In what capacity?” Molly asked.

“In any capacity,” he replied.

“Alright... it’s just odd.”

“What is?”

‘You. Being... amiable.”

He chuckled at that. “I suppose I am something of an ass, aren’t I?”

“That’s putting it mildly,” she teased, taking a sip from her latte. “To answer your question, work’s been fine. I found some liver flukes on a man I autopsied last week. That was... interesting, to say the least.”

“Cause of death?” he asked.

“Not the parasites, surprisingly. He had a sudden stroke. Unrelated to any of the fluke activity. But if he’d lived, they’d have persisted without medical attention.”

“Is that so rare?” he asked.

“Not really. Most people have parasites, but I thought it was worth noting how many he had.”

“Interesting,” he said. And for once, Molly could actually believe someone when they said that.

The rest of the coffee date went well, with Molly bringing up more anecdotes form work and forcing other people to move away from them.

Sherlock smiled once he noticed what she was doing. “That’s a handy trick, Molly.”

“Isn’t it?” she said with a smirk. “Whenever I need to save a seat in any public place, I just pretend to be on my phone and start talking about work. Works every time.”

They remained in the shop until closing, only rising after they both left a sizable tip on the table for keeping it occupied all afternoon.

As they walked outside, Molly assumed Sherlock would make a quick escape, his social obligation fulfilled, but he didn’t.

Much to the contrary, he stood on the sidewalk with his hands in his pockets and asked her more questions.

That is, until she looked up into his eyes. “What do you want, Sherlock?”

“You,” he said quietly, his blue eyes boring into hers.

“What?” she asked, sure she heard him wrong.

“I want you, Molly. I know I haven’t been the most attentive to you in the past, but after Eurus...”

The mention of his sister’s name made the hair on the back of her neck prickle.

“Eurus made you realize you wanted me?”

“No. I always wanted you. Eurus made me realize that life is short, and I shouldn’t muck it up by denying the fact that I want you.”

Molly chewed on her bottom lip for a moment, trying to mull it over in her mind even as her brain told her to go for it. To just lay one on him and see if he was telling the truth.

She was terrified that he wasn’t. That this was some ploy to get somewhere. Like he needed to break into this building after hours and a long date was the only way to stake it out without drawing suspicion.

“What the hell,” she murmured, rising up on her toes and gripping the lapels of his coat with both hands. She tugged him down and pressed her lips to his.

He froze for a split second, and then he reached for her. Of course, his hands were in his pockets, so they were caught for a moment as he struggled to get them out and pull her close.

He finally got them out, breaking off the kiss to wrap one around her waist and use the other to tuck her hair behind her ear. “It’s about bloody time,” he murmured.

“I could say the same to you,” she countered.

He didn’t respond, just lowered his lips to hers again

#Sherlolly #Sherlock x Molly #Molly x Sherlock #Sherlock Holmes #Molly Hooper #Sherlock/Molly #Molly/Sherlock #Song Prompts 2020 #orange #my writing #mcgregorswench

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all-things-skam · 5 years ago

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Jens’ Season: Chapter seven

Saturday, February 15th

Freshly woken up, Jens stared at his ceiling, deep in his thoughts. He had slept for over twelve hours, but somehow still felt exhausted.

Now that the Xanax had worn off, he was left to face his thoughts, the same ones he tried to escape last night - with the addition of guilt.

The bag of pills sat louder than usual in his drawer, a reminder of yesterday’s moment of weakness. Jens wasn’t proud of himself for having taken a Xanax. But, sometimes, when your brain gets too loud and all you want is for it to stop, you make impulsive choices, bad choices. The severity of your choice only hits you the following morning, when you come back to your senses.

It’s not like he could go back in time though. What was done was done. But, he still felt remorse.

Even though it felt good.

Jens closed his eyes, turning over, about to fall back asleep when he saw that Lucas was trying to FaceTime.

He smiled, seeing his boyfriend's pouty face on his phone screen and answered. ‘’Hey, beautiful.’’

Lucas reciprocated the smile, but not fully. ‘’Hey… You never returned my messages last night. Everything okay?’’ he asked, pushing his fringe away from his face, voice a little worried.

Shit.

‘’Erm, yeah...sorry. I fell asleep super early.’’

Although it wasn’t a lie, Jens felt bad for omitting the truth to Lucas about his evening. But he couldn’t tell him about the Xanax, not after he promised he wasn’t taking any, not over Facetime. If the cat were to be out of the bag, it would be in person. It’s too easy to hang up on someone instead of listening to them.

