libraryinthewoods
libraryinthewoods
“ah, but i call it love.”
48 posts
⬆️ you call it madness lyrics! ⬆️just an archive for writing im gonna try and do! ^^ (pfp by @lbozoghost!)
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libraryinthewoods · 5 days ago
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(shhhhhh i just need to write something really fast abt 7n7 c00lgui wires. okay? okay. tw VERY SUGGESTIVE! praise kink and wireplay! YAY!)
“Vaniiii..” A whine, this time.
It was drawn out and loud, a thin puff of air.
Vani clicked ver tongue in note, shifting slightly at the end of the bed. Her hands twitched.
They didn’t move nor squeeze, they simply spasmed for a moment.
But that was enough. Another sound.
A brush of ver nail against a bright red wire, keratin meeting— rubber? She thinks?
Ah well. Ve didn’t need to know what they were made of to know they were sensitive.
“Mmmhm?” Ve hummed back to 7n7.
She deserved to be a bit of a prick.
Ve twisted the wires in her palm ever so slightly, careful to not tug them out of place.
And Seven groaned, back arching, white knuckling the bedsheets like he’d drift off otherwise. Wow.
Ve simply stared at him in awe. Because, just—
Wow.
7n7 isn’t attractive.
Even Vani can admit that.
She feels no more aesthetic nor sexual attraction to him than ve does anyone else.
But who really needs physical sex appeal when she has a little nerd hacker boy writhing in his bed over a bit of wire tugging?
He’s not exactly quiet either.
Feeble calls of ver name mix with the whimpers he tries valiantly to stifle. It’s all cute, really.
“Is this even about fixing your gui anymore, Sev?” She knew the answer.
“Ah..” 7n7 groaned again, hardly even a reply. But looking up ve could see he was trying to speak.
She stilled.
“You’re a di— AH!” Woopsies! Cut-off again!
Vani crawled ever closer, c00lgui following behind ver. And she landed right between Seven’s legs, of course.
One hand rest on his thigh, rubbing soothingly.
“Yeah? Wanna finish that thought?” The shit-lipped grin on ver face had been earned fair and square.
She had bested an infamous hacker in such a simple manner.
Such a primal manner.
“See? You can be sweet after all.” 7n7’s tail twitched at those words.
Particularly at “sweet” of all things.
No, surely that didn’t mean—
“Do you like being good for me, Sev?”
He flushed, rushing to hide it, hoping to still his wagging tail, praying to keep that small keen muted. He didn’t want this attention.
“Spawn, Vanity, if you don’t shut up—”
Cut-off part two! With a kiss this time.
It’s sloppy and gross, teeth collide with teeth, canines meet the metal of braces, saliva shared in the comfort of a shitty college dorm.
Vani crowds whatever desperate sounds spill from 7n7 right back into his mouth, almost to bottle him up.
To wind him up.
Pulling back is a monumental effort on ver end, but it’s all worth it to see that little strand of spit that connects the two.
It’s all worth it to see 7n7’s face, eyes glassy and cheeks flushed near as red as his gui.
And two of her hands find his face, cradling it.
One of ver thumbs pushes into his mouth, pressing heavy on his tongue.
She’s testing the waters.
He doesn’t bite. He doesn’t even move. He simply lets ver warm her thumb with his mouth.
She smiles, bright and happy.
“Good boy.”
AND THEN VE TUGS ON 7N7S WIRES UNTIL HE SQUIRTS EVERYWHERE OKAY BYE BYE
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libraryinthewoods · 19 days ago
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throw your cares away!
(bleleleleeh! go my selfship stuff. fluff of my sona, guest1337, and 007n7. cause i HATE YOU ALL!)
“Just breathe for us, ‘kay?” Simple instructions, wrapped in a soft tone. Meant to be gentle.
Breathe. Okay, yeah, she can do that. Ve does that all the time. She does it in ver sleep! This should be no different.
In, her chest rising as ver lungs fill.
Out, a steady collapse.
In.
Out.
In.
“OW!” Well, she had done as ve was told. It just hadn’t worked out in her favor.
Nor in Guest’s, judging by the wounded sigh he let out. One he tried to muffle, but was audible nonetheless. This room was rather quiet.
007n7’s grip tightened, holding ver hands steady. He was here for her.
“Sorry..” Ve was, she really was, ve just wished she could promise that would be the last time that happened. The last time ve thrashed and squirmed as her wounds were tended.
A calloused hand found itself on ver shoulder, squeezing tightly. Oh, two hands, actually.
“Here, how ‘bout I try something. Is that okay with you, Vanity?” Guest’s voice sounded near as delicate as 007n7’s.
Go figure, the man she’s known for years rubbing off on the man ve’s known for however long they’ve been stuck here.
“Yeah.” And she had to ignore how ve croaked that out. She had to ignore how ver nerves made their presence known, how her trust in Guest wasn’t strong enough for this—
Ve felt another pair of hands on her face, guiding ver to just look ahead.
Seven’s eyes. Those warm amber irises.
Those shockingly soft palms that cradled her chin. Just enough to keep ver grounded.
She exhaled, shaky at best, but ve managed to ease some of the tension off. She hoped that was enough for Guest to— To understand.
Ve was trying to let her guard down.
“Atta girl.” Then those hands previously on ver shoulders dipped lower, tracing just above where they’d been trying to bandage.
She hissed through ver teeth. A warning.
But 007n7 drew her back in, bumping his forehead against ver own, just enough to distract her.
Christ, ve felt like an overanxious shelter dog.
Guest was the poor vet stuck with ver, trying to take care of something so very scared and defensive.
That made Seven her emotional support animal, maybe? Someone to regulate ver, keep her from snapping all too hard.
An unexpected groan tore from ver throat, spurred on by something. What—
Oh.
Guest was massaging her back. And it didn’t hurt? Somehow? But, he was— He was right on the areas of infection how could—
With a sigh, ve eased up, shoulders drooping, muscles falling lax for the first time in god knows how long. It felt nice.
“There ya go.” Something in her basked in the way Guest cooed at ver, the sound of his voice rolling over her in waves. Knowing ve was doing something good.
And she fell right into 007n7’s waiting palms.
Ve’d fall over and over again for him, always for him, it didn’t matter the situation. She was lovestruck, plain and simple.
It was nice knowing he cared for ver in the exact same manner. That he loved her.
“Trrrrrrr..” The trill slipped before ve could even stop herself, before ve could even process—
“Feelin’ any better?”
Just a gentle voice, humming, pressing into her tense shoulder blades. Ve felt like a spool of yarn, tugged loose and unraveled.
She chittered again. Fuck words.
Seven chuckled in front of ver, his thumbs brushing along her jaw in slow motions. He was practically petting ver.
Not that she cared.
“Can we try and bandage them again?” 007n7 asked this time, carefully suggesting rather than demanding it of ver.
She nodded, albeit hesitantly, but ve was relaxed. She was hazy, head in the clouds.
Ve wanted more affection from the two.
But she wouldn’t be asking for it.
The next 20 minutes went rather well, resulting in Guest’s first success in bandaging ver up. And she felt loads better already.
Maybe it’s because ve almost fell asleep leaning against the man behind her, Seven sitting comfortably on ver lap. They were both so warm.
At the moment? Guest’s head rest atop her own, 007n7 sandwiching ver between the two.
Maybe this place isn’t so bad.
She’s finally at peace with ver friend/crush of over ten years and she even has a few new, uhm— “friends” by ver side.
At least she wasn’t left to rot anymore.
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libraryinthewoods · 2 months ago
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go my unfinished aziracrow/jontim crossover.
The champagne glass was tall, thin, much like himself. Minus the way it cast pearly reflections onto the surface of their dining table.
Minus the way it warped Tim’s reflection when he peered through it.
He was a lightweight when it came to alcohol. Or, more accurately, his corporeal form was a lightweight.
He knew that. He had known that.
Still, they’d had a long day. And it was in his nature to indulge.
Besides, Tim had ��tempted” him to a spot of lunch and he was never one to turn down an invitation.
“A toast,” He declared at the moment, raising the glass, letting the other fall back into view.
“A toast to us.”
Tim cocked his head to the side, clearly trying to mask his laughter. Or hide it. Neither of which was working.
It was damn near as bubbly as the champagne.
“A toast to us.” The angel mirrored back. How did Tim have him beat in that regard? Alcohol tolerance, he means.
He was a demon for Satan’s sake.
The clink of glass-on-glass derailed his train of thought, sending him reeling for a moment, fishing to find something else to say.
“Back to yours then?” No, he hadn’t processed that Tim was clearly working his way through a plate of food. Of course he hadn’t.
“After you sober up? Maybe.”
Jon groaned, a long, wounded sound that wasn’t fit for a fine establishment like this one. But he is the same guy sitting sideways in his chair so the writing’s on the wall.
“You’re a whiny thing sometimes, y’know that?” Tim grumbled back through his most recent mouthful of— What Jon could only assume was pasta? The plate was finished by now.
With a snap of the angel’s fingers, he folded into himself, clutching his stomach.
Sobering up.
It was always odd watching as the drink emptied itself
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libraryinthewoods · 2 months ago
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i wish i could talk to you.
me and my husband awaw.... continuation of the fic!!!! he made of us!!!!! sniles wide :) pspspspspsps @disconnectedkid :3
Randal’s hand was cold in his own, the chill creeping along ver palm like it was trying to reach his bones.
Not that ve cared, it felt nice, if anything.
A stark contrast to the warmth of his own body and the cloying heat of this stuffy, old building. It was sort’ve like putting an ice pack on your head after being outside too long.
A relief, a welcome, blissful relief.
The wings on ver head fanned out, fluttered, trying to clear any odd thoughts manually, perhaps? He could never truly tell.
“Awesome,” Ve muttered, sounding far too awestruck. Try again. “Awesome.”
And Randal crooked his head to the side, screen flashing with his own thoughts and oh god, save ver, he should not be this cute.
[ Did you have somewhere in mind? ]
Ah, shit, right, Vanity had to put actual thought into this. Fuck.
“Well, uh, baby steps? Let’s get out of here, first. Get you used to the sun.” Ve paused, thinking. “Have you been in the sun before?”
Randal froze, which sparked a great deal of concern before, no, let him clarify, he has.
[ I think so. There are a few broken windows that let in the sunlight. I like staying near them. The warmth is nice. ]
Maybe he could do something with that. Ve had a few ideas stirring, bubbling up, in his brain already. Ve’ll let those simmer for now.
“That’s good! Any exposure is good exposure, I think. How about bright lights?”
Another head tilt. [ What about them? ]
“Just, uh, can you handle them? They won’t be too much for you?” That’s a good place to start. They could always wait for dawn if daytime proved to be too much.
[ I’m not sure. It’s not exactly the brightest in here, if you haven’t noticed. ]
A chuckle, huffed through gritted teeth.
“No, believe me, I have. We’ll be cautious then. So, uh—” Right. Still holding the computer boy’s hand. Hey, no, don’t tighten your grip—
“Ready to go?”
Randal was hesitant, his own tail, that Vanity had just now noticed, tucked in. He seemed to shrink in on himself, shying away, but not letting go of ver hand.
[ As I’ll ever be. ]
And, yeah, he’s sure that if ve was able to hear the tone associated with those words ve’d point out how unconfident Randy was, but, no, he’ll just go along with it.
Hand in hand, ver wings began to beat a tad stronger. A steady rhythm that brought them ever higher into the air.
He totally didn’t have to grab Randal from underneath his armpits.
Totally.
Hauling an entire other being as ve flew was— Shockingly a lot easier than he’d thought it be.
With all eight pairs of ver wings flapping, he really should’ve expected it to be less troublesome.
