#(just call me the sharpe archivist)

[lacomandante]

GAH sorry for being AWOL I promise I'm still here I've just got lots of exciting news!!

Assumpta asked me to stay for a month with her to help finish organizing and scanning her archive!!! I'll be there from late March-late April

After buying my ticket Assumpta then asked me to stay longer bc she wants to take me to Gerona with her!!!!! Thank god I bought a flexible ticket but girl could you not have planned that before

Jason Salkey and I have been talking and in the near future I may very well be meeting up with and helping him with his Sharpe archive (SCREAMING)

If I do end up staying longer in Spain, there's a huge reenactment ball for the Victory of 1812 (when Madrid was liberated). I've been invited to go but have nothing to wear and have been frantically sewing this past week for something to at least wear on the off chance I do get to go

Also I have a ton of Sharpe artwork I've been working on but all this news effectively made me pause, at least until I get some sewing done LOL

Thank you for bearing with me ilu all and I will try and be more active on the dash I am just frantically trying to get as much done as possible!!

[dawn-moths]

“Show Me You Love Me With the Shape of Your Bite”

Noe Archiviste x Female Reader

word count: 4300+

(celebrating two years of this blog, i’m back with a lil one shot for noe because the first fic i ever posted was for him. // A human’s strength is nothing compared to a vampire’s— a fact that’s always concerned Noe when it comes to being with you in such an intimate way. But, unlike how most of your own kind would warn you of, you’ve never had a reason to doubt or fear his intentions with you. Besides, as if letting him bite you on a normal basis wasn’t proof enough, even in the worst case scenario, you’ve already made it clear to Noe that you don’t necessarily mind a little pain if he’s the one causing it.)

content warning/disclaimer: 18+ content! minors dni! smut, vampires, biting/marking, blood/readers blood is drunk, reader is a bit of a masochist while Noe is apprehensive about hurting her too much, rough sex at times, size difference, dickriding, aftercare.

*ao3 mirror*

***

Ribbons of broken, silver moonlight streamed in through the gaps of the curtains, the shadows of dusk dancing across the floors, starbursts of amber and coral shimmering on the polished hardwood from the crackling fire burning low and sultry in its stoney hearth.

In the night, Paris came alive, the city lights sparkling like a sea of stars across the horizon, the constant murmur and buzz of the after-dark crowds humming through the air in a stream of noise and energy, muffled and distant from where you now lay, yet you could still imagine the intensity of it all after growing so used to being a part of the pack yourself.

Ever since meeting Noe, you’d traded rising in the early morning and twilight wind-downs for long, late nights and views of the dawn breaking on the horizon, the first muted shades of lilac and gold signaling your time to rest rather than the plum and navy of night blanketing itself across the sky like most others of your kind followed the consistent rhythm of.

You should’ve guessed after the first few times he’d suggested you meet by moonlight rather than daylight that he was afflicted with the forbidden curse— that he was a vampire— but even back then you wouldn’t have cared.

Because Noe Archiviste was as captivating and handsome as he was charming and sweet, he was gentle and kind and compassionate and everything you’d grown up being told those of his kind were not. Because, to everyone else, vampires were monsters. They were cold and cruel, ruthless and ravenous, and among the worst of them were the wolves in sheep’s clothing, using pretty words and entrancing appearances to lure in their prey before sinking their teeth in deep.

Your Noe was the sun after a summer’s rain, warm and inviting. He was a home to return to after a long day, safe and familiar. He was the first face you looked for in a crowd, his name ready to fall from your lips as those two, lilting phantom syllables rested on your tongue.

Some days, you still found yourself reluctant to call what you two shared love, only for the fact that you’d both been keeping it a secret from everyone outside yourselves. But with all the feelings you held for him on a consistent basis in mind, how could what you felt for him be anything else?

You two were far more bonded than any human couple was. Noe knew the taste of your blood after all, had committed the flavor to memory, could distinguish it by a single drop alone. And you knew the imprint of his teeth just as well, craved the way his sharp incisors found a home in your supple flesh night after night, addicted to the ivory’s sharp and satisfying sting.

“Harder—” you breathed, gently writhing under Noe’s hold on you, though with no real means of escaping him. “Harder, Noe, please—!” You gasped as his bite sunk in a fraction deeper, drawing more rivulets of ruby red from the tender spot on your shoulder, sending a quick shudder down your spine, the sensation creeping vertebrae by vertebrae until it welled into the sticky, fluttering warmth of arousal pooling in your lower belly.

As his tongue lapped at the welling beads of red, slow and gentle to savor the taste of you, you let out a broken moan, body arching to follow the heat of his mouth. Noe was always so afraid to go too far, to lose control and end up hurting you, no matter how many times you assured him you wouldn’t ask for the pain if you didn’t want it. But he also couldn’t help but give in to your requests, even if sometimes it made his stomach twist with guilt.

The moment you started making those succulent, saccharine mewling sounds of pleasure though, it was as if all of his ice-dipped remorse melted away. He could drink down your whines and moans just as easily as he could your blood, meeting your mouth for a languid, tongue-entwined kiss, letting you taste your own blood as you parted your lips to let him in.

You’d asked him before what blood tasted like to vampires, said all you could make out from the coppery flavor was the wince-inducing bitterness that had you resisting the urge to screw up your features and spit it from your mouth. So it was hard to believe him when he described it as sweet— sometimes even sickly so— with a hint of pleasant salt and the lingering undertones of something that could only be compared to addiction.

But your part of this exchange didn’t require you to enjoy the taste. For you, it was the feeling— the completely embodied sensation— of what having your blood drunk by him felt like that urged you to keep seeking out his teeth.

It was heavenly. Pure ecstasy. It made you forget why humans had spent so many centuries fearing vampires, if only for the fact that, if it weren’t for you and Noe’s special bond, he probably could’ve drained you dry and left you for dead like the legends of old warned about.

There were still plenty of vampires lurking the streets and hiding in the shadows whose hunger had gone insatiable, morphing them into greedy, voracious monsters who couldn’t see any innocent life past all that gushing red. But your Noe was different. He’d held onto his morality longer than most of his kind would ever have the will to consider, let alone succeed at, and you guessed you could consider yourself pretty lucky that you’d run into him on that first fateful night rather than someone else more sinister and selfish.

“You ok…?” Noe asked in between shallow, panting breaths, his hands splayed on either side of your head as he gazed down at you, lips stained red and shining with your shared saliva, the tip of his tongue darting out to catch the fading crimson that remained. The next thing you felt was his palm, warm, now that his energy had been replenished from your blood, cradling your cheek. You lay underneath him, back sinking into the mattress and eyes closed as his shadow blanketed over your bare form, allowing yourself to drift off into the serenity that often followed Noe’s feedings.

You felt safe. Held. Comforted by his presence and by the fact that, during this act, you were two becoming one in a way few would ever know or understand.

Letting him drink from you often came after sex. It allowed a euphoric extension on the galaxy of pleasure that Noe’s body could coax from yours. It also ensured that he didn’t have too much strength to unleash upon your fragile human form, his pace slow and sensual as he buried himself deeper and deeper into you. But sometimes, like tonight, when he indulged in a feeding beforehand, well…

You knew you were going to be in for one hell of a ride.

“Maybe I took too much this time…” Noe muttered to himself in a low, worried tone as you felt the bed shift around you, your eyes fluttering open to watch as he changed position, carefully lifting your limp figure up to drape and rest against his chest before leaning back against the barrier of pillows that lined the headboard. He was carding his long fingers through your lightly tousled hair, mumbling sporadic thoughts under his breath under the false pretense that you’d drifted off to sleep. You thought you heard him say something about stopping there for the night, not wanting to push you past your limits.

That was enough to jolt you back to consciousness, just enough to stir in his grasp and breathe out a weak and airy, “Noe…” on account of still recovering from your recent blood loss. You lifted your head slightly to meet his eyes, which had now been leeched of their glowing, crimson color and turned back to calming lavender on account of his appetite being satisfied. You gave him a feeble, tired smile and said, “It’s ok… I’m ok. I can keep going…”

The vampire considered you for a moment. He knew you had a habit of pushing yourself, but before he could think on it too long, you were taking his face in your hands and luring him back to you with one of those adorable, delicate little giggles. “Noe, come on…” you reassured him with a smile, devotion sparkling in your eyes, “You know I trust you more than anyone else. Plus, even if you do hurt me a little bit…” You paused, feeling your cheeks heat before admitting what you were about to next, despite having done it several times to him already. “Even if you do hurt me, I don’t mind. I… like the pain, remember?”

Beckoning him closer to you now, letting him lay his head against your chest and cradling your arms around him like he was the delicate one, like he was the one worth worrying about and protecting, you carded your little fingers through his snowy locks of hair and softly spoke to him, telling him again that you trusted him, how you loved him, and as the words left your mouth you knew them to be true, no hesitation in the confession you’d been so afraid to acknowledge prior.

Noe could’ve sunk so far into the comfort you gave him he would’ve drowned in it, finding he was never as soft and sentimental with anyone else as when he was with you. He never allowed himself to let his guard down to such a level, for a moment forgetting that, outside of this room, you two were widely considered to be enemies— hunter and prey, a monster and a girl.

He sometimes used to wonder if he’d ever find someone he could love who would also love him in return, before meeting you. And what was a luckier, more divine thing than to have your own angel to hold? To have someone who thought and cared about you as much as you thought and cared about them?

“Alright…” Noe mumbled, his cheek pressed to your chest, listening to your beating heart, counting out each gentle drum of the steady rhythm. As he lifted his head to meet your tired, half-lidded gaze, he said, “But I need you to promise me one thing…” Rising further to sit up, the two of you across from one another, bodies bare and on display for each other to see, to have, to hold, Noe’s words dripped with earnesty as he said, “If things start to go too far, I need you to tell me.”

“Noe, I—”

But he cut you off, cupping your cheek in his palm. “I know we’ve talked about this before, but I also know you haven’t always been completely honest with me about it.” You resisted the urge to swallow down the lump of guilt that had curled up in your throat, unable to deny his concerned accusation. Softly stroking his thumb along your jaw, so feathery light you could barely feel it, he set his lilac gaze on your neck where his bite had already begun to bruise and scab over, now a deep shade of wine. He said, “It’s been a while since I— since we’ve done this after a feeding…”

He didn’t need to explain any further. You knew exactly what he was so worried about now— the fact that, last time he drank beforehand and not after, it had resulted in you with tears streaming down your face and several more bites and bruises to paint your skin while he’d been blinded by the carnality of it all. You’d barely been able to walk the next day, feeling like something inside of you had been broken beyond repair, and even though you’d tried to assure him you would be ok, deep down there had been some fear sparked in you.

The pain he’d caused you that night had surpassed the fine line of the sugar-coated, thorny pleasure that you craved and ended up as injury instead.

Noe had said he’d never allow himself to partake in your blood before sex again, though, after months of trying to convince him not every time had to be like that first one and that, while you couldn’t necessarily erase the memory, you could help fix it by replacing it with something better, you’d gotten him to come around.

“I promise,” you told him, reaching forward to take his hand. He laced his fingers with yours, careful even in that act, as if each new touch he bestowed upon you from now until morning held the risk of breaking his own vow. “If it gets to be too much, I’ll tell you.”

You felt relief when his lips twitched into a soft, dreamy grin, the expression there and then gone in an instant, becoming entranced with the way your little hand fit together with his, palms pressed together and creating more shared warmth, Noe able to feel your pulse through your skin and noting the way it was picking up speed a little as he placed his other hand on your knee and gave a gentle squeeze.

It was you who leaned in to kiss him then, catching him off guard for a moment until he followed your cue and allowed himself to melt back into you, the hand on your knee sliding up to rest on your bare thigh, kneading the plush flesh there, slow and savoring, as you combed your fingers through his hair and sighed into his mouth, your core already coiling again in tiny, tight little pulses as his fingers grew closer to brushing up against where you were already slick and waiting.

A tender, broken moan spilled from your mouth as his first finger slipped inside, testing your tightness and comfort before adding in a second and curling at his knuckles, causing you to arch your back and slide further down to lay flat for him, spreading your legs wider as he slowly scissored his digits inside of you, biting back his own moan when he felt your hole clenching around what was inside harder the more he stretched you.

He caught his bottom lip on one of his fangs, vehemently reminding himself to stay in control, don’t go too far, don’t hurt her as his own arousal pulsed thick and eager through his veins, that familiar sharp pang of adrenaline already beginning to surge.

He was starting to remember now— how hard it had been to stop once he’d started— and the thought made his stomach churn for a whole other reason. But you were right. This time didn’t have to be like the last. It wouldn’t be. He’d make sure of it.

Once he’d prepped you enough to take him, Noe began to line himself up with your entrance, feeling his own cock twitch in his hand as he caught sight of the glistening beads that drooled from your cunt, asking you if you were ok before nudging in the tip, pausing when you momentarily winced, only continuing when you nodded at him to signal it was alright for him to keep going.

And, god, you loved how you could feel every single vein and ridge of him as he carved out a home inside of you, the velvety flesh of his cock massaging every part of your insides like it had been designed to do so, both your bodies devoted and destined to learn each other in this way long before you’d even met. The sweet sting of him splitting you in two made your tummy tighten and flutter, your pussy squeezing around the length of him just enough to give a teasing taste of what he already expected was to come.

His breathing was soon beginning to pick up speed, Noe hoping to hide just how much you were affecting him already as he forced out even, shuddering huffs, hunching over you while he tried not to let himself go completely, no matter how badly he wanted to right now.

It made him remember something else he’d almost forgotten about that last time— just how much better you felt when he was inside you after he’d been replenished by your blood, all his senses alive, every nerve alight with the heightened vitality that he gained from a recent feeding. It’s what made this all so dangerous in the first place.

“It’s ok…” you assured him, your own chest moving with the shallow, panting breaths of anticipation as you remedied your prior words with, “I’m ok. I trust you…”

Noe wanted to believe he could trust himself too. And as he felt the animalistic urgency within him simmer a little, he figured it was alright to start moving.

As much as it killed him to go so slow, he forced himself to hold out, gradually rolling his hips to meet yours, your voices moaning in tandem, creating a lilting melody of pleasure with each inch he drove deeper into you and every constricting squeeze of your cunt around his cock.

“Harder—” you were telling him again, the request cracking with a breathy whine as you felt him brush against your cervix, sharp jolts sparking through your abdomen followed by the slow, syrupy drip of pleasure that ran thick through your blood. You felt Noe hesitate for a moment, but when you twisted your fingers through his silky white hair and gave a tug, he snapped his hips forward hard enough to shove you a few inches up the bed. A small yelp emitted from you, clipped with a satisfied mewl, and you loosened your fist in his hair, tenderly stroking the back of his neck, playing with the wispy tufts at the base of his skull as you whispered out, “That’s it… Just like that…”

Noe had to pin your wrists down then, find some way to keep you anchored as he prepared to pound into you harder, though not yet with the rigorous speed you both knew he was capable of. And when you asked him to bite you again, well…

That time, Noe just couldn’t tell you no.

Sinking his teeth into your unmarked shoulder and feeling the skin break, more of your warm, sticky blood flooding into his mouth, Noe drank down gulp after gulp in rapid succession. This made him forget to mind his strength for a moment, and as you fell more slack under his hold, lulled by the euphoria of having your blood drunk by him for the second time that night, he nearly lost you.

He came back to his senses just in time, his saliva filled mouth pulling away from the new bite with a glittering strand of diluted reddish-pink bowing and snapping back onto the crook between your neck and shoulder.

He was partially horrified with himself, and for a moment wondered if he’d finally gone too far, past the point of no return, but was able to exhale a sigh of relief when you fluttered open your tired, bleary eyes and your shallow breathing registered to his sensitive hearing.

“I don’t think I can do this…” the vampire admitted under his breath, sounding disappointed in himself as he pulled out of you and used the pad of his thumb to swipe up a drop of red that was slowly dripping down towards your collar bones, shamelessly licking it away before casting you a quick, guilty glance. “I’m going to hurt you again. I know I am. I—”

Trying to prop yourself up onto your elbows in a way that was less than graceful, to say the least, you blinked the blood loss from your vision until Noe came back into focus. After a few minutes the swaying sensation of lightheadedness abated and you were able to roll yourself over, laying on your stomach as you stared at him sitting on the edge of the bed and looking stressed and conflicted.

You might’ve been able to call it a night, if not for the fact that you were still burning up inside with the need to release all this pent up arousal, so you decided to try approaching things from a different angle.

“Hey…” You lightly ran your fingertips along his spine, watching his back muscles flex as he turned partially to glance over his shoulder at you. “Lay down.”

Noe was already beginning to apologize, though for what exactly, you weren’t sure— as far as you were concerned, he’d done nothing wrong other than stop before letting you come— but you pressed a finger to his lips before he could finish his spoken atonement. 

You had him right where you wanted him— right where you needed him now. “Stop talking,” you said, climbing atop him once he was laying flat on his back, straddling him as you took his face in both your palms, his hands quickly reaching for your hips to help steady you when you began to sway slightly, still not fully recovered from the blood loss.

You were staring at him, desperately searching all that alluring lavender for any sign that he understood, and he was staring back at you as if he were being touched by god, completely enraptured by the gentle light in your eyes alone. “Let me take care of you,” you murmured, the moment of revelation drifting away. “You always do such a good job at taking care of me…” Taking his still hard cock in your hand, a small smirk curving on your lips when you felt him slightly tense beneath you, his stomach flinching, you lined it up with your entrance once more. “It’s my turn now.”

Noe let out a stuttering breath of ecstasy as you sunk down on him, both of you needing less time to catch your breath now but no less urgent in your need for each other. And as you began to grind your hips down on him, your clit rubbing hard against his pelvic bone every time you rolled forward and making your eyes tip to the back of your head, Noe kept a firm grip on your hips, helping to pull you down further onto his cock every time you lifted off again.