‘’Oh. It’s okay,’’ Lucas said. The screen joistled, becoming a little blurry from the movements as Lucas adjusted his position on the couch, the bright yellow wall of his living room peeking in the background. ‘’I spent all night binge watching your Broerrrs vlogs.’’

Jens raised an eyebrow. ‘’All of them?’’

He had never counted how many vlogs they’ve posted on YouTube, but there was at least a dozen - if not more. They weren’t very long vlogs, but it was a commitment to binge them all. Jens found it cute that Lucas had spent his evening watching the vlogs - regardless how cringe-y some were.

Lucas hummed proudly. ‘’I missed your pretty face. And, you weren’t responding to my messages.’’

Jens scoffed. ‘’My face, uh?’’

‘’Yeah…’’ A light blush spread on Lucas’ cheeks and ears, biting back a grin. ‘’I’ll admit, you looked mighty fine in that wetsuit. Zero points for the wakeboarding skills, though...but it's not really what I was interested in.'' The brunet smirked, holding the camera closer. ''I was in the mood for something else. Too bad you were sleeping, I had to take matters into my own hands - literally. Wasn’t as good as the real thing though.’’

‘’No?’’ Jens said, faking innocence. ‘’You like my hand better?’’

‘’Your mouth, actually,’’ Lucas corrected, blunt. ‘’Those full lips aren’t just good for talking,’’ he added, capturing his bottom lip between his teeth.

Heat rushed to Jens’ cheeks, but he wasn't embarrassed. He was pretty smug about it. Judging by the appreciative noises Lucas made whenever he went down on him, Jens had nothing to be embarrassed about.

Someone called Lucas’ name and he looked behind him, the screen going black as the phone fell on his chest. Jens could hear some voices, but it was hushed by Lucas’ hoodie material.

‘’Gotta go,’’ Lucas announced, returning to Jens.

‘’You’re kidding me?!’’

‘’My mom needs me to go grocery shopping. And then, I’m meeting up with Kes and Jayden.’’

The fucking tease.

Blood had started rushing down, feeling himself growing hard under his boxers. ‘’You can’t say shit like that and then...leave. Luc, come on! Don’t leave me hanging-’’

Lucas shrugged. ‘’Payback’s a bitch.’’ He blew a kiss and winked at the camera before ending the call.

The screen went black as Lucas hung up, disconnecting the call. Jens stared at his phone, mouth open slightly, having been cut off before he could protest any more. He felt his dick twitch and groaned in frustration, a reminder of his growing problem. What was he supposed to do now? Jerk off to the stains on his ceiling? He doubted it would work.

Lucas: Here’s something to help with your...problem. Took it last night with the thought of you 😏🍆✨

[Image attached]

Jens' mouth went dry as he stared at the photo.

Fuck.

A bare stomach, shirt bunched up near the lens and a hand sliding underneath sweatpants, mid-tone trail of hair vanishing into the darkness. The grey sweatpants had a significant tent and Jens knew it wasn't only Lucas' hand that was hidden under.

He clicked on the photo, making it fill his phone screen, gaze lingering on Lucas' smooth stomach, moles scattered here and there in various sizes. He recognized the fading hickey right on his hip bone, a memory from when Jens slept over at Lucas’. The bad lighting of what he assumed was Lucas' bedroom highlighted just enough to make Jens take a breath and reach into his boxers, mimicking Lucas' last night activities.

Monday, February 17th

Picking up his sister at school wasn’t Jens’ initial Monday plan. After spending a weekend apart, Lucas and him had planned to go to Lucas’ place after school to...hangout. While jerking off to Lucas’ explicit picture had done the job, it wasn’t as good as the real thing.

But their plan had been cut short when Jens’ mom couldn’t join their dad and his sister had no one to pick her up from school.

‘’Is this okay?’’ Lucas asked as they walked to Lotte’s school. He hadn't met any member of Jens’ family yet, he wanted to check with Jens first - even if Jens was the one who asked to come along.

Jens furrowed his eyebrows, confused. ‘’Why would it not be?’’

Lucas shrugged. ‘’I don’t know. She’s never met me. Won’t it be weird for her?’’

‘’No. She might pester you with tons of questions, but I don’t think she’ll catch on for us.’’

‘’Do you not want to tell her?’’

‘’It’s not that. I don’t even think she knows what bisexual means.’’

Even though Lotte was smart for her age, Jens doubted she had learned those big terms. The vastness of sexuality wasn't something they taught kids at school.