I mean, ve had eight pairs of fucking wings.
Right. Right, he was very out of shape though. Ve didn’t have much time to sit and ponder lest he wish to drop ver new friend.
Up and out of the same skylight he’d come in through, zipping around as fast as ve could manage with the extra weight tagged on. Not that Randal added much, no.
Again; he’s just out of shape.
Quick scan around once they’re out, and, oh, would you look at that.
A willow tree perched at the top of a hill, the now setting sun painting the horizon with a plethora of hibiscus-hued strokes.
Perfect.
Short flight too, barely a couple of minutes before ve’s landing. He took extra caution in setting Randy down, steadying the other on his feet before lowering verself to the ground.
Ever the gentleman. Gentle-thing?
He still hadn’t figured that out yet. Ve had plenty of time. More than he could keep track of really.
Nevermind that.
Randy seemed— Hesitant. Stiff in his movements as he stalked towards the willow tree. He didn’t seem to be fully robotic.
Was he?
“Y’know, my mom almost named me Willow.” That got the other’s attention, a head tilt of acknowledgement, but still something.
“My deadname, I mean. Vanity and William are both hand chosen by yours truly.” And, yes, ve did have to accentuate that point with a bow. If his wings spread in tandem then so be it.
[ Deadname? ]
“Oh, yeah, like, the name my parents gave me before I discovered I didn’t wanna be my assigned gender? Transitioning? You do know what being trans is, right?”
Randy began to nod his head quite aggressively at that, ve could only assume he was offended.
[ Of course I do, but I didn’t know angels were able to do that. Or that they had mom’s. Or that they even existed before today. ]
“Ah, well, you’ll learn a lot more if ya stick with me. See a lot more.”
The other’s screen displayed three dots, animated as though someone was typing. Did he do that on purpose?
[ You avoided the point. ]
“Did I? Oh, if you mean those questions-not-questions, then, hm—” Y’know what? He’s new here! Ve might as well make a grand introduction.
“I’m not exactly an angel angel, catch my drift?” Randy shook his head.
“I’m a special case, a certain kind, I am an angel by all intents and purposes, but when you get down to it? It’s more a form, than anything.” Then he laughed to verself.
“It is a form, actually. No questions about it.”
[ So, you have other “forms” then? ]
He gave another curt nod, approaching Randy, light-footed, steady. Ve knew he didn’t need to, but it felt right.
“That’s the gist of it! I’m the most recent and the one that will be— Present. As of now. There were others before me, and they’re still around, but it’s mostly me.”
Huh. That’s a new reaction.
A pixelated emoji, nodding its head, displayed on the other’s screen.
Then Randy turned back to the willow tree, palm flat on the rough bark. And he began to stroke it, looking as if he were calming a beast.
But, no, that imagery didn’t fit him all too well.
No, no, no.
He was analyzing, yes, that’s it.
He was using any sense he had to his advantage to discover more.
He was taking note of the wood grains, charting the paths carved out by bugs, gathering splinters in the very tips of his fingers for the sake of learning.
“Hey, care to look out on the horizon for me?” Randy’s attention snapped back to him, a spotlight of focus shining bright.
He did what was asked of him, coming to stand beside his new— Friend? Acquaintance? Whatever he viewed Vanity as.
And, fine, okay, whatever, ve might’ve used his wing as a canopy of sorts. For Randy.
He was being courteous.
I mean, ve was! It was the guy’s first sunset, first time being outside in oh-so long, first time with this much fresh air and— It was his first time on a lot of things.
Surely it helped to lighten the load on his processors just a tad?
As for his reaction? Randy was positively starstruck, frozen apart from the wagging of his tail, that Vanity had just noticed.
And, wow, his wings really had a mind of their own today!
Huddled in the small shelter provided by them, all white feathers and eyes, ve got to watch as the buffer on the other’s screen ebbed away.
“All present and accounted for, Rands?”
It had rolled off his tongue so naturally, almost instinctively, a joke so out in the open, so unguarded.
Ve hadn’t expected an answer of an almost similar nature.
Randy, slowly tilting his head up, slowly bringing his cameras or whatever he sees out of to meet Vanity’s eyes, screen blinking.
[ Show me more. ]
Who was he to deny such a kind request?
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libraryinthewoods · 3 months ago
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alright, that’s enough, let’s get you home.
@jontimjune - recovery (day 13)
(tw for. i dunno. just jon being out of it in general. the short of it is hes high off meds and acts different as a result. gets a little angsty but dw!!!!! hurt/comfort to the rescue....)
Try as he might, Jon cannot move at the moment. Not far, at least.
Or, he can, he’d just rather not, knowing he’d collapse to the floor and all. The cot isn’t close enough to crawl to anymore.
But he needs to go somewhere.
Maybe.
He sort’ve forgot where exactly he needs to go, but he knows it’s somewhere.
He taps at the buttons on his little office phone, dialing a number he thinks is important, and bringing the receiver to his ear. At least he remembers how that works.
“Jon? Do you need something?” No. No, that wasn’t right he didn’t want that voice.
“Tim.” That one. He wanted that one. “Martin, can you— Tim. Please. Thank you, Martin.”
And he hung up, smiling. Tim was on his way! Tim, Tim, Tim. He liked that guy. He liked that guy a lot and Martin was getting him.
What an amazing day.
Then he zoned out for a bit and guess what? Tim was actually there. Real and in the flesh, right there in the doorway. He was staring.
“You rang, boss?” Yes. Yes, mhm, that’s what he wanted. More of that.
“Yes, Tim, it’s very urgent, as you can see, I need to, uh—” And he wasn’t moving, was he?
He hadn’t moved. He was too caught up in enjoying the sound of Tim’s name leaving his mouth, rolling the syllables on his tongue.
“How many painkillers did y’ take?” No. No, he didn’t want that. That didn’t matter.
“Enough. Can you— Talk. Can you talk more. I like your voice, Tim, it’s very nice.” And he’s smiling again, a wide, loose-lipped grin.
“Jesus christ, you’re high as a kite. Why are you even here?” He wasn’t in the sky, was he? He felt like he was on the ground. He was on the ground. Two feet on the floor for proof.
“I had things to get done. And— And I needed to talk to you. Needed you to talk to me. Wait, no—” Apologize. Yes, right, that’s what he needed to do. Good job, Jonathan.
“I’m sorry. Yes, that’s what I needed. I’m sorry, Tim, for stalking you and— And being an awful friend.” He sniffled.
“I don’t—”
“No, no, no, shut up, I’m— Listen. Please. I’m sorry for everything. It’s all my fault and, and I shouldn’t have tried to carry it all myself. I should’ve trusted you and, and—”
He choked around the words, sobs tearing through him and tears falling. This is what he had needed to do.
“I’m sorry for what I’ve done. Sasha would still be alive if it weren’t for me. And you’d still, you’d still like me if only I’d listened.”
Oh, yeah, he was standing now, stumbling his way over to Tim. His fingers found themselves clawed into the man’s bomber jacket and his face buried into his chest, tears and snot staining the fabric.
“I, I missed you, Tim, I’m so sorry.”
And, really, that was what he’d needed. He’d been longing to get that off his chest.
Two arms. He felt two arms around him, one on his waist and the other cradling his head. Tim wasn’t just here and listening, he was holding him. He was comforting him.
A violent sob is all he managed in terms of a reply, then another, then another.
“Let it out, boss, don’t have much reason to stop you. You’ve already blabbered on and you’re clinging to me like a koala.”
Oh.
Oh, Tim, listened to him.
Well, crying just a tad harder was certainly his only valid response. Or the one that he landed on at least.
Only worsened by Tim starting to rock and sway, shushing him all the while. Gentle and quiet. When had he last been so timid?
“It’s okay,” He mutters now, resting his chin on top of Jon’s head. “It’s okay.”
But he’s not accepting the apology.
But Tim isn’t forgiving him.
“Please, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” And just for good measure, with his face stuffed into the crook of the other’s neck; “Forgive me.”
“Not now. I’m—” And Tim sighed.
“Not now, Jon. I just can’t.”
“Why not?” Is all he could get out, clawing and asking, damn near pleading. Why? Why, why, why? He just wants to know why.
“Doesn’t matter.” Tim still hadn’t pulled away. Good. That’s good. He missed this warmth.
“It does.” He chokes, somehow still sobbing. Was he lightheaded? He felt lightheaded.
“It does to me. I’m here. I’m listening now. Please, Tim, give me a chance.”
“You’re high, boss.”
“So?” He could hear the begging edge to his own voice and he let it remain there. He let it seep in and take over.
“So,” Tim continued, pulling himself away from Jon’s grip. “Let’s get you home. You haven’t been working anyhow.”
“Home?”
“Christ, yeah, home, Jon, Georgie’s flat?”
“I, ahm— I don’t, I don’t live with her anymore. I’ve been staying in the Archives. Or, or hotels.”
And Tim all but glared at him. But he could see it, tucked and buried and hidden, was the other’s concern for him.
“Right, of course. With me then.”
What?
“I, uh— Pardon?”
“Come back to my place. You can stay with me for a bit. Just until you’re off whatever the docs put you on.”
Well, who was he to say no?
“Alright. I’ll go with you, Tim.”
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libraryinthewoods · 3 months ago
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cursed forever to sleep on a twin-size mattress.
@jontimjune - entrapment (day 10)
(tw more angst! probably. theyre bickering and it does get a little sad)
“Because we’re fucking trapped, Jon!” Third time this week.
Third fucking time this week.
This conversation had been had over and over, commonly involving Jon uttering something about how he should go on vacation and him, y’know, jumping in to explain he had tried.
“Don’t be ridiculous. We can go home, can we not?” Oh, right, of course that was his defense.
“Like you would know. You haven’t had a proper home in months. You’ve been on the run, huh, boss?” He was proud of that one.
The resulting sputter and falter from the Archivist was delightful. Satisfying, even.
“I’ve been with Georgie, actually. It is a roof over my head that isn’t the Institute’s. I believe you get my point.”
“Yeah, well, I believe you’re being a prick and refusing to listen to mine.” And Jon had no right to sigh like he was the one being tortured.
“Right, get on with it then, Tim.”
As if on command, he launched into his own prattle on and on about how he felt.
“I feel like— I feel like a fly in a goddamn web. Stuck up in here with no real escape. The vacation wasn’t really a vacation. I wanted to run away and it—” He had felt the tingle since he had first started talking. Compulsion.
“It went horrible. I went to Malaysia. And the further I was gone the worse condition I found myself in. I was sick, Jon, just being away from all of this—” He gestured around himself, to the shelves lined with files. “Left me sick.”
“So, we really are stuck here, then?” Jon sounded wistful, his voice light.
“That’d be the short of it.”
Jon scoffed. He scoffed. What was he scoffing for? At Tim, no less.
“The Buried.”
Ah. No, just a classic moment of Jon being a monster, rattling off the names of his fellow eldritch fear gods like no tomorrow.
“Excuse me?” Is all Tim muttered.
“The, the Buried. The Choke. Too Close I Can’t Breathe. The fear of, of being trapped. Especially without enough space.” This was followed by a shaky exhale.
“You said you felt trapped.”
“I said I am trapped.” Tim corrected.
“Yes, well, taking issue with that might be a cause of the Buried.”
“Wonderful. Any more advice, my dear eldritch encyclopedia?” He offered Jon a sneer for his troubles, curling his lips into an awful false grin.
“I was trying to help.”
Oh? Oh, help, was he?
“No,” Tim drew himself closer to the other, standing in front of his desk now. “No, you don’t get to pull that bullshit with me now, boss. You don’t get that option.”
And he jabbed a finger to the other’s chest, pressing in like he could break the skin if he just tried hard enough.