The glowing illumination of the midnight moon drenched your silhouette as you rode him, Noe admiring the way the light shone on your dewy skin, pretty tits bouncing as you began to pick up speed, your head thrown back, neck exposed and mouth hanging open with silent ecstasy as you approached closer and closer to the edge.

Noe was close too, beginning to buck his hips up into you to match your rhythm towards the end, still so strong even when he wasn’t trying that hard, making your toes curl as you twisted the bed sheets tight in your fists, hunching over him as your trembling legs felt like they were about to give out, thighs burning from the exertion and sweat gathering in the crooks of your folded knees, a new, high-pitched moan tumbling from your throat with each thrust.

And, god, when you both came at the same time, you swore you saw spots of heaven blinking in your vision, falling forward to drape yourself over him completely, squeezing every last drop from him as his cock spurt thick ropes of cum inside of you, enough to ooze out of your abused little hole and drip in thick, creamy dollops back onto him where you two remained connected until Noe mustered up enough strength to take your limp form in his arms and carefully sit up just enough to pull out of you, keeping you cradled against his warm chest until you actually did doze off.

Gently setting you aside, pulling a sheet across your naked body to shield you from the chill while he went to fetch a damp, warm washcloth to clean you up with, Noe was haunted by the fact that, for as many times as you two had been together before, it had never been quite as good as that.

Haunted, only for the fact that it had still been a dangerous risk to take. Yet still, a risk he had a feeling he’d be unable to talk you out of taking again.

He noted the various bruises speckled about your body as he cleaned you, dark blotches in the shape of his fingertips where they’d dug into your hips, more scattered across your thighs, your wrists, around the bites on both sides of your shoulders and along your neck where he’d branded you with hickies he hadn’t even remembered deciding to mark you with.

After leaving to fix himself up and returning again, Noe checked your pulse, two fingers pressed softly to the side of your neck, just to make sure his worst fear hadn’t come to pass. He flinched minutely when your little hand reached up to cup his, a sated smile spread across your lips, eyes still closed as you muttered out, “See… told you I’d be ok…”

Noe’s grin was a little more incredulous than anything, but as he gently stroked the side of your head, smoothing back some strands of tousled hair from your sweet face he adored gazing upon so much, he was just glad that you were alright this time around.

Curling up beside you, pressing a chaste peck to your forehead, Noe told you he loved you through a tired, dreamy sigh. Only then did you open your eyes, pupils dilated to swallow the color of your irises in the dark, and whispered back to him, like a promise, like a prayer, “I love you too…” After that, all you could remember was the darkness of encroaching unconsciousness and the familiar, comforting heat of his body entangled with yours, asleep and safe in each other’s arms at the end of another unforgettable night.

***

(Hello and thank you so much for reading! I really can’t believe it’s already been two years since I made this blog and started writing/posting fanfiction. Time really flies huh?

Anway, I’d like to take this time to give a big thank you to everyone who follows me, reads my work, and takes the time to leave likes or nice comments. It really makes my day :)

I look forward to being able to share the fics I have in the works going forward with you all. Hope you have a wonderful day and remember to be kind to yourself <3)

[angelcqre]

CoD TMA AU

ARCHIVIST

Statement of [Name Redacted], regarding her camping trip in The Grampian Mountains. Original statement given January Fifteenth, Two Thousand and Fifteen. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London.

Statement begins.

ARCHIVIST (STATEMENT)

Now, before you say anything, I know how I sound. I know that it was stupid to go out into the middle of uncharted wilderness and get piss drunk. Believe me, I'm not interested, the park ranger gave me an earful when he found me and the cops did the same. Especially now. But.. something happened, something bad, and if I don't - if I don't say it, I don't know. I'll explode.

So…

I'm not really an outdoors type. I'm an inside cat, I like to curl up with a good book and a cup of tea and my cat, but Farah insisted for her birthday that we go camping. She's always been like that - hiking, caving, camping, it's her thing, and when Farah wants something, she's set on it. Doesn't let it go, especially because she knows how to cash in favors.

So - we went. I didn't want to go, but we went. Me, Farah, her boyfriend, Alex, and her boyfriend's friend. John. I didn't really know him, but he seemed nice enough. We were supposed to spend a long weekend roughing it, three days and three nights for the holiday. We packed plenty of booze, plenty of food, all the proper first aid crap.. and we spent four hours hiking to what John said was the perfect spot.

He was strange from the get-go. A little too touchy-feely, a little too in your space, but he seemed… enthusiastic, I don't know. Eager. He was obviously passionate about it, kept stopping me to show me edible plants, poisonous mushrooms, whatever caught his eye. If it was notable, you'd best believe he was stopping to point it out. It was almost kind of cute, if it wasn't so.. feverish. [VOICE DROPS, ASSUMING SCOTTISH ACCENT.]

"Look, bonnie, look here," and he kept saying it, over and over. It felt like he was trying to prove something - like that he could take care of me, maybe? I don't know.

He just.. didn't stop. He had so much energy, kept moving, expression bright and eyes wild, kept insisting I call him Johnny. It wasn't.. flirting - I don't know what it was. Too familiar. He was so big, just this huge guy, looming over me, smiling with these insanely white teeth that..

Is it crazy to say they looked sharper than.. normal? I know, cliche, but they looked.. sharp. Like fangs. Whatever.

So we settle down on the first night, and of course we all start drinking, set some sausages over the fire, the whole deal. Farah is a clingy drunk, so she disappears with Alex into the woods as soon as she's got some booze in her, and then it's just me and John - Johnny. He hasn't drank a sip the whole time we've been there, just clutching the same beer bottle, nursing it for hours, just.. watching us, and his gaze is so intense. Like he's sizing us up.

At some point, he gets up. Says something about it being "about time", offers me this wink, and then he's strolling off into the woods, whistling to himself.

A hunting we will go, a hunting we will go…

He doesn't come back for naarly an hour. They don't come back for nearly an hour, and I start to get a little worried. I mean, look at me, I would not be able to, like, fight a bear if it came down to it, you know? I just keep feeding the fire, getting jumpier and jumpier, but eventually, he comes back, and..

At first, I don't know what it is. He just looks.. dark. His mohawk looks wet, and his clothes are stuck to him, outlining every muscle, but he doesn't step out into the firelight, stays in the shadows, so only his eyes and his teeth are visible, reflecting the light, and it feels wrong, feels sick.

He asks me, point blank, if I'm tired, and angles his head towards one of the two tents, and I tell him no, not yet, I'm waiting for Farah to get back, and he, uh.. he tells me she's not coming back.

When he steps into the firelight, it's like he's prowling, stalking more than walking, you know? He's moving like… like a predator, all smooth and uncanny, and now that I can see him, I can see that the wetness is.. blood, and he's covered in it, like, head to toe. It's worse at his mouth, his teeth are totally stained, like he was just.. ripping into something, I don't know. Biting. And his teeth are too sharp, and with the way he's moving, and the blood, and.. the look on his face, I just.. bolt.

And he laughs.

I can hear it echoing through the woods, bouncing off of every tree, but I don't hear him running after me. No, he just.. starts walking, and that scares me more, because he's so casual about it. Like he knows I won't get away.

But I run, and as I run, I can hear it, bouncing off of every tree, and it's December, right, so there aren't any leaves to block the moon or muffle the sound. I can hear him whistling as he walks, always seeming to be too close to me, no matter how fast I run, just out of sight, and eventually, I get to a clearing.

Everything feels too still. No nightlife - and there hasn't been any wildlife, no birds, no squirrels, nothing, and I'm realizing how bad that is.

And of course, I trip. My foot gets stuck in a gopher hole, of all fucking things, and then I'm dropping down, and he's on me.

His hand on my wrist, leaning down, and he's -

I don't know.

His eyes are blown out, manic, his teeth so large, ears.. pointed? I don't know, but he's drooling as he ruts against me, all but frothing at the mouth, mumbling about mates and calling me his little bunny, telling me that I had my fun, but that he's ready to have his prize, and-

And I have my bear mace still.

Because I can't fight bears.

He starts fidgeting with my clothes, and I just.. I pull it out, spray him, and he's so big, so unnaturally big, his muscles all.. I don't know, tense, wrong, and I spray him until he's howling and then I run.

I don't think the park ranger was happy to see me, but I was sure as shit happy to see her.

The thing is.. and why I came to you guys..

I keep.. getting this feeling.

Like I'm being watched. Hunted.

Like I never really escaped him.

ARCHIVIST

Statement ends. We attempted to contact Miss [REDACTED] following a similar statement we'd received months ago, regarding a man fitting the same description, but when Martin spoke to her, she informed him that all was fine, and that she was happy now.

That she was expecting pups.

Knowing Martin, he likely misheard her. I'm likely to dismiss this as a hallucination; with the mushrooms she discussed, perhaps she ingested some. The police seemed to think the same, and administered a drug test upon her statement, which came back... clean.

There isn't much more we can do here. If Miss- er, Mrs. MacTavish, doesn't wish to aid in further investigation, we, unfortunately, are stuck at a standstill.

Recording ends.

[CLICK]

[blasphemous-lies-and-deceit]

“I need a place to stay.”

“I need a place to stay.”

Those were the first words Michael had uttered in hours. He had been sitting near-comatose in the corner of Jon's office ever since they'd both stumbled free from the Distortion's Halls, unmoving and unresponsive until now. Jon started in surprise, completely unprepared to hear those words come from Michael's mouth, sounding so hollow and tired. He completely understood the feeling.

"Right," he sighed in agreement, before he paused awkwardly. "I, ah...may also be short on...accommodations. I was, I was in hiding before the Circus kidnapped me, and now...I don't know."

Michael laughed, short and sharp and nothing like how he had sounded before. "Great," he groaned, shoving his tangled hair back and rubbing at his forehead with both hands. "That's great." He had a headache, Jon knew- Knew, a headache he'd been suffering from ever since he'd stepped through the Distortion's door so many years ago. Jon could almost feel it in his own head, aching and heavy, and cracked his neck to try to alleviate it. He was...quite stiff, he realized, and quickly pushed that thought from his mind.

"There's a cot in Document Storage," he offered weakly, and Michael stopped massaging his head to squint up at him irritably.

"I won't fit on that," he snapped sullenly. "I...fuck." He winced suddenly, flinching quite violently. "I shouldn't know that," Michael muttered to himself. "I shouldn't know- I think the Distortion has been spying on you."

"That...makes sense," Jon conceded. Who knew what else had eyes in the Archives watching him. The flash of horribly familiar paranoia made his stomach turn and skin crawl, sparking a desperate urge to be out of the Institute before he did something drastic. "I'm booking us a hotel room," he decided firmly. "And I'm expensing it to the Institute."

"That'll show them," Michael encouraged half-heartedly. Jon busied himself with making the arrangements, while also thinking about what other arrangements he needed to make. Michael had nothing but the clothes on his back and the trauma that his twisted counterpart had inflicted on him. Was he still tied to the Institute, after what had happened? God, was he now another Assistant Jon now had to look out for? He'd already gone through hell and been betrayed by one Archivist, how could he stand to work with Jon, if that was even what he wanted? Had he just gone from one torturous hell prison to another?

Jon couldn't fathom what he could do about that.

A round of calls and an awkward ride share later, Jon realized he'd been a bit too hasty in booking a room. "What do you mean, there's only one bed?" he demanded. The tired and harried-looking desk manager just gave him a blank look.

"That's all that's available tonight, I'm sorry," she said, completely insincerely. "You can try somewhere else, but at this time of night they'll probably all be booked."

"It's fine, Jon," Michael spoke up, hunched over the counter and head hanging low, hair spilling messily around his face. "Just take the room." Jon was so put off that he almost didn't notice that Michael had called him by name for the first time, because he sounded so profoundly and plainly miserable. He swallowed down his reservations and confirmed their reservation for the room instead.

The room was, as expected, small, and did contain only one bed. Michael sat on it listlessly, eyes unfocused and drifting away. "I, uh, I'd like to use the shower first," Jon said lamely, and received only a nod of acknowledgement. Michael's behavior, or lack thereof, was concerning, but so were so many other things, like the Unknowing, and finding answers to his millions of questions, and the heavy layer of lotion all over him.

Jon fought to remain calm as he showered, he really did. He should be enjoying the feeling of warm water running over him, cleaning his skin, but the layered-on oils were difficult to wash off, even with the tiny bar of soap the hotel provided. Choking back the noises trying to claw out of his throat, Jon scrubbed harder, making his skin burn and chafe, his muscles protesting the harsh movements. But it was working, his skin was free of that awful heavy sensation, and it almost felt good, after so much cooling softness. God, he never wanted to feel the touch of lotion against his skin ever again.

"Michael?" he called as he left the bathroom, shivering in the cold air, shoulders exposed by the towel he had wrapped around his chest. "Shower's free, if you'd like-"

He stopped when he found that the room seemed alarmingly empty. Jon's knees nearly gave out in surprise, stumbling into the doorframe as his eyes flew around the room. He breath caught in relief when he caught sight of Michael, crammed in the small space between the wall and the single bed, limbs sticking out jarringly, face hidden in a pillow clutched in his arms.

"Michael?" Jon asked as gently as he could. "Are you...what's wrong?"

"Walls," Michael gasped, muffled by the pillows. "They're too- it was...I don't know where- I can't, I can't, it's too big, there's nowhere I can, I can't-"

He sounded so panicked, so desperate and terrified. Jon hesitated, then stepped forward and crouched next to him, careful of the drape of the towel around his body. Bracing himself and pushing down his own awkwardness, he reached out and took one of Michael's dangling hands in his own uninjured one. It didn't feel the way it had before, or the way that...that Sasha had described it in her statement. It was a perfectly ordinary hand, slightly cold and a bit thin, but utterly normal and human. Just like the rest of Michael.

Michael had tensed sharply when he took his hand, but quickly deflated, turning his head free of the pillow to look towards Jon with red-rimmed eyes. "Your hands-" he stopped to swallow thickly. "They're not...they didn't lotion those?"

"No," Jon confirmed, nearly choking on a very inappropriate chuckle. "No, they didn't, I don't think they were going to...use them." God, that was awful, it was absurd, but he couldn't stop the strained laughter that kept breaking loose from his chest, unstoppable and inappropriate. A single tear slipped down his cheek before he roughly swiped it away with his free hand. He shouldn't be laughing, he shouldn't be caught up in his own horror when Michael had gone through far worse than him, and for much longer. But he couldn't stop.

Michael was watching him with eyes that were unfathomably deep, like they could swallow him whole. Jon wondered, near hysterically, if one could get lost in the eyes of the former Distortion, or whatever Michael was now. But he was not a threat, he reminded himself as Michael unfurled from his tight crouch and crept closer to him. All of that rage and betrayal was nowhere to be seen, for now. He wondered where it had gone.

Keeping hold of his hand, Michael stretched his other arm out and slung it over Jon's shoulders, pulling him in until they were both crumpled together, like two fallen walls of a demolished building. He sighed, and it stirred in the drying strands of Jon's hair. "What are we going to do now, Archivist?" he asked, hollow and empty again. His abrupt turn of terrified energy seemed to have dissipated for now, gone along with Jon's own panic. Which was the intention of his pathetic attempt at comfort, just not quite like this.

"You can call me Jon," Jon answered, unable to stop himself from leaning into Michael's side. Michael was leaning just as heavily on him, his long tangled curls draping over his bare shoulder, and he didn't hate it. "Please don't call me Archivist anymore."

Michael sighed again, harsh and painful. "I'll try," he whispered. "Its still in my head, it still wants to-" he cut himself off, which Jon was grateful for. "No. No. You're Jon. You've done me no wrong. You heard my story. You...you know now."

"I do." Like Martin, like...like Sasha, he knew Michael now, Knew him, had his statement on tape and seared into his mind and heart. He didn't understand what that meant, not yet, not fully, but it meant...something. "I...I'm sorry. About everything."

"Yeah." Michael's hand flexed in his, then settled. "So am I, Archi- Jon. Jon. I'm sorry."

They were such small words, but meant so much. They could be lies, but after hearing his statement, after seeing him fall apart, Jon didn't believe they were. Michael was no longer the Distortion, he had no reason to lie. Jon had to learn to trust, somehow, and who better to start with than someone who had been so betrayed? Michael pressed his head down, resting his cheek on top of Jon's head, and Jon closed his eyes, leaning into Michael's warmth. What else was there to do?

[strawberriemarswrites]

CHAPTER ONE

Chapter Summary: Bartolomeo is your neighbor and has it really bad for you. The kind of bad where your stuff is out of place and going missing. Pairing: Bartolomeo x F!Reader Rating: Mature, SFW chapter TW: Stalking, breaking and entering, obsessive behavior Ao3 Link: Chapter One (3,510 words)

You moved to the city about four months ago. Life had become stagnant and suffocating, especially after finishing college. You needed to get away; from overbearing parents, from your snobbish peers, from everyone. The only good connection you made in college was able to get you an archivist job in the heart of the city, and you snapped it right up. You applied for whatever apartments were in the area that you could afford, and went for the first one that became available.

That might’ve been your first mistake, really. For one thing, it was in a grittier part of town. It was also small, barely the size of two dorm rooms put together, and the neighbors below you were always yelling at each other or loudly fucking each other. But the building was clean, the rent was cheap, and the neighbor across the hall was friendly enough. A bit crass and blunt, but friendly.

His name was Bartolomeo. He was a mean-looking motherfucker by all accounts: wild green hair, septum piercing, tattoos — he was exactly the kind of person people from your hometown would have hated on appearance alone. He had an odd sort of overbite that showed his long canines like a vampire, except that all his teeth were equally sharp, and at first you’d been intimidated by both that and his impressive height. (After a few trips on the train to and from work, you noticed much stranger and much taller folks, and figured it must have just been a quirk of diverse city life).