They stopped as they reached the school’ gate and Jens checked the time on his phone. Seven minutes left until class ends.

Jens leaned his back against the fence and listened as Lucas was telling him about his weekend. He told him about Isa getting drunk and singing karaoke, missing all the notes to this super cheesy love song. It was horrible - and hilarious. Lucas’ ears were still bleeding from the screeching and how off key she sounded. Jayden had made a video, but sadly Lucas didn’t have it.

As Jens was listening to Lucas’ other anecdotes from his weekend in Utrecht, both boys started getting dirty looks from other parents from simply holding hands. Lucas noticed first, his smile falling as he became very self-conscious of his surroundings, and let go of Jens’ hand. Jens didn’t comment on it, narrowing his eyes at the close minded, homophobic moms.

The final bell rang and kids poured out the front doors like a giant tidal wave. Lotte saw her brother and ran up to him giving him a hug from behind. “Where’s Mama? She was supposed to pick me up today.”

‘’Mom had to replace someone at work. She sent me instead,’’ he responded, reaching behind himself and putting a hand on her shoulder to hug her back.

‘’Where’s your jacket? Mama said to wear it this morning or you’re gonna get sick,’’ Lotte’ voice asked, standing behind her brother, noticing his absence of outwear.

‘’Someone stole it,’’ Jens defended, turning around to face her.

‘’Liar.’’ Jens made a face at her - very mature - and she glanced at Lucas, not recognizing him. ‘’Who are you?’’ she asked, giving him a look.

Her tone was a bit rude, but Lucas smiled at her. She’s a kid, he reminded himself. ‘’I’m Lucas. You must be Lotte? Jens told me about you.’’

She pulled her eyebrows together. ‘’He did?’’ Lucas hummed. ‘’Well, I never heard of you. How long have you and Jens been friends for? You’ve never come around before with Robbe or the other guys?”

Lucas laughed and gave Jens a look, not knowing what to say. Lucky for him, Jens came to his rescue.

‘’Lucas is coming home with us. We...we have a school project to work on,’’ he lied. ‘’And...he’s not just my friend, Lotte. Lucas is my boyfriend.’’

‘’Your boyfriend?’’ she repeated, a bit confused. ‘’Don’t you mean girlfriend? Where did Jana go?’’

The thing with children was that they have no filters - and always asked tons of questions. Lucky for him, Lotte loved Jana and liked to constantly ask about her absence.

‘’We are not together anymore.’’

‘’Why?’’

‘’Because we're just not.’’ Jens sighed, getting impatient and irritated by his sister’s questions. ‘’Now, let’s go.’’ He took her hand and they were on their way.

Lotte didn’t notice Jens irritation and proceeded to ramble on as they made their way home. Kids had a lot of things to say at this age.

Jens pulled out his keys to unlock the door when Lotte reminded him about her dance recital.

‘’I have a dance spectacle on Thursday, will you be there? Dad said he’ll be there,’’ she said, excitedly. ‘’He said he’ll bring me flowers.’’

‘’I’ll be in the front row.’’

‘’You’ll be coming too, right?’’ she asked Lucas, taking the brunet by surprise.

He hadn't expected Lotte to invite him, given how haughty she acted to him minutes ago, but kids can be surprising.

‘’If that’s alright with Jens,’’ Lucas responded, glancing at his boyfriend for approval.

Jens looked between his sister and his boyfriend. ‘’I should be asking you the same. My parents will be there. You ready to meet them?’’

Tuesday, February 18th

Taking a break from his homework, Jens decided to get something to eat. He had eaten dinner less than an hour ago, but was still hungry. This paper was due tomorrow and he wasn't half-way done. Maybe he was stress eating? Who knows.

Jens was almost at the end of the stairs, thinking whether he should take cookies or chips when he saw his father’s laptop and dress shoes in the entrance, next to his sister’s pink rain boots. He furrowed his eyebrows. It was possible that his dad didn’t need his laptop, that they had computers at his job, but why would he leave work without his shoes? And why was he not home yet? It was way past 5pm.

Should he call his mom? What was his dad’s work’s company name? Maybe he can make a call and ask if he’s at his desk or if someone named Mohamed Stoffels works for them? If he wasn’t at work, where was he? His car wasn’t in the driveway, he had to be somewhere.

Wednesday, February 19th

Aaron: Is tomorrow alright with everyone?

Robbe: Good for me!

Moyo: Me too!

Aaron: Jens?