“You don’t get to help. You—” He emphasized with another jab, this one drawing a disgruntled sound from Jon. “You get to watch as I tear myself down just as you did, yeah?”
“Tim—”
“No. Shut it. Okay? For once keep your mouth shut and say nothing.”
And that silence was cherished. Treasured.
“You don’t get to help me now. You refused mine so I have every right to refuse yours. Keep it away from me, boss.”
And then he backed out of the room. Tim simply turned heel and left, no further explanation. He just—
He’d go clear his head. Calm down a bit.
Didn’t need to be freaking out Martin.
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libraryinthewoods · 3 months ago
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i can’t believe you’re just a burning memory.
@jontimjune - guilt / grief (day 9)
(tw for angst. like. god this one is sad.)
“Where did they even—” They had moved his stuff. Of course, they had moved his stuff.
Suppose that’s what he gets for being in a coma for the last six months, right?
But they could’ve, I don’t know, warned him when he got back? Maybe a simple ‘hey, Jon, by the way, all of your shit is in the wrong place and nothing is as you left it.’
No. No, that’s asking too much of them.
He’s lucky they even let him back into the archives, isn’t he?
A sigh, drawn from his own lips, slipped through and out into the open air. Another drawer rattled shut as he closed it.
He just needed a goddamn pen.
He’d found a plethora of pencils and markers, mostly of the colored variety for whatever reason, but zero pens.
Would the Spiral play this kind of trick on him? Send him— Send him spiraling via something that seemed rather harmless?
No. No, it wouldn’t.
Helen didn’t seem the kind to scatter markers and pencils around his workspace to throw him off. Or maybe it did. It was harder to tell the Distortion’s motives, nowadays.
With Michael, it had been much easier. Just as confusing and strange and migraine-inducing, yes, but it had at least spoke of its intentions.
Anyhow, next drawer.
This one creaked on its hinges as it was pulled out, the grating sound of metal on metal, the kind that set his teeth grinding.
And he felt a small tug, a pull, guiding him to look inside. He knew something was in here, just not what. He had no clue of what had captured the Eye’s attention with such ease.
Until he saw it.
Until he saw what it was and his breath caught in his throat, a gasp ripped from his lungs.
A lanyard.
Tim’s lanyard.
Trapped in a plastic sleeve, glinting in the low light, was Tim’s grinning face. He had never been one for stuffy office photos, meaning he’d taken this himself.
It was a simple portrait, a headshot, and the quality wasn’t great, but it had a charm to it.
He stared at the camera, his hazel eyes scattered with flecks of gold, green and brown, all captured and held close in a bundle of pixels.
His smile was wide and bright, baring his crooked teeth in all their sharp, angular glory. The indent of dimples lining his cheeks that only added to the authenticity of it all.
And damn his heart for seizing. And damn his lips for quivering. And damn his eyes for watering so readily. So quickly.
With shaky hands, he drew the lanyard into his grasp, holding it as if it were liable to shatter. To his chest. Straight to his chest is where he tucked it.
And he wished he could feel Tim’s warmth again, he realized. Wished he could feel anything from that man just one more time.
He missed him.
But it was his fault he had to mourn in the first place, isn’t it?
Stalking his friend, prying into his private life like he had any business to be there, of course he deserved the cold-hearted demeanor Tim had taken with him in the last few months before his death.
Tim who had worried for him. Tim who had only wanted to help. Tim who was shoved to the side in favor of his paranoia.
Tim who wanted Jon’s trust.
He snapped. All the weight on his shoulders proving too much as he sank to his knees, clutching the lanyard like a lifeline.
He was cradling it, he noticed, as the tears overflowed and streamed down his face.
Sob after sob, wail after wail, choking back the torrent of emotions, pushing back the current of grief and longing he couldn’t help but feel.
And he longed for so much.
He longed for another chance. He longed to crawl on hands and knees to Tim, to claw at his legs, and beg for his forgiveness like a sinner does to their god. He longed for stuff he could no longer have as well.
He wanted Tim back. He wanted him back more than he could ever express.
With Martin wrapped up with Peter, Basira on edge near him constantly, Melanie out for his blood, and Daisy presumed dead, he could really use the man’s company again.
But he was gone. And there was nothing Jon could do to bring him back.
And, besides, even if he was here, he’d said it himself. He’d never forgive Jon. He’d simply thanked him for letting him die.
That didn’t stop Jon from weeping, tucked in a ball practically underneath his desk. It’s not like he had anyone left to hear him.
Just his thoughts.
Just his thoughts and the evidence of what he’d done surrounding him. Faces wrecked by his own actions and lack thereof.
If only he could fix it all.
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libraryinthewoods · 3 months ago
Text
i hold your hand in mine, dear. i press it to my lips.
@jontimjune - appearances (day 8)
(tw suggestive! they make out. and jon is trying very hard to be normal about it<3 ALSO NOT A TW BUT TRANSFEM GENDERQUEER HE/SHE/THEY JON MY BELOVED<3)
Hands.
Short thought, but it spoke for itself.
Hands tracing along his lower back, slow and questioning, hands sliding under the hem of their skirt, trailing up to his thighs with the same deliberate pace.
Oh, and the nails. The nails.
Tim’s were blunt, typically gnawed off in his own boredom, always had been, but when they raked along her skin?
When they dug into their hips, holding him still as Tim licked into her mouth?
Good lord, Jon couldn’t get enough of them.
“Hey,” Tim mused, voice thick with a want he could no longer disguise. “You still with me?”
“Mm. Depends. Are you going to keep messing around? Or are you going to get on with it, Stoker?” He knew how the other loved that tone. They weren’t dense.
The resulting groan proved how right she really was. Just a few words and Tim got like this. All of this just for him.
Excuse their possessiveness.
“Right, sorry, princess.” Shit. No, now was not the time to flush at a pet name.
But Tim had already caught on, a dreadful smirk crawling onto his face as he licked his lips. Almost as if he were preparing to eat her.
“Yeah? Did you like that, pretty girl?” And, honestly, Jon wasn’t too sure why he still went along with this. In the break room, no less.
“Tim.”
Of course, the other laughed at them. Clearly. He did spare her anymore embarrassment by finally sinking to kiss their neck.
And it wasn’t his fault she whined. It was Tim and his good for nothing charm and how easily he adapted to what they wanted. To what he needed, really.
Then Tim nipped at her jugular.
Yes, yes, fine, a breathy gasp was not a dignified reaction, but was there any dignity involved with making out during work hours?
And the bastard had the right to smirk again. They could feel that smug grin right up against his throat, just lingering for a moment. Giving her a second to recover, possibly.
They nearly choked when Tim went back to peppering love bites along the column of her neck.
He was taking his sweet time now, alternating between sinking his canines into their skin and licking along the marks, the marbled, reddish-purple marks, to soothe them.
And, good lord, Jon had to cover his mouth. Of their options, that really was all she could think to do. Just to level the volume.
However, they were only human. And when fate betrayed him that became abundantly obvious.
A particularly rough bite, closer to her collarbone, and their hand slipped. A weak, garbled moan fell through and he froze.
Mortification and fear coursed through her very veins and, of course, of course—
The door opened.
Tim hadn’t even locked it.
He was going to kill this man.
“Is there something wrong, Martin?” The dolt kept chancing glances over at her from his desk, gripping his pen so tight they were shocked it hadn’t burst under the pressure.
“No! No. Nope. It’s— Fine! Dandy, honestly. Just thinking. Sorry.” He had walked in on them. It was Martin of all people to find them together.
And, to give himself credit, she was staying remarkably put together.
Even if they could feel the lingering burn of hickies lining his neck. Even if she knew they were on full display, out for the world to see.
“Hm. Yes, alright. Have you finished anything as of late? A report? Proper research?”
They’ll take Martin’s silence as a ‘no.’
“Sorry, again, Jon, I’ll— God, I’ll get right on that. I’ve been a tad busy.” He nearly exhaled a sigh of relief when she felt the other’s gaze lift from them.
Right. Sasha was out on break, Martin was currently occupied with his work, that meant Tim was—
The door slowly creaked open as the man of the hour walked in.
Well, more so the man of the minute. He had only recently been mentioned, hadn’t he?
And he walked his happy arse right over to Jon and nosed into the crook of his neck. She startled at the breath tickling their skin, unexpected.
Martin was— Martin was looking again.
What was Tim even—
A sharp gasp slipped as Tim mouthed along one of the marks he had left just hours prior. His mouth was hot and wet, soft too.
“Tim, not—” He was shushing her.
“Let him watch. I’m sure you’ll have a field day trying to be a stiff now, huh?”
“That’s not fair.” Was all Jon could think to whine out as Martin’s tentative gaze bore into them and Tim pressed into a particularly dark hickey. He could almost feel the pride radiating from the other.
“All’s fair in love and war, babe.” Damn him.
Damn Tim to hell and back.
Damn his charm and his attentiveness.
Damn how caring he was and how he listened to her and adapted to them.
Damn Tim.
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libraryinthewoods · 3 months ago
Note
i keep reading your url as "the warm archives" head in hands
filing cabinet with all the ways you can be snug as a bug in a rig listed
HELP??????
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libraryinthewoods · 3 months ago
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New fan for life btw 🙇‍♀️🙏❤️‍🔥
YAAAAY GLAD YOU LIKE EM<3!!!!!!
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libraryinthewoods · 3 months ago
Text
the devil made me do it, but i also kinda wanted to.
@jontimjune - punishment (day 3)
(NO TWS NEEDED! theyre bickering<3)
Glitter.
Jon was growing to despise it.
It had been weeks, actual weeks, since Tim had set off his little sparkle bomb of doom, but he continued to find glitter in various crevices.
Opening a drawer? Oh, look, a pile of fairy dust.
Trying to grab a pen? Not without a sequin!
“Jon, you’ve, ah— Got something shining on your cheek there.” Had become a common interaction with Sasha in recent days.
That bastard was— Was tarnishing his already unstable appearance.
He was due for some rebuttal.
And how had Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London decided to go about doing that?
“What’s all this, boss?” Tim’s desk creaked under the weight of the files, old as ever. Stoker himself hadn’t even bothered to look up yet.
“Your work for this week.” Thankfully, that was enough to draw his attention.
With his eyebrow curved into a clean arch, Tim reclined in his chair. His eyes flicked from the stack, to Jon, back to the stack, and so on and so on for a few seconds.
“All of it?”
“All of it.” He mirrored back with a hum that seemed far too happy for a man who just ruined his employee’s week.
“C’mon, boss, if this is about the prank from a few weeks back—”
“Oh, so you are aware of how it’s been hindering my preformance?”
It was satisfying, listening to Tim go near silent with— Embarrassment? Guilt? Shame, probably. Shame is the most likely option.
“This—” He emphasizes the word by tapping the pile, a sharp tk tk sounding from it. “Is the least you could do.”
And, pardon him for getting cocky, but he really was enjoying himself. It was nice watching Tim squirm beneath his piercing gaze, straightening his back the best he could.
He leaned in close to the other, close to his ear as he could manage without touching him.
“You are good at organizing, are you not?”
Tim swallowed, shuddering. He did nod, though. A curt, short reply.
All the while Jon smiled from ear-to-ear, looking far too much like the cat that got the cream. And maybe he was.
“Good. Then this should be rather easy for you in the end. Have fun, Tim.”
As Jon took his leave, Tim sank further into his chair, releasing a breath he had been holding since his boss first began scolding him.
His face was warm. Really warm.
Shit.
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libraryinthewoods · 3 months ago
Text
i hear your heart beating under the floorboards.