Despite all appearances, however, Bartolomeo was nice. He held the elevator if he saw you running up, even if it was nearly shut. Some days you’d see him in the hall and he’d stop to chat for a while. One day you realized you two had been talking for almost thirty minutes, and only stopped because he’d gotten a call from his coworker asking him where the hell he was. Even running late, he still moved and talked with an aloof sort of air about him, like nothing could get to him. 

Early on, maybe a few weeks after moving in, you admitted to him that you’d never lived fully alone before, and wondered if maybe you made the right choice to live in such a rough part of town. Bartolomeo had laughed, like finding the neighborhood rough was something he’d never considered. You still remembered what he’d told you:

“People around here aren’t too big on hospitality, but they mind their own business. Don’t mess with them, they won’t mess with you.” He then smiled wide, showing off the rest of his uniquely sharp teeth. “Tell you what — since you’re so nervous about it, if anyone does mess with you, let me know. I’ll take care of ‘em for ya.”

Just the memory of how he had smiled that day brought a faint blush to your cheeks. Fine, you’d admit it: aside from being nice, Bartolomeo was also frustratingly attractive. His devil-may-care charm was hard not to be lured in by, and you couldn’t help but feel some of it rubbing off on you the more you got to chatting. He was loud and so were his friends, and the landlord rarely stuck around long if he stepped into the hallway. You definitely felt a little safer knowing he was around.

Two months ago, the troubles began.

It had been a day like any other. Average shift, average commute, about the only exciting part of the work day had been your coworker, Robin, inviting you for drinks on Friday. You came home and went to your bedroom to change into comfier clothes, but something was off. You couldn’t tell at first, but when you reached for the top drawer of your dresser to pull out some pajama pants — 

It was already open. 

Just slightly, with the edge of your pajama pants stuck in the drawer’s track. 

Now, you weren’t necessarily a meticulous person, but in general you kept your dresser pretty tidy, so it seemed odd to find it this way. Puzzled, you pulled out the pants and a loose t-shirt, frowning as you put them on. Had you been in a hurry that morning? It was possible, since you were struggling to remember what you had for breakfast. Hustling through your routine and being a bit careless with the drawer as a result wasn’t totally out of the question. You pushed down the knot in your stomach and moved on with your evening, the incident forgotten.

Or at least, it would have been forgotten, had there not been further incidents.

Another day, you had been unexpectedly called off. There had been a power outage on the block your workplace was on, and they hadn’t been able to get the emergency lights working. You spent the morning getting your laundry done and putting fresh bed sheets on the bed, and left to run extra errands. When you came back, exhausted but satisfied with your personal productivity, you went to jump into your bed for a quick nap before dinner.

You stopped just short literally jumping in when you found the comforter was already disheveled somehow. As if someone had been laying on top of it.

The frequency of problems seemed to only increase from there. You came home to find your door was unlocked, when you were nigh-obsessive on double-checking it before leaving. Your favorite t-shirt to sleep in had gone missing, and you had just put it in the hamper the night before. You had a journal in your nightstand that you didn’t write in terribly often, but with the strange things happening you felt it’d be nice to get it all documented — you opened it and found creases in a couple of the pages, like it had been clumsily closed and tossed back into the drawer.

You had convinced yourself that everything was fine. Maybe you lost your t-shirt at the laundromat. Maybe you thought you double-checked the door but you hadn’t. Maybe you were nodding off the last time you handled your journal. Maybe, maybe, maybe. At this point, the only thing you were sure of was that you were in denial that any of this was fine.

In hindsight, you really should have brought it up to Bartolomeo sooner than you did.

Drinks with Robin and a few other coworkers became a biweekly affair, lining up with payday. The weather was finally warming up after a particularly cold April, so you put on one of your frillier blouses that you were saving for such an occasion and a pair of jeans. Then you spent way too long looking for your favorite perfume.��

“Motherfucker!”

You slammed your palm against the wall in frustration. Of course. Why the fuck not? With all the other weird happenings, why wouldn’t that fall victim to the bullshit, too? Shaking the sting out of your hand, you got up from the bathroom floor and stormed off, snatching up your purse. You’d just have to hope no one noticed the blouse was a little stuffy-smelling from being put away for so long. Frustrated, you slammed the apartment door on your way out, triple-checking the lock and muttering curses the whole way.

“You good?”

Bartolomeo’s voice behind you made you jump and fumble your keys. With a deep sigh you crouched down and scooped them up, running a hand through your hair. “I’ll be fine. Just running late for payday drinks.”

“Oh yeah,” he said, and you saw him lean to one side in your peripherals. “That’s tonight. When are you guys gonna come out to my bar, huh?”

“When I’m more confident that they won’t mind the heavy metal music,” you said and stood upright, smiling and adding, “Which might be sooner than you think.”

As usual, Bartolomeo was the picture of nonchalance, leaning against his doorframe in a Cannibal Corpse t-shirt that had seen better days. He gave you a sort of half-smirk then nodded to your door. “You sure you’re okay? Sounded like you might’ve hurt yourself in there.”

“Yeah, just...” you sighed and shook your head, “kinda frustrated. I can’t find my good perfume.” You paused, remembering your conversation with him when you first moved in. “Hey, uh, Barto?”

He stood up slightly straighter at the nickname. “Yeah?”

“Can you, uh...” you paused again, twisting the strap on your purse. His suddenly intense stare made you blush and avert your eyes. “Would you mind keeping an eye on my apartment when I’m gone? Like, if you’re around, let me know if you hear or see anything?”

“Yeah, sure!” he answered with surprising eagerness, before he cleared his throat and quickly reverted to the casual tone. “I mean — can I ask why?”

You would have laughed at the outburst, had you not been trying to find the words to explain you thought someone was breaking into your apartment. “It’s just... I don’t know. Some of my stuff’s gone missing. Random things. And sometimes I come home and there’ll be something out of place, or a little off. Like... someone else has been there.”

“Oh, shit.” Bartolomeo pushed off the doorframe, the chain hanging from his belt clinking as he took a step closer. “How long’s this been goin’ on for?”

You continued avoiding his gaze. “Two months, maybe?”

“What?”

“I figured I was just forgetting things,” you said quickly. “It happens, I can be a little spacey. But... not like this. It feels different.” You finally looked at him again with a sheepish smile, your heart melting a bit at the worried look he had. “I probably should have mentioned something sooner. I’m sorry to freak you out like this.”

He shrugged, now suddenly avoiding your gaze. “At least you said somethin’ before it got any worse.”

A chill went down your spine. You didn’t want to think about what “worse” entailed.

“Hey, don’t worry about it. I told ya you could come to me if anyone was messin’ with you.” He smiled, his fully-bared teeth all the more imposing as he punched one fist into the opposite palm. “I’ll keep an eye out for ya. If I catch anyone hangin’ around where they don’t belong, they’ll be shittin’ sideways for the rest of their life.”

Despite yourself, you laughed. All things considered, you felt lucky that you had such a cool neighbor.

Relief gave way to panic when your phone pinged; a reminder that you had somewhere to be. You cussed under your breath and started rushing toward the elevator, but not before turning and waving to Bartolomeo, shouting as you ran, “Thank you! I owe you one!”

“Don’t mention it!” he called and waved back, watching you turn the corner for the elevator. He leaned against the wall next to his door, shoving his hands in his pockets and listening for the soft ding of the elevator’s arrival. Once he was sure you were out of earshot, he stepped back into his apartment and shut the door, taking a deep breath.

“FUCK!”

Bartolomeo put both his hands over his face, yelling every curse word he knew. How could he have gotten so careless?! He knew he’d gotten way too comfortable with sneaking into your apartment, but two months? You’d been onto him for two months?! He groaned and dragged his hands down, wincing when one of his fingers tugged on his nose ring. No, that wasn’t right; you weren’t onto him, specifically. You only noticed the missing stuff, and whatever it was you meant by “something out of place”.

(He knew exactly what you meant by that, considering his favorite thing to do in your apartment was lie down on your bed and cuddle your pillows.)

Admittedly, part of him was relieved. You asked him for help! Sure, from the time you noticed to the time you said something had him a little concerned, and sure, it was his doing to begin with — but you weren’t aware of the second part! And, if you hadn’t said something, it would only have been a matter of time before he got caught in the act. He had time to correct that now. With you asking for help, it meant he’d be seeing you more, so he wouldn’t have to break into your apartment anymore, and he could act like it never happened!

(He was aware, on some level, that it wouldn’t be that simple. It wouldn’t be enough just to see you more. He had to be with you.)

Bartolomeo groaned again and sat down on the couch, head still in his hands. His heart had finally calmed down, having been racing just from talking to you. You were so cute, from how you fidgeted when you were nervous, to how your laugh sounded, to how you looked in that outfit (well, he thought you always looked nice in any outfit, but that was beside the point). And your eyes — what he wouldn’t give to be able to look into your eyes for more than a handful of seconds. He’d started a habit of looking at your nose when you two chatted, just to keep from turning his head away when your eyes were too much, but it only led to him fighting the insatiable urge to kiss it. He wanted to kiss your whole face, really, but if he started thinking about that, his heart rate was bound to pick up again.

All this to say, Bartolomeo had it bad for you. Real bad.

It started out innocently enough when you moved in across the hall. He thought you were cute from the start, and wanted to be nicer than usual; holding the door if he saw you coming, taking time to chat with you. But then the more he saw you, the more you two talked, the more he found himself looking forward to it. Before he knew it, he was listening for the elevator every time he could, just so he had a chance to talk to you again.

Even though it wasn’t hard to tell you lived alone, you admitting out loud that it was the first time about sent him into shock. Seriously? And in the shittiest neighborhoods you could have possibly ended up in? Something in his brain cranked up to eleven, and he was determined you needed someone looking out for you. Someone close by, who knew the area well, and had more than enough street smarts under his belt. Of course, that someone would be him. Why wouldn’t it be? And so, he came up with something to ease your worries (it was mostly true, in that at the very least the people in the building and running businesses around the neighborhood minded their own), and offered help. The relief on your face was well worth it.

Bartolomeo hadn’t intended for things to get this... intense, though.

The first time he’d broken in had been on impulse. See, the apartment building had older fire escapes, where the ladder wasn’t as compact as it really should be and about half of it hung down below the bottom landing. Most people still couldn’t reach it without significant effort, either by dragging over something to climb on or risking their neck by trying to parkour that shit.

Bartolomeo, however, was not most people. Standing at seven-foot-three, he just had to reach up and haul his own weight for a few rungs. He only did it to prove to himself that he could, in case you were ever in trouble and he needed to get in quickly without fighting with the front door.

Then, he wondered if it would take very long to get to the fourth floor, where both of you lived. He knew he wouldn’t have to worry about the tenants on the way up making a fuss; the unit on the second floor was used by the landlord for storage, and the people directly below you were always too busy arguing or fucking to notice anything.

And then it just. Happened. You weren’t home, and the window was so easy to open, and he had to know everything. How you lived, what you showered with, what sort of stuff did you keep. He had a general idea from talking to you, but he wanted, needed more.

The first time, Bartolomeo just sat on the windowsill, looking around and taking in the bedroom. You kept the floor clear, so if he felt brave enough to venture further in the room he wouldn’t have to worry about tripping and breaking something. You had a desk with a bookshelf built around it that was full of books and video games and figurines, and one of those desktop computers with the rainbow lights on the tower. Your bed was neatly made, adorned with overstuffed pillows, with a storage bench at the foot that was currently being commandeered by a collection of plushies dressed like pirates. The bed itself looked wide enough for two, though he might have to get a little creative to make it work with his taller height.

Not that. He was thinking about laying next to you. Or holding you close. Or watching you fall asleep.

(He absolutely was thinking those things. But in his bed, not yours. What could he say? He needed his California King. It wasn’t perfect, but he couldn’t afford one of the fancy custom beds that other city dwellers somehow got their hands on.)

Bartolomeo resolved that breaking in was fine, so long as he always took off his boots (couldn’t rightfully wear shoes into your apartment now, could he?) and didn’t touch anything. That way you’d never know. He stuck to that for the first handful of trips. Then one time he couldn’t resist picking up and fawning over your monkey plushie at the foot of the bed, so he decided it was okay to touch things, but he had to put them back exactly as he found them. Before he knew it, one day he was poking around the jewelry trays on your dresser, and...

He only had the top drawer open for a minute. Two, tops. Any longer and he would have gotten dizzy from how much blood was rushing downwards. He slammed it shut and made a beeline for the fire escape, nearly forgetting his boots in the process. He told himself he wouldn’t be looking in there without your permission, otherwise the temptation would be too great and he'd steal something he really shouldn’t.

(Which is why he eventually stole your shirt instead.)

Okay. So Bartolomeo let his little guilty pleasure get out of control. He just hadn’t realized how easily that happened. Now that you said something to him, he was going to ease off. He pushed up off the couch and sauntered to his room, putting his hands back in his pockets, flinching when one hand touched something he forgot he’d still had on his person. Frowning, he pulled the perfume bottle out, a slight twist in his stomach at the thought he’d frustrated you with his antics. He really hadn’t intended to keep it — honest. He only swiped it because the shirt under his pillow was starting to smell like the rest of his stuff. Not necessarily a bad thing, as it wasn’t like he was unclean (he was unkempt and dirty minded, even peed in the shower sometimes, but not unclean), but. The whole reason he took the shirt was because it smelled like you.

He turned the bottle over in his hands and sat on the edge of his bed. The label on it just said “Elegia” — why couldn’t the names of these things be simple? Fucking vanilla, or flowers, or whatever, so that he could put it back and get something similar. He supposed at least this way he could try to find another bottle online, so he could get it exact, but still... what a pain. Point being, if it had been easier to remember the name, he wouldn’t have had to take it.

...Okay, fine, Bartolomeo stole it thinking you wouldn’t notice. You had a few others, he figured it’d be fine.

With a sigh he reached under his pillows for your shirt, unable to keep from smiling when he saw it. It was light purple, with the words “Bite Me” on it in a black, drippy font. He saw you wear it on laundry day once; it took an immeasurable amount of self control not to take it as an invitation. He then uncapped the perfume and sighed again, his eyes rolling back just a bit. At least he guessed right; this was definitely the one you wore the most often. It smelled like vanilla and strawberries.

Like you.

Shaking out of his reverie, he sprayed the shirt and folded it back up under his pillows. It had been in his possession for too long for him to give it up without arousing suspicion, so he’d settle for returning the perfume.

While you were gone, of course.

[marvelmusing]

An Era of Power

Part Nine

Pairing: Aleksander Morozova x Fem!Reader

Summary: Armed with knowledge from the library, you’re ready to face Aleksander now that he’s returned. But when a young Grisha faces a frightening ordeal, you end up confronting Baghra instead.

Word Count: 1.8K

A/N: this has taken me ages to get right so I hope you guys enjoy this next part, I’ve missed writing this story.

My Masterlist • Series Masterlist

The sun is setting as you walk through the hallways of the Little Palace, sharp golden rays of light illuminating your path.

Even now, hours after Baghra's revelation, your mind is muffled by nervous thoughts and frayed emotions. There's a dull ache behind your eyes, no doubt caused by reading for far too long. But you couldn't stop.

Answers still allude you, but two things are certain. Baghra doesn’t deserve your trust, and as much as it hurts, neither does Aleksander. The books in the library hadn’t outright confirmed the word of either of them.

The Kirigan line had been documented perfectly, something that was a surprise given the Little Palace’s lack of an archivist. That alone made you suspicious. Perhaps there was some truth to Baghra’s accusations.

But just because Aleksander was older than he had told you, didn’t mean that anything else she had said was true. After all, you hadn’t told him how old you really were. It doesn’t mean he’s planning to use you, or the Fold.

Your thoughts continue to tear you apart as you open the door to your bedchamber, but you still notice the envelope that had been slid under the door by someone.

There’s quite some weight to the parchment, and Aleksander’s handwriting is recognisable immediately. You read over the words carefully. He briefly explains that he’s been called away to deal with an issue in Chernast.

Before you can help it, you’re thinking about the stag. Baghra’s words echo in your mind: it’s likely he will search for it himself and simply return with your new collar. Something painful twists in your chest at the thought, and anxiety fills you. What if there is no emergency in Chernast? What if he’s on his way to kill the stag?

Tilting the envelope in your hands, you tip it to one side and a silver necklace slips out onto your waiting palm. A thin chain, with a circlet of silver - the sun in eclipse. His symbol.

The ache in your heart softens, and you clasp the piece around your neck. The metal is cool against your skin, and you ignore the shiver that runs down your spine and the twisted thoughts that goad you. A placeholder collar.

You fall into an unsettled sleep that night.

»»---------------------►

A week later, Aleksander returns.

You cross paths with him in the entrance hallway to the Little Palace. He has snowflakes in his hair, bright white against the darkness of his raven locks. The snow on his kefta melts quickly, dampening the fabric as he looks over you.

“General Kirigan,” you say in quiet greeting, and he inclines his head, saying your name with a softness that has the entire week worth of anxiety and overthinking fading away.

Everything will be okay.

Your lips are parted, the question already on your tongue, asking him for a moment alone to talk through everything you have learnt since the last time you saw one another. To demand the truth from his own lips.

Then an Inferni - Polina - comes rushing into the hallway, gasping for breath with a frantic expression on her face. She nearly slips on the floor as the wetness on her boots meets polished marble.

Aleksander halts her, encouraging her to share what’s wrong. Both yours and Aleksander’s expression drops as she explains that a young tidemaker had fallen into the ice of the lake during a lesson with Baghra.

She’s barely finished explaining before Aleksander orders her to fetch a healer. His voice fades into the distance as you rush out through the hallway, gravel crunching under your feet as you run towards the lake.

The snowfall is light, allowing you to make your way to the lake without too much difficulty. There’s a few Grisha at the edge of the lake. They share panicked looks and anxious words as they try to figure out how to reach the boy.

The child in question is almost in the middle of the lake, his arms clinging to the ice as half of his body is already submerged in the freezing water.