Jens’ phone buzzed on his bed, lost under his textbooks. The History test that had been reported was happening tomorrow and Jens had completely forgotten until he heard some girl mention it in class. He and Lucas’ studying attempt hadn’t been a success in terms of real studying so Jens had to power through and learn everything in less than 24h.

Why is he so last minute?

Jens: Can’t

Jens: I’m going to my sister’s dance spectacle. Can’t miss it

Moyo: We need to film a Broerrrs vlog soon though. I know we posted on Valentine’s Day, but we filmed that almost a month ago. We need new content

Robbe: I’m going to lunch with Sander and his mom on Saturday and visiting my mom on Sunday

Jens: Why don’t we just plan something for next week? Like on Wednesday? We can do something at the skatepark?

Aaron: That sounds good to me. I’m free that day

Moyo: So, Amber finally let you off your leash 😂

Aaron: 🖕🏻

Robbe: That works for me as well

Jens: Cool. See everybody on Wednesday after school

Thursday, February 20th

Jens waited for Lucas outside the auditorium Lotte’s dance spectacle was held at. He checked his phone, waiting for an update from Lucas about his journey. He said he was close to the venue, but that was ten minutes ago. Where was he?

From here, he could hear the group of hostile parents ranting about their children' talent and how their child was better than everyone else and tearing others down. Jens hated this kind of parents. They were showing toxic behavior to their kids and teaching them the wrong way of being competitive.

A head of curls turned the corner and Jens smiled, seeing Lucas had dressed up a bit for the occasion, having switched his blue jeans for black ones and a less wrinkly tee shirt. It was cute that he put effort and wanted to look good, make a good impression when meeting his boyfriend's parents.

''Am I late?'' he asked, seeing a few parents getting inside and a lot of cars in the parking lot. ''I was on the phone with Kes and didn't see time pass.''

Jens put his phone in his pocket and shook his head. ''No. You're good.'' He stole a kiss from Lucas, lingering as if they hadn't seen each other at school two hours ago. Did he put cologne on? ''Ready to meet my mom?''

Lucas made a quiet noise but smiled, nodding. He hadn’t said anything, but his stomach was knotted with a small stress from meeting Jens’ parents. Jens said his parents would like him, but Lucas couldn’t help but think: ‘what if they don’t?’. After all, he was the first boy Jens would introduce to them.

''Mom.''

Fenna stopped her conversation with the woman next to her and glanced at her son. She smiled, seeing that he wasn't alone. ''You must be Lucas. My daughter told me about you. 'Jens' new ‘girlfriend'.''

Lucas chuckled at Lotte's word mixing and nodded. ''Yeah. That's me.''

“It’s very nice to meet you, Lucas. You must like Jens very much to come to an 8 years old’s dance recital.”

Jens face turned bright red as his mom teased him, fulfilling her motherly duty to embarrass her son.

Lucas grinned, leaning back against Jens. ‘’Actually, Lotte invited me. I hope I'm not intruding.’’

Fenna shook her head. ''Not at all. I’m glad she invited you. Otherwise, I don’t know when nor if Jens would’ve told me about you.’’

Jens rolled his eyes. ‘’Of course I would've. It’s just very recent, Mom.’’

‘’Don’t just stand there. Have a seat.'' She took her purse from the chair beside her and Jens sat down, Lucas doing the same next to him. ''Get ready to be amazed at the amount of glitter and squealing that is about to happen.”

‘’Where were you?’’ Jens asked the second his dad came home, turning on the small lamp.

He had been waiting for him in the living room, lights turned off, like parents do in movies when their kids miss curfew. Jens knew his mom wouldn’t confront him about missing Lotte’s dance spectacle, but seeing how upset his sister was, his dad needed to be questioned.

‘’You missed Lotte’s dance spectacle.’’

‘’It was tonight?’’ He removed his jacket, hanging it on the hooks in the entrance. ‘’I got held back at work. I’m sorry-’’

‘’I’m not the one you should apologize to. You promised her you’d be there. Do you know how heartbroken she was when she came on stage and didn’t see you in the front row?’’

‘’I’ll be there next time.’’

Bullshit. Jens scoffed. ‘’Don't make promises you know you can’t keep. Everyone might buy your lies, but I don’t.’’

Mohamed frowned, confused. ‘’What is this about?’’

‘’I’m the one who had to hold her while she cried after her dance performance because you weren’t there. I’m the one who picked her up on Monday because you weren’t answering your phone. I’m the one who took you to bed the night you got so drunk you couldn’t take off your shoes on your own. I’m the one who is helping mom around the house because you’re never there. We’re about to lose the house because of you. Because instead of picking yourself back up, you pile on the lies and assume we’re all blind enough to not notice.’’