@jontimjune - fieldwork (day 2)
(tw for mold, bugs, vomit/emetophobia and other gross imagery. this is a corruption based fic so keep that in mind. most warnings featured in those forms of episodes should apply here.)
Right, so, can Tim get a raincheck on this whole situation? Is that possible?
Because God knows he doesn’t want to be here, exploring a spooky flat with his irritable coworker. Fieldwork.
This field could work his ass.
For starters, the lights in the damned place didn’t even turn on. Just contributing to the overall ‘you will not be leaving unharmed’ vibe he had picked up since first stepping in.
Second, it stunk.
A rancid smell seeped into his nostrils and set up camp in his lungs everytime he so much as thought about breathing.
And he couldn’t pin the source. Not that he wanted too, but damn him for being curious.
“Tim?” Ah. The aforementioned irritable coworker. Right on time to interrupt his inner monologue.
“Mmmmyeah?” He snapped back to studying the place like he actually wanted to be here.
Yep, quite the interesting torn wallpaper they have. He should really ask the ghosts where they got it. Maybe it was custom ordered.
“Do you have an extra torch? Mine is, ahm— Well, it’s dead already.” Oh, silly Jon, don’t you know that’s the first thing that happens in horror movies? Always keep a few spares.
“Yeah, I do. Do you need me to, like, come to you? Or do I get the honor of listening to you flail around in the dark trying to find me like I’m the light at the end of your tunnel?”
“The first one, please.” And try as the stiff might, Tim knew he had made him smile at most. Maybe even a contained laugh.
Ah, well. He can tease him over that when he gets there. For now?
He aims his torch down the way he had entered, the floorboards bowing under his weight. A steady rhythm of creak, step, drip.
Creak, step, drip.
Creak.
Step.
Drip.
He— He had no idea where the dripping was coming from. It was distant, but audible all the same. Background noise.
Whatever.
Jon’s silhouette came into view soon enough, the man standing hunched in a corner of the room with his arms around himself.
He looked like he had been shaking before the torchlight filled the room. Tim chose to ignore how his heart clenched at the thought. He did not need to feel protective over Jon.
Because Jon was Jon. The man was abrasive, harsh, commanding. He used his words like a whip, wielding them in a similar fashion.
When he wasn’t paired with Tim, that is.
Stick him in Tim’s presence and those walls crumbled at record pace. And of course he was proud of himself for being the cause of that.
What used to be scripted interactions between coworkers had turned to jokes and jests in the span of a few months. They weren’t friends, but they also weren’t not friends. Get it?
“Did one Jonathan Sims order a torch to-go?” He teased, fishing the light out of his bag. He did struggle to get it solely because of how much he’d packed. Why’d you ask?
And obviously he had to hold it far over the other’s head. Obviously.
Jon frowned, unfurling from his little ball in the corner like a flower bud in the morning light. Okay, Tim, leave the poetry to Martin.
He was really starting to sound like—
Nevermind.
Compartmentalize. Pack it away for— Forever, preferably. Never unpack it.
“Tim, it would do you good to listen for once.”
Oh.
Ohhhhh.
His favorite. His favorite tone of Jon’s.
He loves when the other gets all huffy and haughty on him, annoyed by his stupid jokes and pranks. It’s all in good fun, of course.
He knew the difference by now, having accidentally prompted a panic attack once. Yeah, he still felt awful about that.
Horrible, really.
He grew more cautious as a result, adapting to any shifts in Jon’s mood that read as ‘I don’t like this anymore, Tim, please stop.’ And it should be concerning how easily he picked up on those slight differences.
Packing that away too.
“What’re you gonna do about it?” He smirked, dangling the torch just over Jon’s head.
A sharp puff of breath out of his nose, his face scrunching as he tried in vain to reach the thing. Adorable.
Wait— No. No, Tim, not adorable.
In his distracted state, Jon was almost able to grasp the flashlight. By jumping off of his tippy toes. Until Tim spun with his leap.
Until he missed and went falling down as he failed to stick the landing.
A loud thud was all that followed. Oh, and, hello loud ringing in his ears! Nice to hear you again! It’s been a while.
The beam of his torch shifted to where Jon had landed and— Oh.
Oh shit.
“Jon.”
“Yes, I know, haha laugh at the guy who fucking fell. You prick.” His voice was gruff, tinged with embarrassment. Tim did feel bad, but—
“Jon, you broke through the wall.”
“I wh— Oh. Oh, good lord.”
Torn wallpaper peeled back around the edges of the hole Jon had made, the chalky rubble from the drywall collapsed in a pile on the inside. And, well—
He didn’t have to describe it. Surely they’d seen enough. Surely this was more than enough horror for one venture.
“Jesus christ.” Jon continued to ramble beside him, eyes transfixed on the scene with pupils blown out of proportion.
Mold. It was mold. He knew that much. It covered whatever this weird room inside the wall was, the floor, the walls, even the fucking ceiling.
It looked as though the flat itself had developed a bad case of acne, bulbous growths and all.
At least they found the source of the smell. And the dripping noise from earlier. Does that even count as a small victory?
Tim decided against that.
Especially when he saw that the dripping was a result of an awful, yellow substance the growths excreted. It seemed viscous and he didn’t plan on testing to see if he was right.
Oh, and the maggots.
How could he forget the maggots?
They writhed and squirmed all throughout the room, squishing and stretching and making a disgusting, slimy click sound as they did.
A fresh wave of nausea crashed over him, barreling into him like a semi-truck. So, he keeled over.
He turned to the side, as any gentleman would to avoid puking on whoever they were with, and emptied his lunch onto the floor. The bile was bitter, coming up in chunks that left his throat burning, but better out than in.
In this case, at least.
Jon wasn’t doing so hot either. His limbs swayed, woozy, and he was trying to keep from gagging, but Tim could see the occasional shudder his body gave when he did.
He wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket, the acrid taste of vomit clinging to his tongue. Gross.
“We should—”
“We should get our pictures and leave.” He finished. Surely Jon shared that sentiment.
“Agreed.” Thank God. He was stubborn, but definitely not an idiot. Good to know.
Scounging around for the camera whilst trying to hold his breath was a debacle in and of itself. One which involved him sucking in air through his mouth, realizing he could taste the rot, gagging, and then finally retrieving the device.
And its safe to say they did as they said.
A few snapshots here, a few there, then boom. They darted out of that flat as fast as they were able, not allowing themselves to process what exactly they’d uncovered, just moving right on.
Tim paid for their taxi. And chose their destination. And what did he pick?
A pub, of course.
It was, what, roughly 7 o’ clock? They deserved a treat. Even if Jon wasn’t all too grateful for it.
“I’d much prefer to go home.” He grumbled, tapping his fingers against the cab door all too anxiously for a man who was about to get hammered with his coworker.
Hopefully.
“C’mon, Jon! Lighten up! I mean, we just left a spooky flat and you just want to go home and let that simmer? Want to commit that all to memory or something?”
“Well, ahm— No. No, not really. Of, of course I don’t, but—” Can anyone blame him for clasping a hand over the stuttering man’s shoulder? Force of habit, honestly.
“Then come with me. My treat. Promise I’ll pay for whatever you order. Scout’s honor.” He let his free hand rise to cover his heart, promising.
And, oh, that was— Jon laughed.
Not just the barely there huffs he usually got in reply to his jokes, it was— Warm. Light. It lifted a weight from Tim’s shoulders that he was unaware he’d been carrying.
No, not now. Please, God, not now of all the fucking times. Of all the fucking people.
But, alas, his cheeks flushed and his heart fluttered. And Tim was suddenly very aware of his feelings towards this man he sat with.
Nothing more repressing can’t fix, right?
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libraryinthewoods · 3 months ago
Text
bloody history.
(tw for murder. liam kills his dad. because good lord i WISH. oh and deadnaming yada yada one of my alters already HAS my deadname im going to type it. and gore ofc theres gore)
“Here ya go, Willy boy!” A gun. A small thing. A pistol, maybe? “Can’t have this going down without you standing good chance, can we?”
It rest heavy in his palm, nonthreatening at the moment. With the safety on and everything.
He clicked that off.
He clicked that off immediately.
And his eyes narrowed, turned, stared up at his father. His own flesh and blood.
Not his dads. Not his Arthur nor his John.
Hell, not even his Noel nor his Oscar.
No. This man was different. With his short brown hair and too angular glasses. With his button-ups that he wore to look sophisticated.
Little did he know they just made him look like a stuck up bastard.
“Well?” That shrill voice. That voice that came straight from the man in the center of this— Arena? It had been a stage a moment ago.
Kayne stood there, red flag held in a tight grip. His manic smile had yet to falter.
And still Liam stared at his father. And, sure, the man stared back, right at the gun he held, in fact, but he wasn’t scared. Not this time.
Not ever again, actually.
“M’ ready so long as you are.” He damn near growled, forcing his tone deeper, forcing that gruff tinge into it, forcing his vocal chords to their absolute limit.
“Oh, Artie! You’ve really raised him well, huh?” Right. Yes, Arthur and John are still here.
He lets the weight fall from his shoulders.
And there, from the first row, he sees them. He sees John’s ever-searching eyes looking down at him. Worried, he thinks.
He shouldn’t be that way for long.
“Just hold out hope there’ll still be someone to raise when we’re finished here.”
There will be.
“Liam!” It was Arthur, this time. He turned his head back towards the stands, back to where two hands gripped a stone edge and shook.
“Aim for the head, alright?” Oh, he would. With his own manic smile, one that likely mirrored Kayne’s, he offered his dads a nod.
Then the flag rose.
And he was free.
Like a bird torn from its cage, a bullet left its chamber. It clipped his father on the leg, the kneecap, right where he’d been aiming.
And the sound of that man screaming had never been more wanted. Not directed at him nor his siblings nor his mom nor his step-mom. Just pure and guttural agony.
He stalked forward, light as a feather on the tips of his feet, feeling for all the world like an animal approaching its prey.
That’s another thing he used to be told off for.
The tip-toes.
He wondered if his father would do the same now. He wondered if he’d try.
Then he was right in front of the man. The man who had chased him away and drove him to where he is now. The man who had made his life misery for so long.
He realized how pathetic his father truly was by now. How desperate he had been to be a good dad and how he had failed as a result.
How deeply he had scarred his favorite ‘daughter’ in the process.
“Abigail.” The man spoke. For the first time since they’d wound up here, clutching his leg.
“Why are you listening to them? Why are you doing this and why do they keep calling you Liam?” He laughed.
“Why wouldn’t I? After everything?” And he just kept going. “Just a reminder, you drove me away. You are the reason I left. The reason I never came back home.”
“We looked for you.”
And, oh, this was priceless. His father, crumpled on the floor, bleeding from his knee.
“I know. And I hid. I hid so well that I got all the way to New York. Funny how that works.”
“You won’t kill me. You may not like me, but you still love me. I’m still your dad.” Did he really? Did Liam really love this man?
“No. No, I actually—” He took a knee, mayhaps just to spite his father one last time, to pour salt in a very wide open wound, and pressed the barrel of the gun to his head.
“I’m done letting you tell me what to do.” And he pulled the trigger. He felt as the gun shook with the effort, propelling a bullet straight through his father’s skull.
There was blood. Clearly. And bits of what he could only assume were once brain scattered about the floor near the body.
And there was cheering. Mostly Kayne’s loud whooping, but he could hear Arthur and John very faintly.
Right.
Why not make a show of it, eh?
He emptied the rest of the bullets into that body. Each gunshot ringing loud and proud in that arena.
It was therapeutic, almost. Like jabbing needles into a pin cushion.
But his father was finally gone. He no longer had to run from anyone.
Just to someone.
John and Arthur were waiting for him, after all.