Panic clouds your mind for a moment, but the sound of Aleksander’s voice pulls you out of it as he asks whether a tidemaker had been alerted of the situation. Had he run after you? Turning, you see him beginning to remove his kefta. Grasping at his sleeve, you stop him.

“I can keep the ice from cracking. I’m the only one who can reach him safely.”

Aleksander holds your gaze for several seconds, studying every emotion swimming in your eyes. The fear and the panic. You’re certain that he remembers the nightmare you had shared with him. He knows you’re thinking about your childhood friend, the boy you couldn’t save from drowning under the ice. But you’re stronger now.

You won’t let any more Grisha children die.

Aleksander nods, settling his palm over your fingers. His touch provides a surge of confidence as his power brushes against yours.

Then you’re turning away, focusing your power on the ice in front of you as Aleksander issues orders to the Grisha standing on the bank. There’s a powerful heartrender attempting to keep the boy’s body temperature up, but he’s too far away and she won’t be able to reach him for much longer.

Drawing your power into your hands, you keep your palm steady as it faces the ground you stand on.

Then you take a step onto the ice. There’s a sickening crack as the ice begins to break, but you don’t allow it to shatter. It remains frozen in time by your power and a shaky breath of relief falls from your lips.

Despite the pounding in your heart and the anxiety urging you to hurry, you step evenly over the ice. With every snap and groan of the ice you push down your fear.

Once you’re close enough you begin to speed up the freezing process of the ice beneath your feet, creating a solid floor for once you pull him out. Now you’re close enough to see the boy properly.

“What’s your name?”

There’s tears glistening in his eyes, but he swallows quickly and answers you,

“Georgi.”

As you settle down onto your knees carefully, you tell him your name.

“The ice around you is quite thin, it won’t stay frozen for long without me holding it. To pull you out, I have to use both of my hands.” Georgi nods in understanding. Very few Grisha can use their power without their hands. “When I grab onto you, I need you to wrap your arms around my neck really tight, okay?”

“You’re going to get me out?”

The fright in his voice tugs at your heart, and for a moment you imagine the ice breaking, plunging you both into the water. You nod.

“It’s going to be alright, Georgi.”

You solidify the ice surrounding him as much as you can, but with Georgi moving constantly to stay above the water, the ice doesn’t remain frozen for long.

“Ready?”

He nods.

“On three.”

You’re mostly speaking to yourself, preparing your power to hold onto the ice for as long as it can.

“One, two, three.”

As you finish your countdown, you grasp hold of Georgi and pull with all your might. His clothes are heavy with water, but he clings onto you tightly. You hear the ice snapping under your knees as the cold water soaks through the arms of your kefta as you fight to pull him free.

Once he’s clear from the water, you pull his body against yours and throw the two of you onto the ice you had thickened. Georgi is shaking as he grips onto you.

With one hand, you summon your power, keeping the ice completely still, frozen at a thickness akin to mid-winter. Relief fills you, but you can hardly process it as your heat beat echoes in your ears. The snowfall is heavier now as it lands in large clumps that cling to your frozen kefta.  

Slowly, you manage to carry Georgi back to towards solid ground.

Once you finally reach the edge of the lake, your legs give way. As you stumble forwards, a handful of Grisha take Georgi. Someone wraps a kefta around him and a healer steps in to examine him before they begin walking him back towards the Little Palace.

When you sink to your knees, exhausted, Aleksander is by your side. He wraps his kefta around your shivering body, and despite the chill of the frozen air some of his warmth spreads over your skin.

His fingers curl around your wrist, his thumb smoothing over your pulse point as it continues to pound violently. The soothing feeling of his amplification has your eyes growing heavy as your forehead presses against the warmth of his neck.

Struggling to keep yourself from falling into him, you force your eyes open. Then your gaze falls on Baghra. Displeasure twists at her features as she observes you and Aleksander, and anger thrums through your body.

“You’re still here I see.”

A startled scoff leaves your lips.

“Did you think telling me running was useless would make me try it just to spite you?”

Aleksander looks between you and his mother, confusion barely visible in his eyes as you stand to face her. A demeaning smile twitches at the corner of her mouth before she nods towards Aleksander.

“He will find out what you are soon enough.”

At that, you go still. Aleksander has always told you how incredible you power is. That it is a gift. Baghra has done nothing but shame you for being different – deep down you’ve always feared that she’s right.

There is a darkness in your soul. An anger you have never forgotten, made dangerous by the magic ripped from the making at the heart of the world and forced into you. The merzost is still there inside you, all it would take is one tug.

Now, with your adrenaline running high, it begs you to answer its call, to release it all. The pain, the fear, the anger. Centuries worth of it.

He will see what you are. An abomination.

Darkling’s have been a source of fear and suspicion among the otkazat’sya for centuries. Perhaps it’s time you give them something new to fear. But you cannot do that if you spend your time cowering from an old woman, even if she has the same power as the man beside you.

She must see the shift in your expression as you step closer.

“He has his Grandfather’s eyes,” you say in a low voice. When her brows draw together you tilt your head towards him in clarification. “Aleksander.”

The corner of your mouth twitches with a smirk as you catch a glimmer of uncertainty in her eyes, you can practically see the questions flying through her mind as she processes your words. Understanding dawns on her, that you had met her father – Ilya Morozova.

Taking another step closer, you raise your chin as you hold her gaze.

“You have no idea what I am.”

The smirk lingers on your lips as she stands in stunned silence, and you step back slowly.

“Think about that, the next time you underestimate me.”

With that, you turn and walk back to the Little Palace.

»»---------------------►

marvelmusing Tag List: @dreamlandcreations @blanchedelioncourt @idaofinfinity @slytherheign @ellooo0ooo @vixenofcourse @dumb-fawkin-bitch @jane-arthur @ilikefictionmen @budugu @watersquirtpewpewboomm @mysweetlittledesire

AEOP Tag List: @budugu @agentstarkid @seraferna @watersquirtpewpewboomm @marvel-ousnesss @venomsvl @cynthianokamaria @dumb-fawkin-bitch @intothesoul @rainbowgoblinfan @000rpheus

Aleksander M Tag List: @nyctophiliiiiaaa @jazmin2211 @wooya1224

BB Characters Tag List: @rachlovesactors @noortsshift @aikeia @weallhaveadestiny @two-unbeatable-beaters

»»---------------------►

-

[lets-try-some-writing]

Whims of the Fae Chapter 2

The fae always have little schemes to set in motion. Megatron is no exception. However even he couldn’t predict the outcome of Orion’s plan. Evidently the Head Archivist had not seen fit to make it clear that their attempt to make a puppet Prime to get in and work with the Council involved parenthood. 

This was not part of the plan. But there wasn’t exactly much to do about it now.

━━━━━━ ⊙ ❖ ⊙ ━━━━━━━━━━━━

The prototype melting in the prepared pool of energon wasn’t exactly… a comforting sight. Still, Megatron had seen worse in the pits. Mecha being disemboweled was infinitely worse than watching Optronix slowly turn into a strange glowing white goo. Still, he wasn’t exactly the most patient when it came to these sorts of things. They needed a puppet to carry the Matrix, and they needed that puppet as soon as possible. Megatron wasn’t familiar with enchanting or the finer details of being fae born, not after having been raised in the pits by prototypes. Despite that, he was fairly certain that turning their potential puppet into goo wasn’t the right way to go about converting the puppet into one of their Court.

“Orion, what did you mean when you called him our ‘little sprite’?” He questioned as the goo in the pool began to clump up, wires and other strange things resembling bones forming amidst the mess. It was somewhat disturbing to watch if he was honest.

“Why I thought I made myself rather clear. He is now of our line, the heir of our domain, and the ones from which we hail.” Orion smiled his regular eerie smile, his denta sharp as blades and on full display in that wicked manner Megatron took vorns to fully come to terms with. His Conjunx grinned, a gleeful undertone to his field as he hurried about collecting items Megatron personally found strange. 

“My love, watch the pool and do alert me the moment it begins to pulse.” Orion merrily went about his business, vanishing deep into the sea of shelves and leaving Megatron to watch the pool. He grimaced as he watched wires and cables begin to slither within, connecting to mass in the center of the pool which was rapidly developing. He could make out a vague shape within, something almost akin to a sparkling in size. 

His spark flared in momentary concern as the wires connected to the developing frame within the pool, but he dismissed those growing fears easily. Surely this was all part of the process. The prototype would finish his reconstruction and emerge ready to be taught the ways of the fae. Just like Megatron, he would struggle. But under their dutiful care, he would flourish and be the perfect puppet. Already Optronix had shown strength of character, and for that reason alone, Megatron allowed himself a faint smile.

He was going to be a fantastic ally once he adjusted to the horrors of the realm of the fae. Megatron would stand with him all the way, offering comfort and guidance for a mech brought into the fold. 

The pleasant image of companionship with a fellow low caste mech had Megatron smiling wider and left his thoughts to drift toward plans for the future. He could already see the future ahead of him. Optronix would learn the ways of the fae and grow into a warrior Megatron could count on. Perhaps even one cycle they could even be friends in the manner of prototypes rather than the transactional ways of the fair folk. It was a pleasant thought to consider.

He almost didn’t notice as the wires and cables grew larger, pulsing and transferring energon from the pool into the body growing within a strange translucent sac. But any and all wistful musing faded entirely when the entire thing began to thrum, the wires pulsing and the walls of the sac threatening to tear. 

Was this part of the process? Surely this couldn’t be right. The frame within the sac wasn’t nearly large enough to match a grown mech. Something must have gone horribly wrong.

“ORION!” He called out vocally and across their bond, urging his Conjunx to return as swiftly as possible as light began to filter into the strange pod, swirling around the tiny frame within and seemingly imbuing it. Then, within a nanoklik, Orion was beside him.

“Calm yourself, beloved. All is well. The sprite is doing just fine. We need only give him his birthright.” Orion’s servo lingered on his shoulder as Megatron stood at the edge of the pool, looking between the sac and his Conjunx in confusion. Perhaps there was a part of the process yet to be completed, a finalization of sorts that would give Optronix the boost he needed to complete his transformation. Yes, that had to be it. Megatron trusted Orion far more than he trusted his own judgment when it came to these things. 

“What must we do?” He questioned cautiously as the sac continued to pulse. Orion’s field shifted momentarily, a sign that he was calling upon his gifts for power. He tried not to look too closely as Orion’s smile grew beyond the confines of his face and his vistage changed, his frame growing until it began a mess of wires, pixels, and optics. He did all he could to keep his optics on the sac as Orion stepped into the now very shallow pool and hovered above the tiny frame growing there.

“Awaken sprite.”

Orion’s voice rang out clearly in the Archives, his vocalizer still producing clear and symphonic words despite the state of his frame. In response, the sac pulsed again, a crack running along its surface. Orion then called out to Megatron silently, his intention clear as one of many optics settled on him. Megatron swiftly complied and joined him in the pool.

“I, Orion Pax, creation of Codexa and student of Alpha Trion, accept this sprite into my line as my heir. My gifts are his to obtain and my power his to harvest from.”

Orion reached out to the pod, one of his many limbs resting upon its surface and his wires wrapping around it in a fond manner. The being within spasmed, small and hazy limbs flailing as Optronix endured a wave of what Megatron could only assume was Orion’s influence. Blue light almost as bright as fresh energon flowed from Orion’s wires and digits, trickling down to the pod and turning a deep abyssal black as it reached the developing being within. Optronix almost appeared to be in pain based on how his small frame twitched in time with the black creeping along him.

“Speak Megatronus. Accept him as your own.”

Orion’s voice broke Megatron from his thoughts, and he quickly met his beloved’s gaze. A dozen optics glanced at him and then to the pod, a silent order. Megatron hesitated, confusion running rampant in his mind as he struggled to figure out what he was even supposed to be doing.

“Quickly beloved. The time draws near. He does not have much left to accept.” 

It was a warning Megatron did not understand, but one he took to spark without hesitation. He ran through what Orion had said as he approached the pod, and adjusting a few words, Megatron repeated it and laid a servo on the pod.

“I, Megatronus of Kaon, sprite of the mines and Champion of the pits, accept this sprite into my line as my heir. My gifts are his to obtain and my power his to harvest from.”

Megatron waited for a nanoklik, feeling nothing had happened despite having uttered the words. However, just as he prepared to pull away, instinct tore at his rational mind and took control. Without his direct consent, his influence spread throughout his frame, forcing him to grow larger, more intimidating. Runes and glyphs of power came into being all around him and his Conjunx as his influence joined the black that crawled along Optronix’s frame. Red turned to white and fought against the creeping gloom that was his Conjunx’s influence.

Again, Optronix spasmed, his frame shifting within the goo that held him. The black of Orion’s influence held sway over most of Optronix’s form, but Megatron’s influence was still prominent. The instincts that guided him told him that this meant he had been successful. In what, he had no idea.

“Perfect. He is ready.” Orion pulled away, his frame returning to its normal state after a series of unsettling clicks and a hiss of static. Megatron followed his Conjunx’s lead, his instincts settling into the back of his processor where they belonged. He was not given time to contemplate what in the name of the thirteen had come over him before Orion’s monstrous grin grew to a disproportionate size, and he stabbed his servo directly into the pod. 

Megatron could feel his expression shift into one of absolute horror as Orion reached in, groped around in the goo, and then grabbed one of Optronix’s still underdeveloped limbs to rip him free. Wires and cables snapped in a spray of energon and the sac collapsed in on itself with little fanfare. Distantly, Megatron was grateful this whole affair had occurred within the energon pool, otherwise he would be left to clean up the mess for likely the next few deca-cycles.

“There you are, little sprite!” Orion practically cooed as he held the… thing up by its leg. Megatron took a step back as he observed the creature and promptly came to the conclusion that whatever it was, it was no longer Optronix the dock worker. 

“Oh dear, you poor thing. You must be chilled.” Orion hurriedly moved toward the table a few feet away. Megatron for his part couldn’t tear his optics off the creature as he followed on instinct. As it was laid on the table, he felt the urge to purge.

The thing had the general shape of a sparkling. It had what looked like some sort of helm, a torso, legs, and two arms. But that was where any familiarity ended on a biological scale. The thing, whatever it was, looked horribly malformed. Its limbs were too long, and it had an extra arm for no apparent reason. Holes ran along its helm, giving a clear view of where its processor fired, exposed and delicate. Transformation seams crawled along its face, meeting around the two largest holes where Megatron assumed optics were.

Spines grew along its arms and back in no particular pattern or size, each varying and differing from one another in formation. Its internal components were all but exposed, guarded only by structures akin to calipers that held everything in place. Megatron could see its tanks and various other organs pulsing and squirming enough to make him sick. He wouldn’t have believed the thing was even Cybertronian if not for the spark chamber that was clear to see, flaring openly as the source of life that it guarded glowed powerfully within.

“Orion, what in the pits is this thing?” Megatron questioned in disbelief as the thing squirmed, its small clawed servos grasping at nothing. The thing must have been blind for the most part. It had optics, small pinpricks within the dual voids that served as its optical sockets. However those small optics flickered, only coming online in swift bursts. What a strange and disgusting creature. This couldn’t have been right.

“This is our sprite. He is still very young yet, and he will take time to develop, but he is ours. Already he has accepted a great deal of our influence. I believe he may have even inherited your shoulders!” Megatron was sure he was making quite the expression as he struggled to hold back a gag. The thing didn’t look anything like either of them in Megatron’s opinion, but he wasn’t given the chance to get much of a word in before Orion was rubbing the little monster down with a soft towel.

“That thing… its-” Megatron began before a digit was pressed against his derma, stopping him from speaking. How Orion moved so quickly was beyond him, but Megatron remained silent as Orion pulled back slowly with an expression that practically embodied the concept of a warning.

“It is bad luck to speak poorly of a sprite my love. It weakens them, shifting them into something darker that must be destroyed.” Orion reached out to the thing, the sprite, Megatron reminded himself. The sprite flailed but did not fight back, or perhaps was unable to do so as Orion wrapped its torso in an embroidered blanket, leaving only its back still exposed. That much Megatron could endure looking at without wanting to throw the sprite out the nearest window.

“You mean it could become a demon?” Megatron found himself questioning as Orion propped the sprite up on a pillow. The little thing was laid out flat on its stomach, its helm and most of its upper body resting on the pillow. It didn’t so much as murmur as its optics flickered on and offline. 

“Do not speak in such a manner around him. You will harm his development. But to answer your question, yes. All young sprites can become demons if they are not tended to properly, especially those turned as he was.” A soft clang echoed in the space as Orion picked up a needle-like tool Megatron was unfamiliar with. The Archfae made a contemplative click and traced his digits over the sprite’s back, most likely coming up with something terrifying based on what Megatron knew of his Conjunx. 

“I give you the wings of the wood. May they carry you to safety and the wind favor you in your journeys.”

The Archivist’s words came in a whisper that was uttered like a prayer. As he spoke, his digits moved with delicateness Megatron usually found were reserved for when Orion handled him. The needle dug into the sprite’s back, prompting the thing to squirm up until Orion began to sing a soft song, his influence wrapping around the little creature lovingly. If it weren’t for how hideous the thing was, Megatron would have found the scene lovely.

Before long, Orion had etched a strange swirling design onto the sprite’s back. It was vaguely in the shape of insect wings and covered in all sorts of runes and symbols Megatron did not recognize, but as soon as it was done, the lines began to glow. The whole etching pulsed with the sprite’s spark, flaring softly in the relative gloom of the archive. The sprite squirmed again, and Orion was quick to collect the little thing and wrap it, him, up properly. 

“Do we give him his name now?” Megatron found himself questioning as Orion began to walk through the archives, leaving Megatron to follow behind him. Orion made a sound that bordered on an outraged huff before he gave Megatron that look, the one he reserved for when Megatron was missing something most fae found obvious.