‘’I’m tired of always having to cover for you every time you fuck up. You’re the father figure in this family, not me.’’

‘’I’m doing better now, I have a job and-’’

‘’Do you even have a job? Or is it another one of your lies? Because I saw your work shoes and laptop at the bottom of the stairs on Tuesday and I’m 99% certain you left the house with them in the morning.’’

Mohamed’s face tightened and Jens’ eyes grew wide, realizing that he had just confronted his father and was right about him lying.

“Go to your room. It’s late and you have school tomorrow.”

‘’Are you sending me to my room because I’m out of line or because I’m right?’’

Jens didn’t wait for his dad’s response, walking over to the stairs and going to his room, like he was ordered to.

He closed his bedroom door behind him and locked it. His heart was beating fast behind his chest, reeled up from the argument with his dad. He hadn’t meant to get this heated nor to confront him about everything, but once he started talking, he just word-vomited the rest.

Jens wished their conversation hadn’t gone like that, but he couldn’t keep everything in anymore. He had enough.

He wondered if his mom had heard them? They didn’t yell, but it was pretty intense. Jens didn't care though. If anything, it was a good thing that his mom heard. Now, she knew about her husband's lies.

He felt a tightening pain in his chest and his mind was racing. Running his hands over his face, Jens needed to calm down or else he wouldn't be able to sleep. He went to his dresser, pulled it open, and groaned, remembering that he was still out of weed. He needs to see Michiel and ask for more soon.

The bag of Xanax stared at him in the drawer, a couple white pills left in it, right next to his rolling paper. He had told himself he wouldn’t take Xanax again, but it was - again - his only option tonight.

Once the pill swallowed, Jens went to lay on his bed and curled up on himself, waiting for the medication to kick in.

Friday, February 21st

‘’Where are we meeting them?’’

‘’The bar in front of the café. You know, the one you met Sander and Robbe at?’’ Jens explained, pulling on his shoes and fishing his keys from his jacket to lock the door on his way out.

Lucas hummed.

The bar that they usually go to was having a half off drink special, so they decided that they should all go out and have a guys night. Robbe had invited Sander and suggested that Jens ask Lucas to come as well. Moyo and Aaron had already met Lucas so him tagging along wouldn’t cause too much suspicion. And, it’s not like they would all stay together inside the bar - at least, not all night.

‘’I was hoping it would be just the two of us tonight,’’ Lucas said with a pout, looking too cute for his own good.

Jens sighed, stepping forward where Lucas was standing. ‘’Me too, but I can’t always blow my friends off. We can always sneak into the bathroom or something? I’m sure we’ll find a place to make out.’’

Lucas smirked. ‘’I like this idea very very much.’’ He leaned his head against Jens’ and brought their lips together, winding his arms around Jens neck, and snaking a hand in his hair.

Their kiss was short as Jens pulled back, suddenly reminded of something.

‘’I forgot something upstairs. I’ll be quick.’’

Sighing, Lucas let go of him and Jens hurried upstairs, climbing the stairs two by two to save time.

He opened his top drawer and reached for the bag of pills, fully aware that Lucas was waiting downstairs and that he was doing this behind his back. Jens contemplated if he should take one, knowing Moyo would have weed on him and would share a blunt with them and he’d feel the same. But, he wanted the high now and knew the effects of Xanax were much faster and more efficient than weed.

Just as he was about to pop it into his mouth, Lucas opened his bedroom door and came up behind him.

‘’Jens, Robbe asked if we were on our way- What are you doing?!’’

Whirling around, Jens saw Lucas standing in his doorway, blue eyes wide and staring right at the Xanax he was about to take. Fuck.

‘’You said you weren’t taking any. You lied to me.’’ Lucas shook his head, stepping back.

Jens tried to reach out and explain what was happening, but Lucas was backing away from him, completely disconcerted. He didn’t know what hurt more; that his boyfriend had lied to him or that he had snuck upstairs to take this shit.

‘’Sorry, I..I have to go home,’’ Lucas said, voice shaky as he turned on his heels and raced down the stairs.

Cursing under his breath, Jens dropped the pill and went after him. ‘’Luc, wait!’’

#vds #jens stoffels #lucas van der heijden #van der stoffels #wtfock #jens's season #skam nl #jens x lucas #lucas x jens

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