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libraryinthewoods · 3 months ago
Text
the damage has been done.
jontimjune - accidents (day 11)
(tw for smut. yeah im too embarrassed to tag the account today. HEAVILY inspired by @disconnectedkid’s timelias fic of a similar nature! thank you hun for letting me do this<3)
He shouldn’t have touched that damned book.
It was a lietner for fucksake! Y’know, the only books that artefact storage locked up for very good reason? The books known to link back to some of the Fears?
Opening a lietner was like sampling an encounter with an eldritch horror. And what had Tim done?
Tim had done just that.
Artefact storage was— It was easier to get into when he had all the permissions he needed from Elias. He may not like the guy, but he was still the big boss. Get his favor and he was let in faster than he had time to explain.
And locating the lietners was easy too. All of them were piled on an empty bookshelf, lined up alphabetically by some poor soul who probably didn’t work here anymore.
He’d seen a few familiar ones from past cases, Ex Altiora, the Boneturner’s Tale, ectera, ectera.
Then he spotted one with a blank cover, one with nothing but a heart on it’s deep emerald cover. It was— Oddly eye-catching for how simple it was.
So, he had picked it up. Obviously.
Then he had opened it. Then he had started reading. Then he got to marvel in the slow realization that this book was just—
Porn. It was just porn.
And he wasn’t able to fathom how this could possibly be a lietner until he noticed something else.
It was all to his taste.
Each page was fantasy upon fantasy of everything he was into.
Praise? A whole entire story with every single word that ticked in his brain just so. That story even threw degradation into the mix. Just how he liked it. A balance.
Choking? It had that too! An entire section, actually, detailing the exact pressure he enjoyed as well as how long he could handle it before freaking out.
Hell, there were even some of his more adventurous kinks here. The ones that even he was embarrassed to share.
Okay, sure, freaky lietner that relays his sexual desires to him, is that the whole schtick?
No. No, of course not.
And once he has finally managed to pry himself away from the book, once he had finally stopped himself from reading it, once he had finally shut the damn thing—
He felt it.
He already had a crazy libido, with some extra assistance from his t-shots, but this was different. This was more.
There was only one way to put it, really.
He was wet. Like, obnoxiously wet.
The kind that meant he needed to be railed now or he just had to deal with it.
And he chose to deal with it. The bad option, he realized, but he chose it regardless. In spite of how his clit throbbed with each minute shift in his chair. In spite of how he huffed and whined each time it did.
At the moment? He was just trying to keep from grinding down too enthusiastically on his poor seat.
Christ, he felt like a dog.
A pathetic whimper rose from his chest at that thought, punctuated by his hips rolling once again. Awesome.
He had long since dropped his pen, knowing that he’d end up snapping it in his body’s eagerness. He didn’t feel like adding ink to the mix of stains on his clothes.
As for how he was coping?
Not well. His shirt was unbuttoned far past work-appropriate, sweat pooling almost everywhere, and the cool wood of his desk, pressed against his temple, could only do so much to keep him from overheating.
And, sure, he didn’t look up when the door was opened, but can he really be blamed for that?
“Tim?” Oh, shit.
It had to be Jon, it just— It had to be him. Jon and his stupid stalking. Jon and his hair that seemed to be growing by the minute, streaked with gray that fit him quite well actually.
No. No, no, Jon and his freaky eldritch powers, more like. Jon who was slowly turning into a monster and was making it everyone’s problem.
But— But Jon and the new scar that lined his throat. Jon and his lithe form, scrawnier than ever before. Jon and his dainty wrists and thin fingers. Jon and his damn waist.
And— Yeah, fuck, that wasn’t helping.
Begrudgingly, he lifted his head, cringing at the feeling of his sweat-slick hair clinging to his skin. Was he really that hot?
“What d’ you want, boss?”
And Jon was standing right in front of his desk, arms crossed. This can only end well.
“Well, I heard some noises, to put it decently, and I wanted to see where they were coming from.” Jon eyed him up and down and, fuck, that should not be doing something to him.
“You seem to be the source. What happened to you? You look dreadful.” There it was. That tingle he was getting all too familiar with. Jon’s compulsion.
A moan. He— Yeah, Tim moaned in response.
“Lietner. I was looking for more on the Unknowing and I found a lietner in artefact storage. Surprise, surprise, it was— Christ, it was smut. Relating specifically to me. And now I’m so wet I’m sure I’m gonna stain this chair.”
Jon simply gaped at him in response, eyes wide. Eyes. Eyes on him, watching him, boring into him as his hips roll uselessly.
Remember when he refused to elaborate on his ‘more adventurous’ kinks? Yeah, exhibitionism happens to be one of them. And it definitely doesn’t help that Jon is meant to be a voyeur.
All he gets out is another muffled noise, head back in his arms, as Jon flounders for words.
“Can I help in anyway?”
And he really wanted to say no. He really wanted to send Jon away, to shout at him for even offering, but he couldn’t. His lips moved on command. Against his will.
“You could fuck me.” Is what comes out instead. Is what he utters into the space between his arms and the table.
And Jon falls silent. Y’know, maybe he should open that lietner more often. If that’s all it takes to shut Jon up.
“Would you— I mean, would you, uh, want me to? Would you want that?” What?
No way.
There was no fucking way.
Jonathan Sims was offering to fuck him.
And he was considering it. Listen, this doesn’t mean he excuses the guy’s actions, he just— Christ, he needs to be demolished now.
“Fine.” He mutters, lifting his head. He doesn’t move from his perch just yet, curious to see if Jon will follow through.
“Oh? Really? I mean, I— Yes, alright. Would you like the doors locked?” Kudos to him, then.
And as much as Tim would like to say ‘no,’ because the thought of Martin or someone else walking in is insanely hot, he does still have common sense. Spare himself the shame.
“Yeah, n’— We aren’t going to be talking during this. I just need this situation sorted, capiché?”
Jon turned back from locking the door, staring at Tim who had just rose to his feet, steadying himself on his desk. Sweat shining on his chest, on his neck, on his face.
“I’m going to need to talk, Tim. Excuse me, but I won’t be skimming over boundaries just because you don’t want to talk.”
Tim all but groaned at that. Frustration, this time. Not at all one of pleasure.
“Fine! Fine. Don’t call me a girl, don’t make me call you daddy, not a fan of it, and don’t be gentle with me jus’ because you’re scared. I want it rough.” And when had he got there?
When had he rounded his desk, pushed Jon back oh-so slightly, and sat himself square on its surface, bracing himself with two arms?
“And any preferences? Any, uh— Anything you are positive you want?” Every. Damn. Question. Every damn one was another compulsion.
“Praise.” Tim grits out, forcing his mouth to just stay shut. Jon doesn’t need to know this.
But when had he ever been lucky?
“Tell me I’m good. Christ, your voice would sound filthy saying shit like that.”
Ah. The answer was never. He had never been lucky. Not now, not ever.
“Right. Finish with your shirt, will you?” Oh, they’re just diving in now? Fine by him.
He set to work on the last few buttons, his grip slipping a few times with all the sweat on his hands, but he got it eventually.
Shrugging off that piece of fabric was more freeing than it should’ve been, honestly, and he couldn’t suppress an eager shudder as the cool air of the archives hit his skin.
And Jon approached like a shark, circling his spot on the desk, slow and studying.
On his next lap around the desk, he stood in front of Tim, one hand extended out towards his chest, eyes ever questioning. And, damnit, Tim shouldn’t find that cute anymore.
“Touch me.” Tim’s voice wavers. Just a bit.
But Jon listens. He surges forward, leaning over Tim with an eagerness of his own, hands searching, gently.
Two thumbs find his nipples, brushing over the buds delicately, experimentally, toying with the piercings running through them with an odd curiousity. He whines.
Oversensitive was a fucking understatement.
Each touch from Jon was like making contact with a livewire, sparks snapping and crackling at him in tandem, setting him ablaze.
And he relished in it.
Begrudgingly.
He heard the first kiss before he felt it, a quick peck pressed right to the center of his collarbone. It tingled, trapped underneath Jon’s palm as he splayed his fingers.
“What are y’ doing, boss?” His attempt at a snappish tone failed by a long shot. It crashed and burned right into him asking an actual question.
“Taking my time. I don’t, uh, I don’t do this often. Building up courage, as it were.” And for some reason? That made Tim laugh.
“You’re really biting the hand that feeds you, hm?” His chuckle spilled over into a breathy moan as Jon grew a bit bolder with his actions.
He pinched Tim’s nipples. Pinched.
“Oh.” And damn him. Damn him for being somewhat good at this.
Tim grumbled, throwing a hand over his face. Good lord, he could feel how flushed he was, his skin hot and feverish under his palm.
“Ah, uhm, move your hand, please?”
What?
“Are you trying to use dirty talk on me?”
Jon pouted, puffing his bottom lip out and furrowing his brows and, fuck, if Tim didn’t feel a bit affectionate. In spite of himself.
“I’m— I’m trying. Do you have any suggestions?”
“I dunno, just quit trying to mimick shit you’ve heard before? You offered. Say how you actually feel or something. Act on instinct not a fucking script.” Giving advice on how to dirty talk, to Jon, no less, was not on his schedule for today.
He could practically hear the cogs turning in their beloved Archivist’s head, churning the information over like it meant more than what Tim was actually saying.
After a second, he just nodded, leaning back in and continuing to massage the nubs on Tim’s chest. Then planting another kiss to his collarbone. Then another, and another, and, oh, look, one along the column of his throat.
Tim gave his own throaty hum in reply, grateful for the contact. Grateful for any touch at this point. He would like to get to the point, though.
“I’m grateful.” Jon murmured between nips along Tim’s shoulders. When had he started biting?
Not that it mattered. Tim was loving it.
“Hah— Yeah? For what?”
And Jon paused, pulling his hands away from Tim’s chest and just— Resting his head in the crook of the other’s neck.
“This. All of this. You let me help you even after all of—” He shut up at Tim’s warning glare. This is the opposite of what he wanted from Jon.
“I’m just glad to help. To, to make it up to you in some way. And you— You look nice.”
Tim laughed again.
“Nice?”
“Yes. Very nice. You look very nice, Tim.”
“Very nice.” He mirrored back, slumping his head back against the desk. “You sure have a way with words, don’t you, boss?”
“I’m doing what you asked of me.” He punctuated the sentence with an open mouthed kiss to Tim’s jugular. “Instinct over routine.”
And, as nice as this was, Tim was still, y’know, soaking through his pants at the moment.
He needed more.
“Kiss me.” Is what he decides to say, apparently. Is what comes out of his mouth at the very least.
Jon bends to his whims, surging forward to capture his lips in something far too soft for what Tim needs.
He decides to change that.
He digs his teeth into Jon’s lower lip, sliding his tongue into the other’s mouth at the resulting gasp. And he searches. He explores.
He may not be the one topping this time, but he traces along Jon’s teeth, the roof of his mouth, runs along his tongue, noting everything he can feel.
And Jon hums so beautifully in reply, vibrations crowded between the heat of their mouths and reverberating through Tim’s spine.
He pulls away eventually, with a shocking amount of reluctance, and pants into the open air. And, oh, look at that, a string of salvia connects them.
Jon’s pupils are blown wide, pools of inky black that eat up the deep brown of his irises.
“Y’ good to move on now?”
Jon nods. He nods without hesitation.
“Get to it then. Unless you want me to do all the work as far as clothing goes.”
Jon shakes his head.
It was endearing, honestly, Jon shocked to silence and listening to Tim without a second thought. Even as his hands shook around the button on Tim’s trousers.
He helped to get them off, of course, kicking them down his legs and from around his ankles. He didn’t care that they landed in a pile on the floor. He couldn’t care any less.