“Of course not! He’s a sprite! Giving him his full name now would kill him! No, no, he will be given a placeholder name until he is old enough to bear the burden.” Orion cradled the sprite as if the little creature would turn into smoke in his arms if he so much as loosed his hold. Megatron shrank in on himself internally, but otherwise said nothing as he followed his Conjunx down the ever shifting halls of the Archives. 

Eventually, they made their way down one hall Megatron knew well. It was one of the few that rarely changed, and it led directly to his and Orion’s room. Megatron had long ago come to the conclusion that Orion had pulled some strings to keep this part of the archives stables just so that Megatron wouldn't get lost. He did that a lot when they were first Conjunxed.

“Here we are!” Orion sounded so very proud when he finally stopped in front of a door that had absolutely not been there a cycle ago. Megatron wasn’t given much time to gawk before Orion pushed the door open and stepped in. The room beyond was strange even to Megatron. Plants he didn’t recognize covered almost every single surface and the walls were covered from top to bottom in various articles and images, more than a few of which seemed to be of Optronix. 

Strange vines grew along the walls, pulsing with lights and draping down in places to wrap around objects in the general shape of shelves. Roots grew along the floor, smooth and yet undeniably there. They shifted as Orion walked in, moving away to give him an easier path to tread. Long branches hung from the center of the room above what looked like a hollowed out stump of some ancient and malevolent plant. The branches grew odd looking fruits, some in blue and purple, others in red and white. All in different shapes.

Megatron was immediately met with hissing the moment his pedes touched the ground.

“Hush now! He is the sprite’s Sire!” Orion flicked one of the plants closest to him and it visibly shrank back a degree. The whole room thrummed with life. There was no natural light, but the ceiling glittered like stars as the flowers growing from the vines bloomed all at once, as if sensing Orion’s presence. 

“There we are my dear. I do believe you need a temporary name, don’t you?” Orion leaned down, placing the sprite into the vicious looking cradle. The stump shifted as Orion laid the sprite down. The sharp upper edges smoothed and curved inward, creating a partial cover over the top of where the sprite lay. Orion gazed down lovingly at the little monster, his smile so content that it no longer held any of his usual cunning.

Megatron may have despised looking at the sprite, but if it made Orion this happy-

He was willing to put up with it.

“What shall we call him for now my love?” Orion asked as he reached into the cradle with a single digit. Megatron approached and watched as Orion prodded at the sprite until it instinctively held onto his digit. The little thing’s clawed servos were tiny, so small in fact that he could barely get a grip on Orion’s digit at all. 

So very small… it couldn’t have been healthy. Even normal sparklings were far larger upon their creation. For this one to be at its current size, it indicated potential problems later. However, he wanted to have faith in Orion’s judgment. This was all going according to plan, it had to be. 

“He is rather small. So why not call him the Little One for now?” Megatron suggested as the sprite shifted, revealing more of its exposed innards than Megatron would have liked. Orion tisked as Megatron held back a gag, but before either could say more, a new voice spoke up. 

“I second that name. It will help him avoid prying optics until he is strong enough to stand a chance against the lower fae.” Megatron startled as Ravage of all mechs sauntered out of the shadows as if he hadn’t just been absent a moment prior. Orion hummed in agreement, oblivious or perhaps uncaring of Megatron’s momentary distress.

“I agree. It is a good name for him.” Orion’s smile widened again, all but splitting his face in two as he rested his arms on the edge of the cradle, his helm placed on his forearms as if nothing were wrong with the situation by any other standard.

“Our little one…” Orion hummed, and it was a soothing sound that eased all of Megatron’s concerns. If Orion wasn’t worried, Megatron had no need to concern himself. 

“I trust you will tend to him when I cannot?” Orion raised an optical ridge over in Ravage’s direction. The symbiote merely huffed and nodded.

“Of course. Soundwave wouldn’t let me return in one piece if I failed you, Grand Archfae.” Ravage bowed as much as a mech of his station was able. Orion merely maintained his grin before he took Megatron’s servo in his own. Those wide and oh so cunning optics were all but glued to him as Orion spoke again.

“Ravage shall tend to the little one for a while. But I suspect it has been a startling cycle for you my love. Come rest with me in berth and soothe your anxious spark.” Megatron didn’t have much time to reply before the plants hissed and Orion all but dragged him out. 

He had become a Sire in less than a cycle and as it was, he didn’t want to think about that or anything it implied, not when Orion was offering a pleasant evening.

[ervona]

Day 1: Arcane / Beast for @tes-summer-fest

The city of Winterhold coasted on its illustrious history as capital, though it had shared that honor with quite a few cities in the province. Still, it held a charm that set it apart from the rest in the eyes of a courier who had just finished her delivery to the far-flung shrine of Azura. The mountainside view was one to behold, enjoyed by many from afar who'd come to join the work on that lofty statue. To her, the sight of moonlit stone walls called for a night out.

A gleaming eye caught her own, atop the most distinguished, towering structure in the city. Home to many a mage, such as her friend who on this day was waiting for her at the city gates rather than on College grounds. He was but a prentice, and even though he’d started learning a bit late by a naysayer’s estimate, he was bound to become a great mage someday. One could only hope. 

Though not officially enrolled there, she was a scholar of sorts, as well as a courier and self-appointed investigator. Her pursuit of mystery was greater than the sum of its parts. She arranged to borrow a book on occasion in return for running the archivist’s errands, but the path to knowledge ofttimes lay elsewhere.

“Just so you know, that hermit up in the mountain told me you absolutely need levitation!" The volume of her voice sank into the surrounding snow. Only slightly dusted by it, like a sweetcake, he threw his head back in unbridled laughter.

That was how they met each time, continuing their last discussion regardless of how long it had been. Or at least, that’s how she commanded awe with her excellent memory. Usually.

“I missed you too!” His feet dangled in the air when she hugged him, repeatedly hitting her ankle. “And ah- sorry- can’t say I didn’t expect that. I haven't been neglecting my studies, either.”

“She also offered to share arcane secrets, if I-”

“Do some errands for her?” he drawled, mimicking the archivist, who'd come across as the unwitting jester of the faculty.

“No, if I leave her alone for a while. She seemed cross with me.”

Chattering friends beat chattering teeth, and they’d discussed their latest findings all the way down the path that sloped down to arguably a beach. Ancient bones distorted as in a dream were stuck in the glacial gullet of Hsaarik; less ancient ones lay half-buried in the snowdrift.

Deep below the lights of the city, falling prey to something sharp was far too easy, but the fog of breath held no fear. She took the hand offered to her aglow in purpureal light and her step became lighter still, they could skip across the water like stones.

He’d practiced his spellwork on these shores for days on end with only her in audience, a mouthful of dried fish and socks full of water. The days had been longer then, and one could get away with being sodden before a biting chill came upon them. Fortunately he had picked up a flame spell, more for need of himself than her, who braved the Old Holds with naught but skis and high spirits. 

“Now, behold something a bit different.” he said when they’d stepped on frozen ground.

“You’ve finally come around to ice swimming?”

“I wish! No, no, just look.”

The spell looked similar enough to her eye, but the motion to cast it was different. Soon enough the circular shape mimicking his hands elevated his feet ever so slightly from the ground. She clapped, perhaps emboldening him too much to take a less than careful step, after which the next one sent him plummeting into waist-deep water with a wail.

Trying not to chuckle, she stepped close enough to wet her boots. She would be undressing soon anyway, thus without a care. “Could have been worse. What if I were to jump in too?” 

“That’s unneeded. But thank you.” He wrung out what he could with a sigh, and she would have asked him about learning a dry warming spell if he didn't have enough on his plate already.

Once again they joined hands, in a more sodden saunter towards the next islet, a larger one they’d frequented. There lay wood ash and fishbone, remains of their last fire that the wild waves hadn’t claimed yet. Starting a new one with no delay, they sat for a while in silence, broken only by the seabirds’ cry.

The days had grown shorter, giving way to night. Masser, the roseate eye in the tapestry of stars, had seized her beating heart and now looked upon her in anticipation. She strode on the lookout for fish, drinking in the horizon that would at some point give way to the nascent sun. 

In that direction, a once mighty craft cracked in twain on long since melted ice, since then picked clean by beasts and priests. They’d searched it up and down already, finding what they sought and the years had gone by until it was of little interest but a grim omen. 

Strewn across sea-nooks were many such wooden carcasses, cast away at the mercy of the eponymous ghosts that only grew in number. But she couldn’t let that dishearten her. Rather she counted every golden drake, pressed until they were warm, for passage to faraway shores. Though her friend had not complained once, it was her that made their journey troublesome to plan for.

Breathing in the night air, her heart began to play the moon’s tune. Blood rushing to and fro, crawling deep into herself. Her fur was already growing in. It was crucial to disrobe and fold all her clothes into a now empty knapsack, before her shape was truly unmade and remade. She left it to her friend’s safekeeping, who also provided the perfect cover, a novice of transfiguration with a proclivity for accidents in spellcasting. It wasn’t far from the truth, and was of course her idea.

With newfound power and little care for the cold she leapt into the sea, making a grand entrance. Some fish fled, others were fearless, but her teeth snapped around them all the same, not unlike the traps that sought to capture her kind. Each time she surfaced to deposit fish on the rocks, he would look up from his little spell-circle and line them up all orderly. So began their night, with a feast.

Just a step beyond the locals’ taste, the two companions shared a liking of raw fish. It was always nice to spend time with someone who’d never cast a glance of judgment. Not even the subtle ones brimming with dignified superiority, for he didn’t have that streak in him, but she often feared the day that could change. 

At the moment, she feared nothing. In her many years of life, her greatest fears as a youth had reformed into her great solace. It was no longer too much to bear. She felt only the need to delve further into the water, as the call of the forest was much the same on land and sea. Down in the brush of kelp, one could find all manner of things, even sunken treasure. The hunt raged on through the night. 

When she came to, Magnus and Azura had embraced in the sky, and the treasures she’d scattered around were truly nothing to write home about. Fish scraps were stuck in her hair, not her fur, but the hair that hung over her neck now, heavy with water. Trying to balance on the ice, she was growing shaky by the moment. Ever since she’d known of herself, she would regain her merish form with the dawn.

Cold, cold, that sudden cold, was surely the worst part of these trips, fun as they were. And it wasn’t too long until she spotted a familiar figure, ever nearer as he hopped along the drift ice, brandishing her cloak like a banner. She snagged it and made quick work of her knapsack, robes and all, but in pursuit of warmth almost slipped quite a few times before she got her boots on. 

To divert from such a graceless moment, she grabbed one of her sunken trinkets, a worn, blackened chip that may have once been silver and put on her best impression of the Nord merchants at the city market. “Might you be interested in an ancient Atmoran coin?”  

“Just what I’m looking for!” He laughed, rolling it around in his hand. The sun at his back was but a trifle when he beamed. “I don’t mean to brag, but I may be getting the knack of this. Levitation. I’ve been practicing all night.”

“Will you whisk me away to the city, then?”

“Um, not yet. But one day, I hope!”

That she looked forward to, but another sea-walk was certainly more than adequate.

[1863-project]

Hi!! I’ve followed u for a while and only noticed recently that your desc says you’re an archivist! Im also a history nerd and trying to go for archives as a job in the future, especially in NY which would be really fun. If it’s alright to ask, do you have any general advice/tips for future archivists, and what’s your favorite part ab the archiving job you do, or the archive itself (that you work with)? No worries if not, either way congrats on having the coolest job ever >:D!! - Fellow autistic archive enthusiast

Hello, future fellow archivist!

The most important thing is that if this is the career you want to pursue, you're going to have to go to library school and get a degree in archives and records management. I know it's a lot of work and gets expensive (I'm still in debt), but most big archivist jobs won't even look your way without that Master's degree, which does suck.

It also took me an extremely long time to land my current position. I finished grad school in December 2014, and I finally ended up here, in a proper archival job, in February 2024. That's nearly ten years of working temp positions and at reference desks at public libraries as I searched. Archival jobs can be few and far between, because once an archivist settles in, they're going to become the one who knows the collection best and stay for a long time, so stay sharp and apply to every opening you find! Don't be afraid to take on temp jobs and processing archivist projects because that experience goes a long way on both your resume and for you personally. It can be discouraging, but if you really want this, don't give up - it's an extremely fulfilling career path if you're passionate about history.

My current position is essentially a dream job for me because of the subject matter I'm archiving. If you're lucky, you'll hopefully have that experience too, working at a place where you have a lot of subject expertise and passion.

I cannot suggest volunteering enough, though. Even before I went to grad school, I was volunteering at historical societies, libraries, and museums to help out where I could and get my foot in the door. Those connections are important - you'll need references to tell the jobs you apply to how good you are at the work - but it's also a really good way to make sure you actually like the work in the first place! Archiving can be a lot of drudgery and repetitive cataloguing, and that's not for everyone. (As an autistic person it suits me just fine, but that won't be the case for every single autistic person, and certainly not every single person!)

The best thing about working where I do now is the relative safety compared to my previous job. I was at a public library for 5 and a half years before this as their local history librarian/a reference librarian, and it felt more and more unsafe for me, especially mentally, because I couldn't use certain accommodations on the reference desk and I was constantly doing emotional labor for patrons who saw the reference librarians more like social workers (even though the library had an actual social worker). I got to a point where I was non-functional at home when I wasn't working there, and it scared me. I was deeply burnt out by the time I managed to get my current position, and I'm still recovering now. I was actually assaulted at my former job - a patron put his hand on the back of my leg above my knee and started to move it up towards my ass, but he didn't get there because I hit him (the staff defended me on that one; we had video footage, too). That was in November 2021, and from that point on I felt actively unsafe at that job and less and less like I would be protected if things happened because of a number of changes that occurred afterwards.

But now I'm behind a door that locks. Patrons can't come directly up to me. Researchers have to make an appointment in advance or email or call me if they need information. I'm archiving. I'm not constantly doing reference work, not being thrown around at random to different branches because there aren't branches, just storage locations, not having accommodations like noise-cancelling headphones or my sketchbook taken away from me. I'm so much safer here, and it's a place I can start to heal from everything in.

I hope this answers your initial questions, and if you want details on anything, hit me up - I'm so glad to help people get started in archiving and figure out their next steps!

[veradragonjedi]

HM! I have not posted any writing in a while.

WIP Wednesday!!

Ty @frostedlemonwriter for tagging me :)) I would like to tag @materassassino @airlocksandaviaries @theclownfromdowntown idk if you write friend but I'd love to see if you do! @sadiebwrites and @ace-din-djarin :))

@chiffchaffinch FOR U 👁🚪

I'd appreciate it if yall made your own posts :]

Jonmichael (sorta) beneath the cut let's goo

"Just get to the point." Jonathan spoke, brisk and cold. "Do you... want something from me? Are you here to kill me?" "Are- are you serious?" The Distortion cackled, a sound that hit like a migraine, its effect on the mind lasting just as long. "What could I possibly gain from killing you?" Biting the inside of his cheek, Jonathan held his tongue but rolled his eyes, and the Distortion shook its foul head, the borders between it and the background blurring and mingling. "No... I didn't kill you before, and I won't kill you now. Instead, look into my eyes, archivist." The Distortion's command was eerily enticing, alluring, and Jon — at the sight of the swirling, dancing, ripples in its pupils, was reminded of its third name. The Spiral. "No," shaking his head before turning it to the side, Jon refused. "I won't." Coiling itself around Jonathan, pressing fabric skin against his suit, the Distortion sung, "oh, you will..." Suddenly, the atmosphere in the room grew heavy and sharp, thick with echoing laughter and dry with depth. Jon forcefully closed his eyes, pressing them sealed, but an intense heat spread from his neck to his chin, his lips, his cheeks, his nose. Silent, and stubborn, Jon kept his eyes firmly shut, as the Distortion's face — if anyone could call it that — came within inches of his own.

I am in love with this fic so far! Describing the Distortion has been a real pleasure to do, and their dynamic is everything to me considering it is soooo unrequited that it's funny. This fic is probably more emotionally jonmartin however spiritually and physically it is very jonmichael

[i-will-change-this-someday]

Is Jon tall or short?

I think he’s short. (I’ll explain why under the cut)

This is to Jon; I think it’d be kinda weird to describe oneself like that if you’re shorter than the person you’re talking to. (I know this might just be about weight, but to me it seems more like it’s all dimensions, including height)

Granted this is from a weird eldritch being, that, I think, can be rather large. So perhaps not concrete evidence.

Again, this a threat, so might just be hyperbole.

Another threat(?), might just be belittling. Edit: Nikola also calls him “little Archivist” in episode 97.

Once again, another threat, so might still be an exaggeration.

You guessed it, another threat, but I feel it at least safe to say Jon’s smaller than the cop.

While it’s not, perhaps, the best evidence; I at least think it’s enough to say Jon’s not particularly tall, perhaps average height at best?

There’s also the fact Jon could barely carry a pipe around, (a pipe Elias could, apparently, bludgeon a man’s head in with). Jon also looks pathetic enough that Basira can’t even fathom him being able to murder someone.

(To be clear, I’m not saying Jon isn’t tall, just giving my reasons for why I think he’s short. Headcanon him whatever height you’d like)

His only concrete description is that he looks like he hasn’t slept in a week.

Just for kicks, here’s my personal headcanons on the archives staff’s (and Elias[and Georgie]) height and/or build.

Jon: Tiny. To me, he is the smallest wet cat of a man, 5’4” (162.5 cm) at most. No meat on his bones, just a little guy.

Martin: Like he says, not the smallest guy, I imagine he’s a heavy guy, very huggable. I know there’s the common headcanon that he’s exactly 6’(183 cm), but to me, he’s got 6’2” (189 cm) energy. (Am I the only one that took “not the smallest” to mean absolutely jacked at first, just a total beefcake)

Tim: Average. Average height, average build. Probably 5’9” (175 cm) decently muscular, (from those kayaking trips)

Sasha: canonically tall. Sasha’s tall, I’d say 6’1 (185 cm) I kinda imagine her to be curvy(?, I don’t know if that’s the right way to put it) you know those people who have, like some good arm fat? (I’m sorry, that’s probably the worst way to describe it, but I don’t know how else to explain it) Really soft, kind looking type of person.