And, wow, okay, Jon wasted no more time.
He found a hand pressed to his, still clothed, cunt in an instant, a warm palm resting along the length of his swollen cock. And he writhed.
“I’m— Dear lord, I’m so glad to be here with you, Tim, you have no idea. You’re beautiful.”
And between Jon palming at him and the praise, he moaned again, long and loud. Jon simply shushed him in reply, keeping his hand right where it was. Oh.
Oh, he was letting Tim use his hand.
He wanted Tim to use him.
Fuck.
He groaned as he rolled his hips up into Jon’s waiting palm, sparks flying from the barest amount of contact. Not enough to satisfy, but definitely enough to leave him panting.
Jon was still talking, he realized, muttering between the kisses he kept pressing anywhere he could reach.
He seemed quite fond of Tim’s stomach and chest if the way he lingered on those areas said anything. Admiring them, he thought.
“Handsome.” Jon said now, a breathy whisper against the corner of his mouth. When had they come face-to-face? “Handsome, handsome boy. Thank you.”
And, yeah, he decided he quite liked this. He liked Jon fussing over him, cooing at him in that prim tone of his.
The coil in his gut wound tighter and tighter, but no matter how fast he tried to move, no matter how far he went to chase his release, he always seemed to stop right at the precipice.
His body was edging him.
His vision blurred right as he choked out a sob, hot, frustrated tears streamed down his cheeks. Fuck. Fuck, shit, he was crying.
He couldn’t help it though.
He had been so close. He had been right there and he just— He just couldn’t.
“Are you— Are you alright? Is something wrong?” Jon was blabbering again. He couldn’t even find it in himself to be mad. He was so tired. Exhausted. “How can I—?”
“Fuck me.” Is all Tim manages between shuddering breaths, between tears and his chest heaving.
And Jon swoons.
“Right, yes, do you mean—?”
“God, do you want me to beg? Fill me, boss. I need your cock or I will actually die. Please.”
And Jon looks good like this, actually. His eyes practically black with how dilated his pupils are, his legs and hands shaking, and his teeth worrying his lips, chewing.
He nods, determination intermingled with fear and anxiety in his gaze. But he listened.
But he finally tugged down Tim’s boxers. But he finally exposed his slick entrance, practically dribbling onto the desk beneath him.
And Tim whined and hissed, still beyond oversensitive. But he wanted this.
“Good lord.” Jon is staring with this odd starstruck look in his eyes, like he’s just unearthed some buried treasure.
He sure feels like he has.
He’s ever generous, though, as he works his own trousers down, popping the button and quickly shuffling out of them. Tim holds back a laugh as he nearly stumbles.
His pants are discarded soon after, leaving his dick to bob out in the open. Jesus.
Jon is small. His cock is small too. Not outrageously, but it’s definitely not like the dildos Tim uses back at home. He’d always liked the stretch. Bit of a size king.
“I know, I know, it’s not—”
“It’s not what?” Tim speaks before he thinks.
And Jon, bless his heart, throbs at that, pre building at his tip. He’s flushed a nice shade of red, all the way from his cheeks down to there.
Not to mention he’s hard.
Like, obscenely.
“In me. Need y’ in me, boss. You signed up for this, please.” And Tim’s just talking at this point, letting things leave his mouth with no prerense. Despite how avidly he’d protested against this at the start.
“Wait, do you have a, a condom?”
“Yeah.” Tim replied, once again reluctant. “But I want to feel you. I want it in me.”
Jon furrowed his eyebrows, clearly concerned.
“I don’t— Testosterone. No risk of getting pregnant. No need to worry about that. Can’t anymore.” That did seem to be the cause of Jon’s anxiety, if the way his shoulders eased said anything.
“Do you need any preparation?” And, okay, yeah, Tim chuckled at that.
“No. You don’t need to prep me. I’m— I’m slick enough. Fuck, it’s practically a slip-and-slide down here.”
Jon gave his own bitten-off laugh in reply, it was a hardly there sound, honestly.
Then he was finally back on Tim.
Jon pressed into him, leaning his weight over Tim’s chest and trying his best to find a good position. He ended up ramming his cock into Tim’s thigh at some point and the resulting noise was a mix of embarrassment and want.
Want. Jon wanted him.
He wanted Jon, he noted.
That was a drastic change.
He was pulled from his thoughts as Jon’s tip poked along his entrance, slipping exactly like he knew it would.
“Alright, uh—” There was no further warning.
There was no more discussion. Just one quick movement, a wanton moan from Jon, and their bodies finally slotted together.
“Fuck.” He cried, tossing his head back with much more strength than he had wanted to. And he clenched down around Jon. Hard.
“Oh. Oh, god, Tim—” Jon was back into the crook of his neck, whimpering and whining straight into his ear. He was very vocal, huh?
“Goddamnit, move, boss.” Tim hissed out, palms flat along Jon’s back, trying to urge him deeper.
Jon obeyed, obidient as ever. And, sure, the pace was slow, but each thrust rubbed against Tim just right and he nearly screamed at the feeling. This is exactly what he needed.
“God, you’re, hah—” The sentence wavered into yet another moan, tripping up on a harder thrust. “S’ so good. So good, Jon, doing so well. You’re fucking me so good.”
Jon seemed to like that, his dick twitching eagerly inside of Tim. Oh?
Naturally, he had to crowd Jon’s face into his hands. Naturally, he had to make the other look at him, tilting his head towards him. Naturally, he had to push a thumb inside Jon’s mouth, pressing down on his tongue.
“Y’know? I think I can almost tolerate you like this. I thought I was bad.”
The resulting groan he got from the Archivist was pitiful, deep from within his chest, falling in tune with the rhythm of his hips as he fucked into Tim.
He was barely holding onto his coherency, clinging to his words like a fucking lifeline. He needed Jon deeper.
Jon faltered for a minute, his pace slowing, chest rising and falling with his breathing, leaving Tim confused. What now?
But he continued a second later. Oh. After he adjusted their position. After he’d somehow coaxed Tim onto his stomach, ass bent over the desk. Could Jon even reach his clit from there?
He could. Oh, he definitely could.
And, fuck, he really set to work. His hips snapped forward, setting a brutal speed this time, his hands settling around Tim’s waist just to keep him still.
All the while Tim sang. Moans and whimpers and whines tore from his lips, reaching a volume they should both worry about, probably. Yeah, they could absolutely be heard.
Jon wasn’t much quieter, grunting in his efforts, his own sounds mixing with Tim’s and creating a filthy cacophony over the noise of skin on skin.
“Jon, boss, hhn— Close. I’m close.” He was crying again, tears falling in a steady stream all while the heat in his gut roared.
But Jon was fucking him. But Jon was running his hands along the small of his back, caressing him with such a gentle touch.
Had Jon always been this soft?
“Me too.” Is the last thing he heard before he nearly blanked out. A rush of slick, gushing out, squirting, he noted, accompanied by a warmth filling his gut. Filling.
Oh, right, he’d asked Jon to cum inside.
His legs nearly gave out when he looked down and realized his stomach was ever so slightly bloated from the amount of cum inside of him. He settled for a good “jesus fucking christ” instead. It was so much.
And Jon was leaning over his back, heart beating proudly in his heaving chest. He was burning up, sticky with sweat.
He was also, y’know, still fully seated inside of Tim’s cunt. But that’s probably less important.
“Jesus.” Jon’s voice was light, carried on a breath. Yeah. Shared sentiment.
“Mmhm.” He hummed back, taking a moment to appreciate the cool wood he was pressed against. The air conditioner seemed to be working on him again too.
“Do you— Here, let me help.”
“Could hardly stop you now.” He meant for it to sound sharp, or maybe he had at some point, but it just came out defeated.
Aftercare seemed to be Jon’s strong suit, shockingly, with the way he was practically buzzing around to get things done.
Papertowels pulled out of thin air, cleaning up whatever slick or cum had ended up elsewhere in the heat of the moment, even his thighs and cunt got a thorough wipe down much to his own displeasure.
With that out of the way, Jon guided him back into his boxers. Then his trousers. Then he did the same for himself.
Tim’s head was in the clouds, light and floaty, noodle-limbed. Loose for the first time in weeks.
And Jon was the cause. Jon had helped him. Jon had been there for him and he had been enthusiastic about it.
“Boss?” What the hell was he doing?
Jon hummed, just coming back with two water bottles from the mini-fridge in the corner of the room. He placed them down.
And Tim surged forward, tugging him closer by his stupid tie. Kissing him. He was kissing him.
But it was chaste. Pliant and oh so gentle. Testing, almost. At least on Tim’s end of things. No tongues or teeth involved, just the soft heat of their lips.
Pulling back took far too much effort, but it was worth it. It was worth it to look Jon in his eyes before collapsing his weight against him.
“Thank you.” Tim muttered, muffled into Jon’s neck. “But, holy shit, I’m tired.”
And Jon laughed with him this time. For the first time in a long while. It still came so easily for the pair.
“Let’s get you some rest, then. But, first? Water. I can talk Martin into getting food.”
“Right on, boss.” This was weird, right?
All of his anger, all of his rage towards this man who had blamed him, who had stalked him, dissipated just for a moment.
Oh well. It’d be back.
47 notes · View notes
libraryinthewoods · 4 months ago
Text
hes got the touch of an anesthesiologist.
(SELFCEST SONA YAOI!!!!!! tw for. some violence aka punches being thrown, blood, angst, and uh. homoerotic blood licking. sniles.)
“Hm. How about this—” The clearing of his throat rang loud in the cramped space of the archives, accented by the silence of the atmosphere nowadays.
“Statement of Liam Wood regarding his encounter with Arthur Lester and the entity in his head who refers to itself as John Doe.”
That tone. That Archivist tone that he found himself falling into with such ease. It set Liam on edge, words sharp as a blade, and he thrilled at the prospect of that.
“Lester.” The anxiety of the other coiled around him like the smoke from a fire, twisting into his senses, clouding them.
He delighted in its scent, some sick form of pleasure gifted to him by the Eye.
“M’ last name. It’s Lester now. Arthur doesn’t mind and it makes us easier to distinguish.”
With a drawn out sigh, Will sank further into his hand. The one propping his head up against the desk. Maybe if he let go he’d black out and he wouldn’t have to deal with this.
These damned retakes. They were on their— What was it? Fifth? Just because Liam couldn’t shut his mouth and let him finish.
“I don’t care.” Blunt. Straightforward.
“Yeah, well, I do. Liam Lester. Continue.”
And could anyone really blame him for being short tempered at the moment?
Criticism had always been a touchy subject in his case, same with being corrected, and having it happen this many times in a row, back to back, had set him on edge.
“Fine. Statement of Liam Lester regarding his stupid life before ending up here. Recording by William Wood, archival intern of the Magnus Institute, London.”
He paused, waiting and waiting and preparing himself for the next quip to leave his alternate self’s mouth. Nothing.
Good. Maybe he was learning.
“So, Arthur and John were their names, correct? Your ‘dads,’ as you called them?” It wasn’t his fault the word ‘dads’ was spat out with venomous intent, dangerous even.
“They let me call them that, but yes. Those are their names. It took me a while to get the real ones, actually, Arthur had been going by Lawrence when I first met him.” Oh, yay. More unhelpful information from Liam.
Everyone say ‘thank you, Beholding.’
“Yes, yes, I get it. John. More about John. What is he? Who is he? How did he end up with Arthur? You mentioned he ‘had his eyes’ once with no further explanation.”
A fresh curl of anxiety, lapping at his feet like the steady ebb of the tide, fear interspersed throughout.
Oh, Liam truly was offering him an excellent little snack at the moment.