Elias: Elias is an odd one, ‘cause depending on the day I might think he’s kinda big, like 5’11” (180 cm) and somewhat muscular (less so than Tim), ‘cause he did bash a man’s head in. But on other days, I might go with the common twink version of Elias, I’m thinking 5’6” (167 cm), so still taller than Jon, but shorter than most guys. (He was also described as a “weird little freak” by Daisy, but that was, once again, a threat, so might just be intimidation)

Melanie: Canonically skinny. Honestly, a lot like Jon, I imagine her to not have much meat on her bones,(although, probably more muscle on her than Jon) she’s all sharp angles. While I do like the idea she’s the exact same height as Jon, I think she’s either one inch taller or shorter, either way she’s intolerable about it.

Georgie: I don’t really have any specific height for Georgie, but I’d probably say somewhere around 5’5” - 5’7” (165 - 170 cm). Like Martin, she gives off very huggable vibes, kinda like that one person you know that’s really nice and soft looking, but can also just verbally destroy someone.

Basira: Average height, on the heavier(?, not sure that’s the right word for it) side. It’s implied that she and Martin are not as skinny as Melanie, so I think Basira’s pretty muscular, but it’s like in a weight lifter kind of way. I feel like she’s probably 5’8” (173 cm).

Daisy: strong. If anyone is absolutely ripped in The Magnus Archives, (other than Jared Hopworth) it’s Daisy. However, I don’t think she’s that tall, probably same height as Tim at 5’9” (175 cm).

[briebysabs]

Hello everyone I would like to rant on how Vanitas and mostly Noé, deal with their trauma. Why? Because it correlates with my fic and I find it VERY interesting.

Let me start with Noé bc he’s kinda the main reason I’m writing this. Then Vani will weave his way into it as well. I feel like us as an audience tend to see Vanitas notably as the one that has issues. He has more skeletons in the closet and is definitely more flawed. But when talking about Noé’s character as I have attempted several times in my theories. You realize that his inner turmoil and fear goes deeper than Louis’ death.

Noé has gone through shit. There are a series of things we need to remember before the big tragedy even happens.

1. Noé is an orphan

2. He was adopted by a human elderly couple that passed not long after.

3. He was kidnapped and was on the black market for an unspecified period of time before Teacher bought him.

May I remind you, Noé doesn’t tell Vanitas any of this. Or Louis dying. Domi told Vanitas that his partner is an orphan. Mikhail is the one who tells Vani who Louis even was and how he died in front of Noé.

Think about it. Vanitas is secretive but Noé isn’t sharing a lot either. Hell, Vanitas knew Noé was an Archiviste by I believe from Nox, Count Orlok’s personal guard. Do you notice a pattern here? All the information Vanitas gains about Noé is coming from other people. Why is that?

Well let’s put a pin in this and return to it later. We find out how his grandparents found him, their death and him being kidnapped. All of it is mentioned as like a passing comment. Obviously he’s a child and doesn’t fully understand what’s happening. We don’t know what happened to his eye either. He doesn’t share that with anyone.

But we see he misses them dearly. But he never mentions or thinks about them in present day. At least we haven’t seen that.

Despite the impact they’ve had on his life and why he cares for humans just as much as vampires.

So you’re probably like girl, what are you getting at here? Well I’m going to let this clip speak for my entire point and elaborate from that. Because this is the perfect example/representation of what I’m talking about.

I am also adding this panel bc of it ties back to what we put a pin on and I’ll soon come back to in a moment. But keep this in mind. This is Noé’s final thought that was cut from the anime.

My first bullet point: Noé represses his trauma. This is what differentiates him from Vanitas. Bc instead of pushing it away, Vanitas lets his consume him which is what dictates a lot of the actions he makes. Noé swallows a lot of shit down. That’s why there are several moments he has this sharp outburst of anger. He doesn’t want to confront his past but they affect who he is. That’s why he clings to optimism (looking to the future) bc that’s what keeps him going.

Besides the Book, it’s the other main reason he latched onto Vanitas to begin with. Because he gave Noé that hope.....which is why I’m afraid of the Noé writing these memoirs but that’s a whole other topic.

And here is where the pin comes loose. Noé’s biggest fear is yes, losing the people around him but also himself. Noé is terrified of himself. I won’t necessarily call it self-hatred (though it inevitably kinda boils down to that)

He’s afraid of his appearance seen while fighting Vanitas, he’s afraid of his strength which is why he holds back a lot or underestimates his enemy. He’s afraid of his Archiviste abilities, he’s afraid of how he felt relieved to be alive after Louis’ death.

He’s afraid he’ll never understand this world despite finding the good in it. And he keeps pushing it all down and I just wanna hug him because THIS IS NOT HEALTHY.

FYI this method of coping with your problems or trauma is a recipe for disaster. This is what breaks people. At least from personal experience of what I’ve seen. Eventually, a straw is going to break the camel’s back. Because you can’t stay silent forever, you can’t run away forever and man this has turned into a therapy session 🥲

Bro I barely focused on Vanitas. I’ll make a separate thread about him one day. Needless to say, I am incredibly excited for what Lady Archiviste has in store for us and if it’s a Noé centric arc addressing what’s in this ramble LETS FUCKING GO

[kiwikipedia]

The one that even the Temple Guard call the “Demon” stands at the top of the stairs to the Great Hall that leads to the rest of the Temple— those who have bypassed the first defense by leaving their comrades to die at the hands of the Front-line and the Battlemaster of the Temple will come face to face with him. But this is as far as many will manage to get if they only go with a frontal assault— because when the Order went out to defend no matter the cost, Hakra accepted this and knew that the men that had once served with the Jedi before him were now his enemies. And he would not stop until they were all dealt with.

(Taglist, Alt version, and ID below)

im almost mad at how well this turned out lmaooo like damn how am I supposed to best this one now?

Taglist:

@jedifisto​​ @spaceydragons​​ @purgetrooperfox​​ @spacerocksarethebestrocks​@insanelytomato @maulpunk​ @certified-anakinfucker​ @d3epfriedangels​ @iamthespacegeneral​ @thecodyagenda​ @dilf-archivist​ @txtalnyx​ @jawajawas​

Taglist Form or feel free to ask me to get tagged (just DM!)

[ ID: A mostly grayscale colored image of my OC, Hakra Dorgoa, a masculine humanoid with horns like a Japanese oni and long, dark hair. He wears the Jedi Temple Guard uniform without the mask. He is posed mid-leap with his body twisted partially away from the viewer but his face is turned so he is looking over his shoulder at the viewer. His eyes show that he is looking directly forwards. Hakra has both of his arms out, with the farthest back one bent at the elbow holding his lightsaber. It is positioned behind the body. The other one is in front of the body and extended downwards at an angle. His front and hands are covered in blood, along with parts of his hair and face. Unlike the rest of the image, however, the blood, lightsaber, and his eyes are colored with the blood being red, lightsaber being yellow, and his eyes a brighter red than the blood. His hair is tied back in a ponytail. His expression is that of a very sharp-toothed grin, as if he is enthusiastic about the fact that he's entering a fight. The background is that of a staircase, giving the illusion that he has leaped off of the stairs towards the viewer in preparation to fight. /ID End]

[lycanlovingvampyre]

MAG 112 Relisten

Activity on my first listen: putting up a new fence

"Okay, I know how it sounds, but Murder Club wasn’t supposed to be like this." Am I the only one who thinks that "Murder Club" doesn't sound that bad? I mean, there is this old crime drama show called "Murder, She Wrote" with Angela Lansbury and the German title is literally "Murder Is Her Hobby"...

"That’s the thing. I could never get into horror; ghosts and monsters always left me bored. Even thrillers never really got me in the same way." I find that interesting because I'm the exact opposite. I don't want rl (bad) stuff for entertainment. That's why I like supernatural horror and fantasy so much. I don't have that in rl.

"Well, I suppose three. Evelyn, Jamie and Debbie are already dead, so I don’t know how much you’d call them ‘current members’, but you know what I mean." The casualness in talking about friends being dead...

"we were just about to dive into the main discussion, when there was another knock at the door.” [KNOCKING AT THE DOOR] BASIRA: "Ah." Also the casualness in Basira's voice! I might have jumped out of my skin there.

"As I reached for another knife, I found myself tapping my foot, as if to music." Sounds like the Slaughter.

"I’m sure it would have been quicker to take the Underground or a bus, but I craved that run through the cold November air, my blood pumping and my teeth sharp." And this sounds like the Hunt, I'm confused. Was this a Slaughter/Hunt collaboration? They do finish the jobs after all, so it’s not just about the chase. But that intruder, who started all of this, was wearing a wolf mask, which also sounds like it’s pointing in the direction of the Hunt, as well as the title of the episode, “Thrill of the Chase”...

BASIRA: "Is… Is there something wrong, Daisy?" Ohh, this whole time when Daisy appeared in this episode I was thinking "Why is Daisy so cagey?"... She saw the shirt. Jon's shirt.

BASIRA: "Are you sure? ‘Cause you look… Are you sleeping?" DAISY: "Yeah. … Do you still have the dreams?" BASIRA: "Um, no, not really. Not since we joined up here, I don’t think. You?" DAISY: "Yeah." Ah yes, there it is. I always forget that they talk about this. I wonder how it works though. I guess the dreams don't happen with full force the first few times, if even at all. Otherwise, I'm sure Julia and Trevor would have killed Jon. We also never heard anything from Melanie, though I wonder, when the dreams were set up to be a plot point. One explanation I would have for this is, that it took quite a while for the dreams to kick in when Jon was very new as Archivist. The more powerful he gets, the faster the dreams start.

BASIRA: "Maybe. Anyway, do you want to, um… I could do with some air." What were those three taps after "um"...? Am I missing something?

@a-mag-a-day

[strawberriemarswrites]

CHAPTER THREE

Chapter Summary: Bartolomeo wants to make sure you're okay and has a close call. He needs a bit of stress relief. Pairing: Bartolomeo x F!Reader Rating: Explicit (18+ for the story, NSFW chapter) TW: mentions of the violence and attempted drugging of last chapter; stalking; Bartolomeo watching you sleep and then masturbating about it. Ao3 Link: Chapter Three (3,550 words)

“Oh, ew!” Nami recoiled, opening the front-passenger door. “And you didn’t slap him for that?”

You shook your head, face twisted. “He smelled like rotten fish. I didn’t want to touch him in case the smell got stuck to me.”

You and your friends were piling into Drake’s SUV after leaving the bar. You and Robin had split the cost of the tab after she’d warned you it was probably time to go before things went sideways. Curiously, you noticed the receipt showed a discount, but didn’t think much of it and still made sure to leave a hefty tip in the jar before you left.

“I’m sorry about your last drink,” Robin said. “I should have made sure you moved it to our table before we left so it didn't have to go to waste.”

You waved a hand dismissively. “It’s fine. If he did something to it, he’s just gonna have to be salty that his plan didn’t work.”

“He tried,” Drake said.

You and Nami shouted simultaneously, “WHAT!?”

He nodded, starting the engine. “I was going to say something, but then I saw your friend behind the bar switch the glasses.” He looked at you in the rear view while backing up. “I can guarantee you, that prick is having a much worse night.”

Your heart leapt to your throat. Bartolomeo did what? Of any other option he could have picked — getting you a fresh drink when you got back, kicking the guy out, even warning you what happened — he switched the drinks, and made a man drug himself.

Nami's laughter cut through your thoughts. “Holy shit, that’s priceless.”

Robin concealed her mouth when she giggled, though the mirth still shone in her eyes. “You should join us for drinks more often, Drake. You have a sharp eye.”

“I would like that.” His eyes flicked to Robin for a moment before coming back to you. “I’m not trying to overstep here when I ask this, but can I say something I hope you’ll keep in mind?”

You nodded, and he continued. “I know I’m not really the chattiest at work, so I don’t know you very well, or how well you know Bartolomeo. But even if I wasn’t made aware that he was part of why you picked that bar, I can tell you’re interested in him at the very least.” Drake shifted into drive, now focused on getting out of the parking garage. “While I'm not against what he did from a moral standpoint, it seemed to be a bit of an extreme measure.” He glanced at you once more in the rearview. “Someone who does something like that without hesitation — he’s either cocky, reckless, or dangerous. Maybe even all three.”

“Oh, come on.” Nami nudged him. “That creep got what he deserved! Besides, it's in the big guy’s best interest to keep the bar and customers safe. I don't know about you, but I think making a guy roofie himself is a great way to deter bad behavior.”

“It is a bit unorthodox,” Robin said. “And technically, if anything bad happens to him afterward, Rooster could be held responsible even if the reasons were justified.” She then smiled again. “Very justified.”

“I just said I wasn’t against it morally,” Drake muttered, sighing. “Just be careful if you intend on seeing him more. Keep one of us in the loop in case anything happens.”

You nodded again, taken a bit by surprise. Drake wasn’t exaggerating when he said he didn’t talk much at work. He tended to keep to himself, only really interacting with Vivi and the head archivist. Yet, you learned more about him in one night out than you’d learned in the four months you’d been working with him. And while you felt his assumptions about Bartolomeo were somewhat misguided, you were still relieved to know that you had an extra person in your corner.

It was nearly midnight by the time you were dropped off at the apartment building. Nami and Robin had already messaged Vivi and Rebecca about the night you all had, and a new group chat was made so that Drake could be included on pay-day drinks planning. You had gotten to see Bartolomeo, and he made a very... interesting impression on your coworkers. And you’d spent the entire night unworried by any break-ins, which upon returning to your apartment you found no evidence of, bringing further comfort to your once anxious mind.

All things considered, the night had been a success. And you were exhausted.

You collapsed onto your bed, now in your comfiest pajamas and staring up at the ceiling. You wondered what time the bar closed, if you’d be awake when Bartolomeo got off work. Okay, it was probably a little shady how he decided to go about handling a drink-spiking creep, but at the same time it was kind of thrilling to think how bold that move was. Besides, it felt like he was dealing a little bit of karmic justice. Maybe he was just protecting his bar and his other patrons, like Nami had suggested, but something deep inside you couldn’t help but hope that maybe he’d done it specifically to protect you.

I’ll need to find some way to thank him, was your last thought before you slipped off to sleep.

It was nearly three in the morning when Bartolomeo returned to the apartment building. The rush in his veins still hadn’t subsided, even after he’d purposefully ridden the subway past the correct stop to try and walk off the rest of the adrenaline. All he wanted to do was see you again and ask if you were all right after what happened. 

He knew you were all right, he’d seen you leave with your friends and you hadn’t tried to reach for “your” drink. Even if the guy with the glasses said something to you about the swap, you’d still never need to know just how much further Bartolomeo had gone to protect you. He’d never try to make himself out as wholly innocent — that would just be ridiculous. And frankly impossible. But it was still better if you didn’t know just how vicious he could be.

All the same, however, Bartolomeo imagined you’d probably be a little shaken if you were told about what nearly happened. Anyone would be. So even though he knew you were okay, he had to be sure.

That’s what he kept telling himself as he broke his promise to himself not to climb the fire escape again.

Correction: he never promised not to do that. What he promised was that he’d stop breaking in. There wouldn’t be any harm in just looking through the window, right?

Once he reached the fourth floor, Bartolomeo just barely managed to keep from reaching for the window’s bottom rail, instead sitting down and leaning his shoulder against the building. He bent one knee and propped his forearm atop it, resting his head against the glass pane, its chilled surface like a fire extinguisher to his overheating nerves. After a few deep breaths to bring him down the rest of the way, he peered into the darkness of your bedroom, bringing one hand level with his brow to better block out the reflections in the window.

You were sleeping. Pretty soundly by the look of it. Good. If you were asleep, you weren’t worried. If you weren’t worried, you felt safe. And you were safe — he was going to keep it that way. He watched for a few minutes, the rhythmic rise and fall of your chest lulling him into a sense of calm he desperately needed after stabbing that fucking scumbag.

His fingers twitched. He was no stranger to violence. In a way, he thrived off of it. He’d spent most of his childhood getting into fistfights with other kids over things like whose turn was it to look after the class hamster (“Don't let Bartolomeo do it, he’ll eat it!”), or who was better at dodgeball (“Just because you throw the ball hard doesn’t make you good at it!”). When he first met Gambia in middle school they didn’t introduce themselves, they just started throwing punches until someone caved, and then they were thick as thieves. That was how most of his friendships were made, and even more of his rivalries.

As he got older, the spontaneity of the fights had subsided, though the brutality had increased. People enjoyed trying to get under his skin over superficial shit — his brow, his nose, how he did his hair — and he quickly learned to ignore that. They could say whatever they wanted about him. What he didn’t tolerate was kicking when people were down, or taking advantage of others who didn’t know any different, or people who thought because they were born into better-off families that they were better than others. And god help anyone who decided tried to mess with his friends.

That shit — that was the kind of shit that made his blood boil. He cracked a football player’s ribs for that once.

Bartolomeo didn’t fancy himself a hero or anything, just someone who didn’t tolerate heinous bullshit. With a penchant for fighting dirty.

Still, the fights grew less frequent as he got out of school. He’d had run-ins with people stupid enough to get in his face, and the odd person at the bar attempting to start a brawl that he’d ultimately finish. But those fights felt almost hollow. Routine, even. No thrill or enjoyment to them, just him doing what he does best.

Stabbing some sick creep’s hand as penance for him trying to get you? Felt better than any petty altercation Bartolomeo had gotten involved in. The last thing he wanted was for you to get hurt by someone. But if you did, he’d make sure they'd never do it again, especially after how good it felt knowing it’s to protect you.