He licked his lips, the taste of those emotions ghosting along his tongue. Savory. Vaguely akin to meat, a pork of some kind perhaps. In fact, most of Liam’s fear had this underlying smoky flavor. Weird.
“Your eyes are—”
“Glowing? Yes, I’m aware. Answer the questions. That’s the only way to stop it.” Eh, that was a half truth. It wouldn’t halt entirely, just keep it from growing worse.
“He’s a fragment of the King in Yellow. Which, uh, as Arthur described it, is an elder god. One that specifically drives people to madness.”
Oh? Spiral aligned, then. Fun.
“Though, he’s— He’s aware of who he used to be, what he used to do, and he acknowledges that. He’s becoming his own person. Slowly.”
Envy. That’s what he felt, wasn’t it?
He envied Liam. He envied John. He envied that gain of humanity instead of the slow and ever so steady loss of it.
He envied the dynamic between the three. Haircuts, long nights spent on a couch talking and sometimes crying, the sharing of clothes when they fit properly. The comfort of it all.
And what was he left with?
Stiff limbs, a vacant home devoid of life outside of himself and Randal, when he could drag him over mind you, and the creeping sense that the world could end any day now.
Trauma is what he was left with. That of others, his own, doesn’t particularly matter. It fed him. It kept him alive by now. And he could share it if he chose to.
“It was a book. Arthur opened it and released John which led to John becoming his eyes. Arthur is blind. Currently, at least.”
He was still talking. Of course.
As if setting a paper boat on the surface of a still lake, he pushed an image of Arthur to the forefront of Liam’s mind. Testing his limits for the time being.
And actions must speak louder than words with the way the other bunching up his nose told him all he needed to know.
“Right.” He muttered, tapping his pen idly on the desk. The desk that creaked and shifted under the slightest bit of pressure, strained beneath a plethora files.
“Anything else?”
The other shook his head. He was telling the truth, Will made sure of that
Not that he needed to anymore. He could simply take a peek inside if he wanted. Which he did. Obviously.
A wiry looking man dressed in various collared shirts and sometimes a suit featured frequently. Arthur, he presumed.
His eyes were yellow, a deep, abnormal amber that was near golden in most of Liam’s recollections. And yet he never seemed to be looking directly at the other in these memories.
That story about him being blind as a result of John was a given, in that case.
And then—
Oh?
Oh.
Ohhh, this one was good.
That same man, panicked, frantic and covered in blood. Was it his own? That of others? Hard to tell. And Liam couldn’t seem to care. Will could practically feel the thudding of his heartbeat in this memory.
Another man, dressed in a sharp, black suit, about as angular as the Archivist, but ten times the intimidation factor, stood between them.
Was it this man’s blood Arthur had on him? Probably not. He was covered in blood himself, his hands and feet soaked in a rich maroon hue.
Kayne is the name Liam’s brain offered to the mystery man’s silhouette.
Kayne is the reason he’s here to begin with.
He watched, observed, did as the Eye told him and soaked in all that he could see.
Everything from the footprints left on marble in the crazed man’s wake, to Arthur’s wide-eyed stare as Liam vanished right in front of him, tucked away into an alternate universe.
The last time Liam saw those two. The last time they spoke to him. Or, well, more Arthur spoke to him, but it’s the thought that counts, yeah?
“We have miles to go before we sleep.”
He had muttered it under his breath, half to himself, more likely mirroring something John had said, but it was the last thing he heard from the man. A quote from a poem of all things.
And, alright, back to present, how is Liam fairing? Through remembering all of that alongside his counterpart?
He was red in the face, posture taut with his temper, and Will was practically slobbering over the mixing pot of negative emotions he had become at the moment.
Anger was the most prominent, bubbling up to the surface like lava, splashing and hissing at him, but never rising much further.
Tim’s anger had always been a, a fuse, of sorts, like that of a bomb or firework. And when that fuse ran short, he’d snap.
Longing, fear, and pain all intermingled beneath that burning surface, cool and shiny like obsidian. Beautiful to Will.
And— Guilt. That one was there, too, hidden beneath it all. A spiky little thing, a splinter surrounded by all the fire and rock. Guilt in himself, mostly, for letting things go as poorly as they did.
And guilt regarding Will.
“Quit.” He snarled, a genuine growl accompanying the word.
Another hunter for the archives, maybe?
“Quit what, exactly? I’ve been sitting here in silence for the past ten minutes.”
The— Last thing he expected the other to do was reach across the desk, hook his fingers beneath his shirt collar, and tug him forward.
Safe to say, all former cockiness drained from him in mere seconds. Green eyes locked with stormy gray.
“I can always just make you if you don’t listen. Just because you’re me doesn’t mean you get to be an ass about it.”
Well, what more was there to do but accept that challenge?
“Actually, that’s the main reason I do get to be an ass about it. I’m technically just arguing with myself right now. Over a frankly idiotic topic.” He paused for good measure.
“I mean, c’mon, feeling guilty over something like that? Like you can control what Arthur decided to do? Like you could control what Kayne did to you?”
He barely had time to flinch.
It was just the woosh of air, a sickening crunch, his body landing on the floor beside where he sat prior, and blood pooling out of his nose.
His glasses lay, bent and cracked, on the floor beside him, and his nose was in just about the same shape. Broken. Definitely broken.
His vision was cloudy, but that was for a mix of reasons. The main one being his own tears. God, that hurt.
And Liam stood over him now, legs bracketing his waist as he loomed. Then—
Then another punch flew.
And another. And another. And a few more.
Pain blossomed beneath his rapidly bruising flesh, blood dripping down his chin, staining everything it could reach. Even Liam’s knuckles. Were his ears ringing?
With, what clicked in his brain as, a frustrated huff, Liam tugged him up by his shirt collar.
He whimpered.
He fucking whimpered.
Breaths came in through shaky gasps, haggard and uneven, his hands rising to shield himself despite the worst having already happened.
“M’ sorry,” He rasped out, snivelling at this point. He had to really work his jaw to get the words out. “M’ so sorry, please—”
Those eyes. Those dull, stormy eyes bore into him with an all too familiar intensity. He’d seen it in Elias, Randal, hell, even Mike Crew.
He was considering what to do.
And apparently it didn’t take all too long because he brought his fist back up, provoking a full-body flinch from Will, only to run the back of it along his mouth. Was he—
Then the fist unfurled. Then two fingers, the pointer and middle, remained standing.
He— He pressed them to his lips, still soaked in Will’s blood and, in one obscene movement, opened his mouth. What.
His tongue. His tongue was on those fingers, lapping up Will’s blood like it was nothing more than some leftover sauce. Right, so, he was hallucinating. He must be.
“Wh—” He began to mutter, lightheaded and woozy for two reasons.
Blood loss, obviously, and, uh— Okay, sue him, but his face was steadily warming. He was incredibly flushed.
And Liam still holding him this close to his fucking face definitely wasn’t helping. Nor was the way the other seemed to be studying him.
“Never,” Liam drawled, voice shockingly gruff. He will choose to ignore how he audibly gulped at that. “Never do that again. Got it?”
A dangerous look shut down his attempt at speaking, leaving him to nod instead.
“Good boy.”
Oh. Right, yeah, okay.
He could be normal about that. It’s fine.
Then he fell back as Liam released his grip, back hitting the floor with a hard thud. Honestly, even with the lightning bolts of pain darting along his spine, he couldn’t find the energy to complain.
“Ya get far too cocky in those powers of yours, huh? And yet—” Liam’s foot nudged his back, provoking a wounded yelp. A yelp.
“And yet you couldn’t even handle a few blows. That nose of yours’ll be fun to get fixed. And your lip. Definitely busted that one. We can have matching scars.” The other’s smile was nothing but sadistic.
Will groaned from his small heap on the floor, turning over and clutching his— Christ, he was still bleeding?
“Liam? Hey, Liam, can you c’mere?” Randal. Randal was calling for Liam. Specifically Liam.
And, well, he finally let those tears fall. Between the utter ache that sprouted from almost everywhere by now and the— Betrayal? Was that it?
“There’s my cue to leave, then. I’m sure someone will find you eventually, yeah? Don’t stain the carpets.” Then he was gone.
Just soft, carpeted footsteps, the click of the door behind him, and Will was alone again.
All alone.
He shut his eyes, squeezing them as hard as he could manage. If he just pretended, he could get away. He could stay away from that place.
Cold. Okay, that’s fine too. He had lost a lot of blood after all. Temperature regulation wasn’t on his side at the moment.
But, no, he could feel it. Those whisps of fog, licking along any inch of flesh he left exposed, chilling him to his core.
No. No, he—
Sand. Fuck, it was sand.
Beneath him, grains grabbing his hair and pulling at him, tugging him deeper and deeper.
He couldn’t be here, no, no, not again—
“William!” A shout. Oh my god, a lifeline, more like, but his eyelids had opened. A dream.
It had just been a nightmare. He was—
Still on the office floor, laying next to his shattered glasses and a pool of his own blood. He had passed out.
And above him stood Jon, the Archivist, in all his bony glory. He felt hands on his shoulders too, he realized. They trembled.
“What ha—” Jon didn’t finish his sentence. And Will didn’t need to say much else.
The Eye did most of their explaining.
“I see.” He whispered. Damn right he saw. They both did. No need to remind Will as he just woke up from being incapacitated. Though Jon did help him sit up a bit.
“Hospital first. An—” He choked, earning a concerned gaze from one Jonathan Sims. “Anything else later. Hurts.”
And, thankfully, Jon suddenly found his goddamn urgency, rising to his feet and helping Will to his own. Yeah, seems he’d need the other to do most of the heavy lifting.
Literally.
He could— Talk with Liam later.
Maybe.
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libraryinthewoods · 4 months ago
Text
one normal night.
(aka uh. just me fuckin around with me n arthurs father-son dynamic. i do NAWT care if theyre out of character. period typical trans/homophobia be DAMNED.)
“A bit to the left, Arthur, closer to his head.” Scissors brushed against, now shortened, locks, taking them between twin-blades like a dog crushing a bone in its maw.
He’s done this to himself a few times by now. A choppy haircut with whatever blade he could get his hands on, usually a razor.
He hoped for Liam’s sake this turned out a tad better. He hoped John’s directives would be enough to spare him any embarrassment.
“Almost done?” A slight waver in the adolescent’s tone. Ever so slight.
“Back to the right.” John, much to his surprise, had been rather cooperative in this effort. Not so much as an attempt at arguing.
The scissors moved back, strands falling in place and—
Snip.
“There. That should be fine. You’re finished, Arthur, well done.” Another hum of acknowledgement, preening at the praise. He had done well, hadn’t he?
“Done,” And he noticed the weight of the scissors still in his palm, metal and heavy. “Would you mind showing me where the—”
A sniffle followed.
Then another, and another, and then the sound of a bitten-off sob, choked down. Masked.
“Arthur, he’s—”
“I know what he’s doing. I can hear him.”
“Of course. He’s rubbing his eyes at the moment, as if to drive away the redness in them. His cheeks glisten with tears and he stares back at himself in the mirror with something akin to relief. More likely joy.”
Well, there’s certainly a way to help, right?
He tightened his grip on the boy’s shoulder, leaning forward a little. Just praying he was in the direction of the mirror.
“Are you alright, William?”
“He’s nodding, still wiping away his tears, but he seems calm, if a little elated. He looks as if he’s struggling to get his words out.” John paused for a moment. “Ask him again.”
And, so, Arthur cleared his throat and tried again. More timid this time, soft spoken.
“Are you alright, Liam?” He heard a hitch in the adolescent’s breath, swallowed his sobbing.