His breath fogging up the glass drew him from his thoughts, and he realized that his ass was getting sore from sitting on the metal grating of the fire escape landing. With a heavy sigh he started to push himself upright —

You flinched in your sleep.

Bartolomeo’s hand went for the window in an instant. But he didn’t open it. He held his breath, and waited.

Your breathing evened back out, and he released his own, his hand falling back to his side.

And then he booked it. He didn’t stop until he was back in his own apartment and laying on his bed, though if asked he couldn’t answer whether he went through the front door or up the fire escape on his side of the building. What he did know is that he just risked getting himself caught — what the hell had he been thinking? What exactly was he planning on doing if you woke up and saw him?!

Okay. Now Bartolomeo promised himself he wouldn’t climb back up the fire escape.

But... you looked so cute when you slept. Maybe, if he only did it late at night—

NO. He smacked both hands over his face, groaning. Bad Barto.

Why did he hear that second thought in your voice?

He swallowed, a chill creeping down his spine. He’d almost forgotten your shirt was right beneath his pillow, your perfume wafting up and creeping through his senses. He pushed himself upright, sitting against the headboard as he tugged it free and buried his nose into it. Almost immediately, the tension dissipated, and his mind was filled with images of you: how your face lit up when he called you “sweetheart”, the cute little outfit you’d worn, the way you’d rushed up to the bar and stuck your tongue out at him. How would that tongue feel on his—

Down, boy.

Your voice came to mind again and he whimpered, pulling his knees up. He was rapidly becoming more and more aware of a tightness in his jeans. He briefly considered ignoring it, but the dam had cracked, and he started to think about what it must be like to kiss you. Would you be sweet and shy, making soft little moans every time he pushed against you? Maybe you’d tease him with little bites on his lip, goading him into biting down on yours with just enough pressure to make you wonder if he’d actually puncture.

Really, it was foolish of Bartolomeo not to think it would come to this. How he held off for as long as he did, he’d never know.

One foot slowly slid atop the comforter, laying one leg flat while he busied a hand with undoing his belt and fly. He let his fingers brush against the patch of hair just above his pubic bone, his breath hitching again the further down he went until he finally freed his aching cock from its confines. He let his imagination go a little further down, wondering how your hands would feel against his chest. He thought of you tracing your fingers over the tattoo he had there, ghosting along the curve and dipping near his midsection with each tip of its inked teeth. And then your hand sliding lower, over that same patch of hair he just touched, before wrapping around the base of his shaft, giving him long, lazy strokes. His hand wasn’t as soft as yours probably was, but it would do.

Let me take care of you.

No. He was supposed to take care of you. He was watching out for you, after all. What could he do to prove he wanted to take care of you? Bartolomeo inhaled your scent, moaning and tightening his grip. He would start with kissing you, definitely. Not just your lips, though — every inch of you that he could possibly cover, he’d do it. Your cheeks, your shoulders, your neck. He’d trail down your stomach, stopping right around your hips, then he’d start from the bottom by nipping at your ankles, drawing a path upwards along the underside of your knees and between your thighs.

He increased his pace, your name tumbling out before he could even think to hold it back. He thought about what you would taste like with his tongue sliding between your folds and making you say his name the same way. He thought about how hard it would be for him to keep from holding too tightly to your thighs as you writhed against his face. How he’d have to do everything he could not to dig in and feast.

Barto, please.

From there, Bartolomeo’s thoughts were less coherent. Images flashed through his mind, both from memory and fantasy, as pressure began to build. Your hands fidgeting. Your hands in his hair. Your tongue peeking out at the bar. Your tongue whirling around the tip of his cock. You alone in your bed, then with him in his. Whispering sweet nothings in each other’s ears. Pushing your legs up to your chest and sinking into you as far as you could take him.

I love y—

A desperate, unabashed groan came from deep within his chest, enveloping your name as he again let it slip out. The sound was hardly muffled despite how close he had pressed your shirt to his face as seed spilled forth and coated his hand. A few hard spurts sent it spattering over his leg and onto the comforter. He wasn’t sure when his hips left the bed, but they came crashing back down, making the bed frame creak obscenely as he rode out the last few waves of his orgasm.

Panting, sweating, and feeling like he’d just had the hardest come of his life yet, Bartolomeo let your shirt drop down beside the bed, sparing it from the offense of using it to clean himself up. He stood with a sigh and started stripping, using his own shirt to at least wipe his hand off before throwing it and the rest of his clothes in the hamper. He’d worry about the comforter later. Right now, he needed a cold shower.

Bartolomeo woke up the next morning to knocking on his door. With a groan he pried his eyes open, greeted by the apartment ceiling as he was sprawled out diagonally across his bed. He wiped away the dried drool on his cheek and felt around the nightstand for his phone, sunlight creeping in beneath the cheap blackout shades.

The knocking came again, light and quick.

“All right, all right, I heard you the first time!” he called, managing to find his phone and sit upright. The cracked screen read 10:12 AM, early enough for this to be a pain in the ass. No missed calls from anyone, or messages saying they were coming over, so as he stumbled through the apartment in loose sweats and no shirt, he hadn’t the slightest clue who his visitor could be. With enough force to nearly pull it off its hinges, he swung open his door, ready to chew out whoever it was that thought they could wake him after only four hours of sleep.

You jumped out of your skin at the aggressive opening, but smiled at Bartolomeo all the same. “Hi.”

He about slammed the door out of sheer embarrassment. Why didn’t he think for two seconds longer before opening the door — he probably gave you a worse jump scare than you’d given him! He would have berated himself internally for much longer if you weren’t standing right there, staring up at him with those eyes he liked so much.

“Hi,” he said, having the decency to blush. “Uh. Sorry about that. I thought — well —”

You giggled, a wonderful sound that made his heart rate shoot through the stratosphere. “Not a morning person?”

“No. Yeah. Uh.” His hand slid down the door frame and he leaned against it with all the nonchalance he could muster. “Just wasn’t expecting my day to start before noon.”

You shrank back a little. “Oh, shit — I’m sorry, I can come back later?”

“Nah, you’re here now.” No no no — don’t go. “Whaddya need?”

You folded your hands in front of you, shifting your weight from one leg to the other. “Well, one of my friends saw what you did for me last night, and they didn’t mention anything until after we left.” Your eyes began to flick between his face and his torso, and your cheeks rapidly flushed. “I wanted — I wanted to come by and, ah. Thank you. So.” And then your gaze went straight to the floor, your ears a bright pink. “Thank you.”

Bartolomeo cocked his head, puzzled by your sudden onset of bashfulness. But without you giving him those pretty eyes, it did make it a little easier for him to concentrate. “Oh. Well. I mean, I told ya I was gonna look out for you, didn’t I?”

You looked up at his face, smiling wide and still blushing. “You did. But... well, no one’s ever done something like that for me before.” You averted your gaze again, your little sway halted as you started fidgeting. “I mean, granted, even though I know how to keep myself safe against those kinds of things, I’ve never had someone actually be ballsy enough to try and drug me before. If I’d been a little more careless, I could have been in real trouble.” You glanced at him from your periphery. “But you swapped the glasses, so I still would have been okay.”

This was weird. Normally it was him who had trouble looking you in the eye, but you were being way more skittish. Was everything really okay?

“Anyways.” You took a deep breath, seeming to steel yourself as you looked up at him. “I was wondering if you’d like to get lunch sometime.” You glanced down and up again. “It — it doesn’t have to be today, if that’s too last minute for you, but—”

“Yeah.”

The ease and quickness with which Bartolomeo answered the question startled both of you. He cleared his throat, standing up straighter. “No — yeah — I mean —” He exhaled through his nose, composing himself. “Today’s perfect.”

Few things made his chest tighten with the urge to cry: disabled cats, movies where the dog actually made it to the end, and the way your face lit up with the intensity of a supernova over him agreeing to go to lunch with you.

“Great!” You bounced on your toes, pointing over your shoulder with both hands. “I can uh — I’ll give you time to get ready, yeah? And then when you’re good just come over and knock, aaand we’ll get going!”

Get ready?

It dawned on him: he was still shirtless. Oh my god.

“Yeah!” His voice was at least an octave higher. OH MY GOD. With another awkward throat clearing it returned to its normal cadence as he backed into his apartment. “That sounds great — I’ll uh. I’ll be out. And we can go.”

“Yeah, no, take your time.” You were backing up toward your door and clumsily opening it, still smiling. And then your eyes flicked downward to his sweats and the blush turned outright excessive. “Bye!”

Both doors slammed at the same time. Neither you or Bartolomeo seemed to care if the other one heard inarticulate, flustered yelling.

[ollieofthebeholder]

to find promise of peace (and the solace of rest): a TMA fanfic

Read from the beginning || AO3 || My Website

Chapter 90: July 2017

Gerry cups a hand over the end of his cigarette and flicks the lighter a couple times. He’s just about managed to get it started when he feels rather than hears a vehicle pull up alongside him and a low, sharp whistle.

Sighing, he shakes the cigarette out and tucks it back into his coat. “Figures.”

He turns away from the gate of the cemetery to see Detective Tonner—Daisy—staring fixedly out the front windscreen of an incredibly battered Breekon and Hope delivery van. Basira leans around her and raises an eyebrow at him, but doesn’t say anything, just jerks her head backwards. Gerry takes the hint, goes around to the back, and wrenches one of the doors open, then pulls himself in.

“No,” Martin says immediately.

Gerry ignores him and slams the door shut. There are no seats back here—it’s a cargo van, after all—so he just plops himself down on the floor between Melanie and the doors. “Okay, go,” he calls up to the front.

He half expects Daisy to peel out of there like a bat out of hell, but instead, she moves away from the curb at a remarkably sedate pace. Gerry reaches up to make sure the locks are engaged just the same.

“Gerry,” Martin says.

“Martin,” Gerry mimics. Martin’s eyebrows draw together. “Don’t look at me like that. You didn’t actually think I was going to let you two go off on your own, did you?”

Melanie scowls at him. “Yes.”

“It’s like the biggest Leitner we’ve ever burned,” Gerry says, repeating what he said on the tape last night. “You need me there.”

“He wouldn’t take no for an answer.” Jon looks up at Martin. “If it helps, I told him he could come when I still thought I was in charge of this operation.”

Basira looks over her shoulder. “You never thought you were in charge of this operation. Even when you thought you were still the Archivist, you kept saying we couldn’t make plans until Martin got back.”

Martin laces his fingers through Jon’s. He seems to be struggling to stay angry. Gerry decides to finish him off with something he can’t argue against. “I promised Tim.”

“Well…fuck.” Martin sighs and deflates. “If we’re not going to be able to make you stay back—”

“You’re not.”

“Then I suppose my options are to stay mad at you and make this drive unpleasant for all of us, or let it go, and I don’t hate anybody else in this van that much, so. Fine.” Martin huffs. “You’re not technically a member of the Archives staff, so it’s not like I can order you to stay back, and you’re my big brother, so it’s not like I can tell you what to do.”

“Never stopped you before,” Melanie mutters.

“Yeah, but when have either of you ever listened to me when I said to stay out of something?”

“We’ve listened to you plenty of times!”

“Oh, yeah? Name six.” Martin folds his arms over his chest and raises an eyebrow.

Melanie’s cheeks turn red, and she mimics his pose, but doesn’t answer.

They ride in silence for a while—not exactly a comfortable one, but not exactly an uncomfortable one either. Gerry watches the sky gradually lightening, sort of, and wonders what the weather is going to be like in Great Yarmouth, if they’re going to have to immediately go in or stake the place out for a while, if he can really protect all of them. If he can keep his promise to Tim.

After a bit, he becomes aware of someone humming, just barely audible over the rattling of the van. He frowns and focuses, trying to catch the song. The name is just on the outside of his knowledge, so he starts humming along, hoping the words will catch up to him before long.

Martin’s head suddenly snaps to attention. “Not that one.”

Gerry blinks and the song flees from his consciousness. “Huh?”

Melanie suddenly comes to herself. “Oh—Jesus, sorry, just—don’t even know why that’s in my head, honestly. You pick something, then.”

“Wait, no, what was that?” Gerry insists. “I couldn’t come up with it, I don’t think it’s one of our usual—”

“No, it’s ‘Guinness for Two.’ You know, the one we usually sing at the pub when someone…stops coming.” Melanie hunches her shoulders and looks down at her knees. “Last time we sang it was…”

“Evan,” Martin completes.

Gerry remembers it now, even if he wasn’t there for Evan’s farewell. “Oh. Yeah, no, not that one.”

Jon looks from one to the other. “I’d like to hear it sometime.”

“Sure, Jon, but not when we’re going into something dangerous, okay?” Martin says gently. “Let’s save it for wh—if we really need it.”

The temperature in the truck drops several degrees—even Gerry can feel it. They all know it’s a matter of when, not if. Someday, probably sooner rather than later, they’re going to run across something that at least one of them won’t walk away from. They’ve been lucky so far, but realistically, how long can that hold? Especially since the Eye’s ritual is still coming up. The other Fears aren’t going to want it to succeed before they get the chance to try again—they’ve probably assumed that’s why Gertrude, and now Martin and his team, have been fighting them—and they’re going to attack the Archives to prevent that. Sooner or later, someone isn’t going to come back.

To keep them from dwelling on it, he launches into “The Shannon and the Chesapeake,” which has never been much use as a burning shanty but at least is more cheerful than a mourning song. Martin and Melanie join in before he’s gone more than a line into the song, as they usually do, and Jon leans against Martin and seems to relax. Seems being the operative word. Gerry doesn’t think any of them are particularly relaxed, but at least they’re not as tense.

They get to Great Yarmouth about an hour after sunrise, nominally. A cluttery spell has set in and it’s been raining off and on for the last hour, which puts Martin on edge for reasons Gerry isn’t quite ready to ask about. Daisy parks the van what she says is about a block from the bed and breakfast they’ve been booked into, and she and Gerry get out to scout the area before they let the others out. It seems safe enough, but Melanie stiffens and grabs Martin’s arm the second her feet are on solid ground.

“It’s there,” she murmurs, jerking her head in a direction that could imply the building next to them and could imply the street they’re about to cross. “The middle building on this street. I didn’t realize we were going to be that close to the House of Wax.”

“Back in the van,” Daisy orders, her voice low and sharp. “We’re coming at this from the other direction.”

Nobody argues with her, and she makes a wide circle before parking two blocks further down. Both Jon and Martin make the same sound of exasperated annoyance when they discover that they’ve been booked into a place called The Hive, but Martin handles the checking-in with his usual intentionally awkward charm and they go up to the rooms they’ve been assigned. There are two of them, and one only has one bed, but since Gerry doesn’t plan to sleep until he’s home and with Tim—he’s not ready for Martin to be around him during a flashback yet—he doesn’t mind. They convene in the other room so that there’s at least more room for them to sit while they plan out their final strategy. Gerry opts to stand with his back to the door, watching the others; Daisy opts to pace the room, occasionally glaring at the knickknacks and flourishes put around the place to make it seem rustic and homey.

Finally, Jon says in what’s obviously an attempt at humor, “So, straightforward frontal assault, then?”

Martin laughs, but shakes his head. “As I see it, we’ve got two options. Either we sneak in pretending to be, uh, participants in the dance and hope there’s not security at the door, or we find a back way in. Whichever one we do, we’ll need to stake the place out first, make sure it’s, you know, safe to go in. Ideally, we’d like them to be distracted enough by the preparations to not notice us going in but not so far along in the preparations that we don’t have time to get set up before they start.”

“Why not?” Basira argues, logically enough, Gerry thinks. “Even if they start before we’re finished, we can still get out and blow it, and that way we’d know the timing was good, right?”

She looks to Daisy for support, but Daisy simply looks to Martin without speaking. Martin meets her eyes, and there’s a flash of—something—between them. Gerry hesitates to call it respect, but—no, that’s exactly what it is. Not the kind of respect his mother and Aunt Lily always insisted upon, the worship the ground I walk on kind, but the mutual understanding and acknowledgment of skills and intentions, the look of one leader to another. They’re more or less on an equal footing, but in that look, Gerry understands that Daisy is ceding control of this operation to Martin.

For now, anyway.

“We can’t be in the building when the Unknowing gets underway,” Martin says, returning his gaze to the room at large after no more than a second’s pause. His tone is deadly serious. “It’s too big of a risk. We’re pretty sure they have the calliope—they probably took it when they delivered the table, nobody’s seen them since and Rosie let them directly into Artifact Storage—and from all the statements we’ve heard about it, it whips people into a frenzy, even ones who haven’t already been Touched by the Stranger. Between the draw of the music and the fact that we’re all in some way touched by the Eye, the chance of us…opening a door and waltzing into the middle of it because we want to know what’s going on, it’s too high. Our best bet is to get in, set the charges while they’re still…um, warming up…and get our asses out of there. What’s the range on that detonator?”

“Not great,” Daisy says. “Good enough, though. Based on the plans Basira found, that spot where I parked earlier is about the extreme limit of where we can stand and be sure a charge on the opposite corner goes, and I wouldn’t trust it. Probably need to be right across the street.”

Martin nods. “We’ll—I’ll need to watch it burn, anyway.”

“We’ll need to watch it burn,” Jon says firmly. “You were right the first time.”

Basira doesn’t look convinced. “How will you know it’s the right time to blow it if we aren’t there when it starts?”

Martin looks at Melanie. Slowly, identical grins curl across their faces, equal parts mischievous and satisfied. Gerry feels the same smile spread across his own face as he realizes what it is they’re thinking.

Turning back to Basira, still grinning, Martin says, “Leave that to us.”

Basira still looks unimpressed, but moves on. “Fine. So we need to stake the place out, then.”