“Y—” A stutter, voice watered down. “Yeah. M’ fine. Thank you, I’ll take the scissors. Set ‘em down for you and everything.”
“He’s holding his hand towards you patiently. In spite of that, he remains facing forward. He could be avoiding turning around.”
Oh dear.
What more was there to do? The scissors found themselves in Liam’s waiting palm, cool metal against flesh, transferred to old wood.
It was a simple vanity. A mere accomodation, nothing lavish in the slightest, but Liam studied it, etched it into his memory.
“Did we mess something up? Is something crooked or, or—”
“No! No, it’s fine, Mr. Lester, really.” That tone said otherwise. As did the slight stirring of John, likely about to comment on it.
Since when had he been able to feel John? At least in that particular manner. He could always feel his presence, but this was more like—
A weight. A shifting in the hollow of his brain.
He’ll bring that up with John later.
“Arthur, he seems to be waiting for your reply. Expectantly. Ask him,” Was it more so odd that he could tell John was choosing his words carefully? “Ask him if he’s upset.”
“Are you upset?” He allowed himself a pause, only vaguely aware of his left hand joining the other in gripping Liam’s shoulders. “John’s asking. If you want to share, of course.”
Then something warm and solid wrapped around his torso, holding ever so lightly, as if Liam was worried he’d shatter.
“Thank you.” Breathless, muffled in his chest, but heard all the same. A hug.
Well, that was odd. His heart swelling, singing, and bowing all over a simple curtosey from this child. Accomplishment, he presumed.
But, no. No, no. This was different, wasn’t it?
This was pride. He was proud.
He is proud.
He carded his fingers through aburn strands, that of which reminded him so fondly of Faroe, surprising even himself. A fond memory tied to his daughter. No longer tainted in guilt and regret. Wasn’t that a miracle?
He delighted in ruffling Liam’s hair, messing up all the effort they had put into brushing it out so it cut properly, ignoring the simple protests the kid made between laughs.
“He’s smiling, Arthur. The light catching on his teeth, his cheeks upturned and eyes squeezed shut. He’s practically glowing.”
And who wouldn’t be?
After what they had just done? Turning a scared, anxious boy into this bright young man was a feat worthy of excitement.
“Of course. We owed you one, didn’t we?”
“Huh. He seems to have tensed, turning his gaze up to ours and tilting his head. Confused, from what I can tell. Maybe conflicted.”
Must it be his turn to flounder so soon?
“Oh— No, I just meant with the, the tips you gave us for getting around. For staying out of sight. We owed you.”
“His eyes widen, still locked with ours. His hair is a mess and the corners of his mouth crinkle into a smile at the moment.” A smile?
“That’s not the reason I asked you two in specific to do this for me.”
Ah. Understood. There were a plethora of other reasons, weren’t there? Barbers might turn him in after realizing he’s on the run, he hardly knows Oscar and Noel, and—
And it clicked. The pieces slotting into place as John jumped in to voice his own thoughts on the matter.
“He trusted us with this, Arthur.” John was in awe. Or at the very least sounded like he was.
He found it hard to blame him. Truly.
“You—”
“I trusted you. I can tell John picked up on that, wide-eyed and all.” Breathy chuckles sliced through his tender words. Trust.
Was he even worthy of that trust? Such a fragile thing in Liam’s case. A display of the teen letting his guard down, letting them into the barrier he’d made for himself.
“Come here.” Is what he ended up muttering, arms held wide in spite of John curling the left hand in his confusion. “C’mere.”
Liam collapsed against his chest again, curling into Arthur like one would a blanket. He was more than happy to enjoy the silence. More than happy to let the kid bask for a moment.
A warmth brewed in his lungs, contained just behind his ribcage. It shone bright in these moments, sunshine trapped beneath flesh and bone. He swore Liam shared that light.
No, he knew he did. His was— His was in his presence. In the comfort and humor and joy he carried with him in spite of what the world gave him. In spite of what he’d been through.
And as his left hand trailed to the small of Liam’s back to gift it with a firm pat, he knew John shared it too.
“We are proud of you, Liam.” The voice was not his own. The voice belonged to the very being he thought of, echoing in his mind.
A cough into his free hand.
“We are proud of you, Liam.” And then a pause, waiting for a continuation. A proceeding.
“We are glad you gave us this responsibility,”
“We are glad you gave us this responsibility—”
“Even if Arthur here was shit at following my instructions during the process.” Bingo. There was the John he knew. The sap.
“Even if— Oh, fuck off.” Playful malice, much unlike their poison-filled arguments from mere months ago.
Oh, how the tables turn and whatnot.
And Liam simply laughed, burying his face in Arthur’s neck. He felt safe. Seen and loved for the first time in a long while.
That was a feat in and of itself, huh?
Arthur “I made the mistake of neglecting my daughter and her life was lost as a result.” Lester and John “I’m a fragment of a literal God. I have killed people, but I’m learning to become human.” Doe taking care of a teen.
And they were somehow on the same page in that regard. They somehow agreed on keeping Liam’s trust close.
They somehow agreed on keeping Liam close.
Even with knowing that his life is in danger anytime he is with them, they couldn’t bring themselves to push him away.
An issue for another day, then.
A yawn sounded from Liam, short and muffled, but he felt and heard it regardless. The fluttering of eyelashes on his neck was unmistakable as well.
Seems they were stuck here for the time being.
“Goodnight, dads.” Drooping, sinking, falling down to his stomach went his heart, seizing over that simple phrase. Dads.
“Good— Goodnight, Liam. Rest well.” There was no need for a stutter. Yet, he couldn’t seem to drive it away. Dads.
Dads, dads, dads. Plural. Both of them.
“Arthur?” A questioning hum in reply. He was wrapped up in his own thoughts, a whirlwind of emotions he was only on the precipe of solving.
“You should sing to him. A, A lullaby, right? Those help.” And, truly, what a fantastic idea that was. John had his moments.
“Right, yes, they do.” The chair they sat on tipped back as he cleared his throat once more, phlegm shying away with a simple cough.
And he set about singing. What else is a man to do when he’s trapped on a chair until further notice? Pinned down by the weight of a boy he had only known for a short period of time but who he’d kill for regardless?
He simply sang his heart out, lullabies and melodies flowing from his lips. Golden tunes falling in line with that warmth the three had sewn betwixt themselves.
Comfort in its purest form, shown in this brief reprieve where they faced no life threatening circumstances.
Just the three of them.
Just their odd little family.
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libraryinthewoods · 4 months ago
Text
and satisfied until ive got you flayed alive.
(coughs. whatever. inherent homoeroticism of hunting each other down in entirely separate yet codependent ways. aka more jontim. tw for blood, gore, cannibalism, bugs (maggots and spiders specifically) and body horror. sniles)
Blade to skin.
Iron to muscle.
A dagger that sat heavy in his palm, glinting back at him almost innocently. But he knew better. He knew by now.
It spoke to him, spewed an endless litiny of violence and viscera to him. Told him where to carve into a chest, where to leave scars, where to butcher and tear.
And he simply carried out its whims. Claws digging into pockmarked flesh that mirrored his own, thumbs jabbing into far, far too many eye sockets. This time, the dagger finds its prize.
A rasping wheeze tears through the being that knows. That watches. Its lips catch on wordless questions, coming out silent. And its eyes close again, like a flower curling into itself.
And Tim is left with a body again, carving the knife through its flesh in a swift glide, slicing off an arm here, a leg there.
He doesn’t often indulge in this way. Only when he’s particularly proud of how he did away with Jon. Only when he wants to feel closer.
Jon’s flesh was as sweet as ever, his blood staining Tim’s chin, dripping and soaking and covering whatever it could reach. With his fangs ripping into ligaments, snapping bones, he almost forgot who’s turn it was.
It was back. Jon. The Archivist.
“Tim,” It echoed, the static in its voice drawing a growl from him. “Why are you doing this?”
Shit.
The compulsions. The Beholding, the Ceaseless Watcher, the Eye, that was the influence it had here. Here in Tim’s domain.
“Gotta.” He rasped out, around a mouthful of Jon’s now rotten carcass. Maggots, slimy, silver little things, squirmed around in his mouth.
Better Jon’s than his, he supposed.
Rot clung to his claws, pressed up underneath his sharp nails, dark and cloying. What felt like decades of dried blood stuck there as well.
“Why are you hunting me, Tim?”
“Gotta.” Again. Jon was being easy on him.
“Tim.”
He brushed it off easily, continuing to nose around in that decaying corpse, not even bothering to pick out the worms as he went. They offered an odd sense of familiarity after all of this. After everything.
Those eyes. He felt them now. Always did, but moreso now. He could feel it looming over him, looking through him.
“What did I do to you?”
“Everything. Made me a monster.” He knew what Jon was after, trying to pry him closer to admitting anything more than he had already given away. He had said this line a few times by now. Surely it was growing stale to Jon.
But, no, of course the thing shuddered in delight at the admission. Its eyes snapping open a bit further somehow, boring into him in all their green glory.
“I’m sorry.” That was its favorite thing to say. It knew how much it set Tim on edge.
It knew that better than anyone.
And it clearly wasn’t shocked when Tim sprang on it, holding his dagger back against its throat as it blinked back at him damn near daintily.
“Shut it.” And Jon laughed. The sound racked through his frail body in waves, drawing him closer to the blade’s edge.
It was funny, really, it explained, Tim always went for the throat. Always trying to silence it and shut it up.
“Daisy had done the same thing,” It said now, tongue darting out to wet its lips. “Hunter’s instinct is my bet. No screaming if you don’t have the proper equipment for it.”
And try as he might Tim couldn’t suppress his helpless snicker. Even after all this time, even with where they lie now, Jon could still get a laugh out of him.
Jon smiled. Actually smiled.
With a dagger to his throat and a glint in his actual eyes, the real Jon spoke to him, no spooky static, no watching, just him.
“I love you, Tim.” And then his vocal chords were severed, the knife plunging into his throat and leaving him gurgling around his own blood.
And Tim kissed him. This happened too, sometimes. One of them would confess, either tore out through gritted teeth or carelessly whispered into the air, and they’d kiss.
It was almost chaste if Tim could ignore the fact that spiders crawled from the open wound this time, dragging their bodies out and up.
Hundreds upon thousands of tiny legs enveloped him, starting with his face and making their way down slowly. All while Jon stared at him. Drinking it all in.
And it couldn’t say anything. The Archivist could only watch. Could only reach out as the scuttling creatures filled the Hunter’s lungs. Could only be a voyeur as his friend died once again. Some things never change.
This awful cycle. This awful, awful cycle.
Tim hunting and clawing and tearing Jon to shreds, all to ease the rage and hunger and pain that beat in his chest as proudly as his heart.
Jon doing damn near the same. His hunger ever prominent. His powers growing more with each loop. Each bout of this little game they found themselves in.
And still the maggots cling, the mold and dried blood stain the ground from however many times they’ve done this to each other. A few of Jon’s old scars housed the rot once more.
Fresh and foreign all in one.
He knew the same applied to Tim.
He was far too caught up in his bloodlust to notice, but the worms had him too. They wriggled beneath his skin like botfly larvae, waiting to spring out whenever Jon willed them to. Whenever he was ready to share that.
Tim’s death was fast this time. Which left Jon staring at his web encased body. Much less graphic, this one. He could tolerate it.
Despite how much he despised the Web aspects. It was less pain for Tim and less pain for him by extension.
He stood, legs shaking. He tried in vain to speak, just to see if anything changed, and was greeted with a sticky warmth at the back of his throat. Right.
He could wait, then. Wait for Tim to find him again. Wait for Tim to start their chase over.
He just hoped this death would be more enthralling than the last, he was getting quite peckish with the options at his disposal.
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