“I’ll do that,” Gerry says. “They’re not like you, Martin, they can’t sense all the little Marks underneath, just the big ones, so they won’t peg me as having the Eye or the Buried. All they’re going to see is an Avatar of Terminus watching the building, and really, what’s suspicious about that? The Unknowing is meant to consume lives, sacrifices, so it’s no surprise I’d turn up to watch, maybe catch some of the, uh, spillover. And if I’m not supposed to know what’s going on…” He spreads out his hands, palms up. “You four are Marked by the Eye too deeply to escape attention, and they’d definitely be suspicious of a Hunter lurking nearby.”

“If they sense me,” Daisy growls.

“They will,” Martin says quietly. Static gathers, very faintly, and his eyes seem to glow dimly. “What’s the fun in Hunting something that doesn’t know it’s prey? Even if you’re being stealthy, anything you’re after will know, and on a night like this, the Stranger will take no chances.” He blinks and shakes his head minutely, and the static dies off abruptly. In a more normal tone, he continues, “Gerry’s right. If anyone’s going to escape attention while still figuring out what’s going on, it’s going to be him.” He looks up at Gerry. “‘William Taylor’ for the front door, ‘Golden Vanity’ for the back?”

“And ‘Hanging Johnny’ if we’re going through the roof.” Gerry holds up his cell phone. “See you soon.”

Leaving Martin and Melanie to explain what the hell they mean by that, he slips out the door.

It’s drizzling, which helps, both in keeping people away and in keeping him from being conspicuous; while this is a tourist town, luckily, since the House of Wax closed, it seems most of the activity is focused further down the beach, closer to the pier. Gerry finds a convenient light pole, leans against it, and relights his cigarette, then positions himself so he’s able to watch the House of Wax without it being obvious that he’s watching it. He doesn’t feel the cold right now, or more accurately he’s just cold all the time; it’s been too long since he’s…fed, for lack of a better term, and he’s closer to death than life. The raindrops practically sizzle when they hit his bare skin. And he waits.

A pattern quickly emerges. A Breekon and Hope van—not the one they came in, a bit older model—pulls up in front of the House of Wax, disgorges a dozen or so passengers at a time, some carrying objects, and then drives away, only to return some time later and disgorge more. It’s definitely the same van; there’s a rather distinctive dent on the front fender. Gerry briefly toys with the idea of Daisy driving them around and them pretending to be part of the chorus, but that thought is dashed instantly when he sees the sort of…things…that are getting out of the van. No way will they pass for Strangers.

After a while, he takes a slow walk around the block and confirms that the only entrances are on the front, then resumes his previous position. Once he’s sure the coast is clear, he calls Martin, then quickly tucks the phone under the collar of his coat so that no one passing by can see he’s using it. Still staring vacantly in the direction of the House of Wax, he begins whistling “Hanging Johnny.”

A few minutes later, he hears a familiar hissing noise from behind him. Without taking his eyes off the building, he reaches up to disconnect the call, then murmurs, “Fire escape on the southwest corner. I’ll meet you there.”

Gerry senses rather than sees the group scuttle past him. He’s just about done when the Breekon and Hope van returns and disgorges another wave of…things. This time, though, two nondescript figures get out of the front as well and move around to the back. There’s something about them that ticks an itch in Gerry’s brain, but he can’t think what it is until they open the back of the van again and pull out an object. At first he thinks it’s just a box, but then he hears the faint humming and sees that they’re toting a coffin. A flashback, or a memory of a flashback, slams him between the eyes—two men depositing a casket into a stone vault, a van that kept driving past—and he realizes that they were the pallbearers at Uncle Roger’s funeral.

He decides not to mention that to Melanie. Yet. Instead he waits until they’ve gone into the House of Wax, then flicks his cigarette into the rain-washed gutter and slopes off to meet the others.

The fire escape is little more than a rusted ladder nailed to the wall, and Gerry finds himself wondering how many fires it’s purportedly withstood. Martin is on the bottom rung, Daisy near the top, the others staggered along it. Gerry wonders what they’re doing for a moment until he sees Jon, arm trembling with the effort, swing a heavy case up over his head for Melanie to grab. She manages to heft it up to Basira, who swings it to Daisy, who hangs for a moment and then half-throws it onto the roof. Thankfully, Gerry can’t hear a noise from where he is, so he doubts it’ll be heard inside either. As soon as Daisy, with some difficulty owing to the fact that the ladder doesn’t go all the way up, follows the case onto the rooftop and there’s room on the ladder, he steps on himself.

There’s a panel that might be a missing skylight and might be a damaged trapdoor and might just be a broken bit of roof, but whatever it is, there’s enough room for them to shin down into a low-ceilinged attic. There are a number of sagging cardboard boxes, of the sort Gerry remembers seeing in the Archives, which are therefore likely full of paperwork from when the museum was open. Daisy looks around, then pronounces in a low voice, “Structurally insignificant. No need to waste explosives in here. Let’s go.”

Melanie finds the door leading out of the attic, and they get to work.

It’s…easier than it should be, easy enough that it makes Gerry suspicious and jumpy. They’ve identified a few key rooms from the plans Basira found—Tim’s right, it is three buildings knocked together—and are able to make their way around them. Mostly it involves peering into halls to make sure no one is lurking, then darting to the next room and keeping watch while Daisy molds plastic explosives around girders and studs. She’s remarkably efficient, it has to be admitted. Gerry’s getting twitchy, though, and he can only imagine how the others feel. Still, none of them have those terrible black marks—yet—so he’s cautiously optimistic, even though he knows enough not to be completely relaxed.

After all, he only sees the blackness if they have a chance of surviving.

Finally, they’re ready to hit up the last room on their list, the one that will, if all goes according to plan, collapse in such a way that it draws the rest of the collapse into itself. Gerry admittedly doesn’t understand it, but he reckons he doesn’t have to as long as Daisy does. Melanie leads the way down the hall, peeks into the room, and jumps back. Gerry is at her side in an instant, but she’s already recovered and looked in again. She rolls her eyes at him, looking annoyed at her own momentary fear. “It’s fine. No one’s in there,” she whispers, signaling the all-clear to the others.

The room is…unsettling. Probably it’s to do with what’s in it. The room itself is on the largish side, obviously some sort of warehouse, with nothing but a single bare bulb dangling from the ceiling to illuminate the space. It’s a central room, so no windows; that one bulb is all the light they get. And what it illuminates appears, at first, to be a crowd of people—probably why Melanie jumped back—but on closer inspection, it’s clear. These are nothing but waxworks.

Bad ones, but still waxworks. They stand in loose rows and clusters, some slumped to one side, others straight and rigid, their expressions fixed and frozen and, well, uncanny. Gerry hates this room on sight and hopes Daisy has a lot of explosives to use in it. He stands aside to let the others in.

Martin is the last to enter, and he’s tense and uncomfortable, his breathing shallow. Gerry figures he’s got the same feeling that it’s too easy that he does, until he narrows his eyes at something just overhead. “Cobwebs. Great.”

Jon looks up nervously. Basira folds her arms over her chest and stands to one side. “Doesn’t that mean the spiders are long gone?”

“If they were regular spiders, yes. But the Web tends to…linger. I think the Mother of Puppets thinks the dust-filled variety are—well, spookier. Even if they’re not as good as catching flies.” Martin’s eyes dart around the room, obviously looking for more spiders. His left hand creeps towards his face.

Jon grabs it and yanks it back down. “No. Not here. Not now. If—if things go bad, you’ll need your strength.”

Martin laces his fingers through Jon’s and squeezes, a faint, sad smile on his face. Melanie looks around. “This is it, yeah?”

“Yep. We plant the last of the explosives here, this whole place goes up nice.” Daisy sounds slightly distracted as she prowls the room.

Basira looks around. “It’s too quiet.”

Jon swallows. “Could be a trap.”

“And? If it is, I give this a squeeze…” Daisy holds up the detonator. “No more trap.”

“And no more us,” Basira points out. Daisy grunts, but puts the detonator back in her pocket and goes back to looking around the room.

“Hey, it’s not like we’re alone in here,” Melanie says, with a false brightness in her voice. She flicks the arm of a mannequin next to her. “Look, it’s Prince Charles!”

“If he’s been zapped with force lightning, maybe,” Gerry says. In response to Martin’s odd look, he adds, “Tim made me watch the prequels with him.”

“That your relationship survived that is a sign that you’re far stronger than I am,” Jon says dryly.

Melanie moves over to another cluster of mannequins. “Ooh, score, the Beatles! You know, if they’d all been in separate accidents. Like if Ringo was in a fire, or Paul was in a car accident, that’s a classic…”

“Yes, Melanie, I get it, the waxworks are bad,” Martin says, a bit testily. His eyes are closed and he’s massaging his temple with his free hand. “Just…keep an eye on them, and if they start moving…”

“Hit them until they stop?”

“Yeah, basically.” Martin sighs heavily and opens his eyes again, looking around. “Christ, this is so much worse being able to see clearly.”

The room goes deathly still. Actually, Gerry knows something about the stillness of death, and he’s pretty sure that still moves more than this. Even the cobwebs seem frozen in place. Jon’s and Melanie’s faces are identical moues of horror, and as he watches, the same emotion rises, simultaneously, in both of their eyes.

Rage.

“Whoa, there.” Gerry lunges with a speed he hasn’t realized he’s still capable of and grabs Melanie’s arm. “Easy, cowgirl.”

Melanie when she’s angry, truly angry, because someone hurt one of her brothers has always been a sight to behold, but now it’s practically incandescent. Gerry stands his ground, barely, and hopes she remembers that he’s her brother before she focuses too much on the fact that he’s restraining her.

“This is where they held you,” Jon says in a choked-off, barely restrained voice. He looks around the room. “This is where they—”

“Yeah.” Martin tugs Jon closer and wraps his arms around him; Jon struggles for a second before giving up or giving in, Gerry’s not sure. “Don’t. Either of you. Just…we can blow the place to bits, but if you start going berserk in here then someone will hear us, and we can’t risk that. Please.”

Jon slumps and goes limp in Martin’s embrace, resting his head against his chest. “I just…I hate knowing you were hurt,” he confesses in a near whisper. “I hate that you were here and—that I couldn’t do anything for you.”

“I know.” Martin kisses the top of his head. “We’ll get back at the place. Don’t worry. But let’s do it the right way, yeah?”

Gerry slowly lets go of Melanie’s arm once it’s clear she’s not going to attack anything either. She gives him a look, then moves closer to Martin and Jon without actually stepping into his embrace all the way.

They wait in silence for a while. Long enough for Gerry to start getting nervous. Something about this room…something more than the fact that it was Martin’s prison cell…is getting to him. He looks around, then back at Daisy. “How much longer?”

“I don’t know,” Daisy replies.

“The others didn’t take this long.”

“The others had obvious structural weaknesses. This one doesn’t.”

“How hard is it to blow up a fucking building with all this stuff?” Melanie hisses.

Daisy stops and glares at her. “It depends. Lots of other buildings around here and I was told to be careful.”

Melanie grumbles under her breath. Basira ignores her, or tries to redirect everyone’s attention to the mannequin to her left. “So, would you say this is supposed to be Churchill or Alfred Hitchcock?”

“Jowls like that, could be either,” Jon says, frowning at it a bit. “I mean, the suit isn’t exactly period, but…”

“It could be Albert Finney, it’s so warped,” Melanie says. She eyes a door warily. “What’s through there?”

“Workroom,” Martin says softly. “But they’ve knocked out most of the middle of the buildings, I think, to make a big sort of…auditorium, I guess. Or theater, maybe.”

“How big?” Basira asks.

“I don’t know. Big. And I’m not risking finding out. Drawing on the Eye hurt in here, and I might be stronger now, but that doesn’t mean I want to risk calling attention to us this close to preparations for the Unknowing.”

“It’s just that it’s not a very big building.”

“Look, today was the first time I saw it from the outside, okay? All I can tell you is what I remember from being here.”

“You’re sure it’s the right place?” Basira presses.

Melanie scowls at her. “I am.”

“It’s definitely where they kept me.” Martin takes a few steps, Jon trailing after him, and then bends down to pick something up. He shows it to the others—a length of cloth with a pair of knots in it, one larger than the other, and a frayed slice through part of it. Bile rises in Gerry’s throat as he realizes it’s the remains of a gag. “I don’t remember this many waxworks, but I had my glasses off most of the time, so…”

“All right,” Basira says, clearly not convinced. “Just don’t want to get this far only to find out we’re in—”

A new sound fills the room, faint but distinct. Gerry’s only heard the song, such as it is, a few times, but the feeling it invokes is one he’s only felt once before, in Chicago—a sensation that intensified his headaches even as it made him want to get out of the hotel room and follow it.

It’s the chords of a calliope organ.

Martin swallows, and it seems to be taking everything he has to keep still. “This is the place.”

“We should look,” Melanie insists, staring at the door. “See what’s in there, what’s going on.”

“No. Absolutely not. No,” Martin says, shaking his head firmly. “There is nothing in there we need to see, and we’re almost done…” He hesitates and looks over at Daisy. “Right?”

“Just about.” Daisy hesitates, too, and looks back at him. For the first time, Gerry sees uncertainty in her eyes. “This going to be enough?”

“You…might want to use all of it. Just to be safe. If they’re hollowing the place out…” Martin doesn’t finish. He doesn’t need to.

Daisy’s eyes darken. “Right. Give me a minute.”

Something about one of the waxworks catches Gerry’s attention, just for a second, and he turns to study it more closely. He’s not entirely sure who it’s supposed to be, or why it caught his attention, but something is drawing him in. He can only see its profile, though, but…

“Jesus!” Basira suddenly hisses.

Daisy whips her head around. “What?”

Basira is staring at the same mannequin as Gerry. “It moved.”

She can see its face. Gerry circles around as Martin says, “Okay if they’re starting to—we need to go.”

“No, just for a second, like a—a flicker,” Basira says, still staring intently at it. “Something in its eyes.”

“If the waxworks are coming alive, we need to go,” Martin insists.

Gerry isn’t listening. He steps past Basira and looks the waxwork in the eyes. They should be nothing but, well, molded wax and paint, but as soon as he gets close enough—she’s right, they flicker, and move, and lock onto his. They’re real—actual eyes, full of pain and fear and something else, something—

Oh. Oh, God.

“No,” he says softly.

“No?” Martin repeats.

Gerry ignores him. Horror and anger and pity all mingle in his chest at once as he looks into the eyes that stare back at him desperately. He can see the lips struggling to part, the hands struggling to move, but everything is immobilized except for those eyes, and…

I can’t leave him like this.

“Gerry,” Martin says sharply, but Gerry almost can’t hear him. White noise, not static but something like the wind of a blizzard, fills his ears and the space around him. He reaches out and puts a hand on either side of the waxwork temples. The wax crackles, seeming to suddenly contract as his fingers make contact. He reaches for a power he’s only consciously touched once before, the connection to his patron, and Terminus responds.

“Return to the dust from which you came,” he says, and his voice seems to echo slightly, almost to ring. “Return to the wind and the water and the earth. Return to the sky and the stars. Unloose your bonds and be set free. Go, and shed no tear.”

Something flows through the wax into his fingers, not black this time but pure white, and travels up his arms to his chest, then seems to explode throughout his body. For just a moment, he sees a flash of something new in the eyes before him.

Relief. Gratitude. Peace.

Then the eyes go blank and glassy. The white noise fades away into nothing. Gerry takes a deep breath and steps back, letting his arms slowly lower until they rest by his side. For a long moment, there is nothing but silence.

Melanie finally breaks it. “What. The fuck. Was that.”

A small twinge of guilt strikes Gerry—he tries not to feed in front of his siblings, and that was…unusual. He starts to turn to Melanie, to apologize, when Daisy steps back from a girder. “Done.”

Martin visibly shakes himself. “Right. It’s going to be starting soon. Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

He grabs Melanie with one hand and Jon with the other. Basira, Daisy, and Gerry all move under their own power—Gerry makes sure to go last—and they head for the exit. Martin doesn’t bother with the roof. Evidently he thinks that everyone is going to be distracted enough they can get out one of the main entrances without being noticed.

He’s right, even if Daisy does have to pass Jon, who’s closest, the detonator and throw herself, shoulder first, at one of the barricaded side doors to get them out quickly.

It’s still drizzling. Gerry doesn’t even consider that it might cause them problems. A little fall of rain won’t stop this, he thinks, slightly dizzy with relief. It’s also darker than he might have expected, which either means a heavier rain is coming or they were in longer than he thought and night is coming, but either way, it doesn’t really matter. They make it across the street and a little ways up the block, and then Daisy stops. “No further. Any more than this and we won’t get all the charges.”

Basira doesn’t look happy. “I still say we won’t get the timing right this far away.”

“We will,” Martin says simply. His eyes rove over the group, as if mentally counting all of them, and if they linger on Gerry for a bit, well, that’s what he deserves, really.

Jon looks up at Martin. “How?”

Martin tears his eyes from Gerry, looks down at Jon, and smirks, the same way he did in the room. He nods to the detonator in Jon’s hand. “Like Gerry said, it’s just one big Leitner, right? Pick a shanty and start us off.”

Jon blinks for a moment, then suddenly shoots Melanie a mischievous look. “They say life has its ups and downs—”

It’s not hard to recognize “Pump Shanty”—technically a recreation of an older tune, but hey, it works—and Gerry heartily joins in the chorus as Jon passes the detonator to Melanie. Basira looks torn between confusion and annoyance, but by the time Gerry hands the detonator off to Daisy, she, at least, seems to have understood what’s going on. And while it’s obvious she doesn’t actually know the words, she improvises well enough that it should work just fine. Basira fumbles her way through a verse and hands it off to Martin, who gets them back on track.

“Bend your backs and break your bones, we’re just a thousand miles from home…”

Martin actually twirls the detonator around his hand before handing it back to Jon. He takes it, and on the word home, his eyes fixed on the House of Wax, he slams his thumb down on the detonator.

The loud boom, followed by the plume of smoke and column of fire that blossoms from the abandoned museum against the darkening sky, is better than Bonfire Night.