#I just wanna crawl in a hole and perish | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

duskholland · 4 years

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Cuddle Buddies | Peter Parker

summary ↠ you’re touch-starved, Peter’s your best friend, and there’s a whole lot of unresolved romantic tension between you; friends to lovers.

word count ↠ 3.4k

warnings ↠ uh oh.... there’s only one bed..? additionally maybe two swear words? also copious amounts of fluff lmao

a/n ↠ so apparently I really wanna cuddle Peter Parker. wbk. this is very cute and made me so soft when I wrote it. I hope you enjoy it! please let me know if you have any thoughts :D

“God damn, MJ, I think I’m actually going to die if I don’t get a hug soon.”

You’re rambling, your voice full of heavy frustration. Your hair is unkempt and messy from all the times you’ve run your fingers through it, and you stare at Michelle with a wild look in your eyes that makes her press a hand to her hips and laugh lightly.

“Has anyone told you that you’re really good at being dramatic, Y/N?” She replies casually, causing you to mock an outraged gasp. You sit down at the lunch table together, setting down your trays in front of you.

You manage a glare at your friend. “You’re so mean to me,” you whine. “You don’t understand how desperate I am.”

MJ narrows her eyes. “I don’t think it’s possible to die from lack of human contact,” she chimes.

“Who’s dying?”

You startle as a third, familiar voice joins the conversation, and crane your neck to see Peter slipping into the open seat beside you. He gives you an easy smile that stretches all the way to his soft, lovely brown eyes, and you feel your heart ache.

“No one’s dying,” Michelle replies. When Peter shoots her an inquisitive look, she adds, “Y/N thinks she’s going to perish if she doesn’t find someone to hug.”

You scowl at MJ, biting the inside of your cheek as you try not to let the embarrassment show on your face. It’s one thing to have this conversation with MJ - your close friend and number one confidant - but Peter? It’s an entirely different story. He may be your best friend, but your feelings are far more than simply platonic when it comes to him.

“Oh…” Peter looks at you curiously, his eager eyes darting over your face. He leans his elbows on the table and rests his chin in his hands, looking utterly adorable with his face pulled into a cute smile. His grin widens as you meet his gaze, and he nods knowingly. “Hugs are nice.”

You nod in appreciative agreement. “Exactly!”

MJ just rolls her eyes. “You guys are so weird.”

Ned joins the table and begins talking to MJ about a chemistry project, and Peter turns to you properly.

“Hey, so, are we still on for that study session later?” He asks you, his teeth briefly gliding across his lower lip. You try not to focus too much on the curve of his mouth, but it’s very difficult.

“Um, yeah,” you squeak, feeling your cheeks heat up a little as you remember the arrangement you’d made with Peter earlier in the week. “Mine or yours?”

“Yours?” Peter suggests.

“Okay. My parents are still away on business, so it’ll just be us. Is that okay?”

Your friend nods his head, his fluffy brown curls shifting around his face. “Sounds great.” Peter gives you a nervous smile, and it sets your heart racing. “I can’t wait.”

-----

Peter turns up a little after 7pm, a box of pizza in his hands. You spend a while chatting and watching Star Wars, and then eventually pull yourselves around to studying. You opt for your bedroom, with its very comfortable fluffy carpet, and you spread out all of your notebooks and pens around you before lying on your stomach and lazily flicking through your notes. But you can’t quite focus because something is amiss.

Peter is acting very oddly tonight. And he’s normally a little hyperactive, but it’s as if he’s on another level entirely. He keeps glancing up to you, then looking away the moment you bring your eyes up to meet his, and he hasn’t stopped drumming his fingers over the front of his maths textbook all night. You’re already nervous enough being around him, alone and within such close proximity to him, and his antics aren’t helping you at all.

You might have a teeny tiny crush on Peter Parker. Possibly. But you’d never tell him that.

“Pete,” you say, reaching breaking point when you catch him staring at your face for the fifth time in one minute. You sit up and turn to look at him, meeting his guilty, rose-tinted face. “What’s going on? You seem so unsettled. Are you okay?”

Peter opens and closes his mouth a few times, his eyes meeting yours nervously. His voice is more a squeak than anything else as he says, suddenly, “Do you want to cuddle me?”

You blink, totally blindsided by the change in topic.

“Uh, cuddle you?”

“Um, I mean, sorry, that’s such a weird thing to just come out and say, I- I just remembered earlier, with MJ, what she was saying, and I was wondering if you’d want to hug me, if you- if you want a hug so badly.” Peter breaks off, a disgruntled groan coming up his throat as he buries his flushed face in his hands. “I’m sorry, Y/N, shit, that was such a weird thing to ask. Can we just pretend I never said anything?”

You chuckle, your lips pulling into a wide smile. “You would let me hug you?” You ask gently. Peter parts his fingers and looks at you through the gaps, nodding slightly. “I’d like that, Peter.”

He looks so shocked by your statement that it brings another quiet laugh from your mouth. “O-Okay.” Peter clumsily opens his arms. “Um, here?”

It’s painfully awkward at first. He’s sitting at the foot of your bed, his back resting up against the mattress, so you have to do a weird sort of crawl over to him, feeling his wide, anxious eyes pressing onto your figure the whole way. It doesn’t help that you’re practically shaking from nerves now.

You’ve known Peter since the start of high school, but you’ve not really hugged him before. The most you’ve shared is a brief celebratory high-five after acing a biology presentation together, and even that contact had lingered in your mind for days after. The concept of crawling up to and hugging your crush makes your palms sweaty and your mind a numb anxious mess, but you do it, because it’s Peter, and the opportunity to cuddle up next to him is so enticing you think you’d do anything just to feel his arms around your body.

The angle is difficult, but Peter spreads his legs out across the carpet and pats his thighs, and you realise he wants you to straddle his lap, so you clamber into his hold gently. He’s sturdy beneath you, with a pair of dark denim jeans stretched over his firm thighs, and he’s quick to wrap his arms around your waist and pull you in. You let your hands find his sides, and then you settle into a very close, very intimate hug with your best friend.

It’s lovely.

He smells of soft bubbles and peppermint, and you bury your face in the crook of his neck, partly because it’s comfortable, but mostly because you don’t want him to see the massive, embarrassing grin fixed to your mouth. Your heartbeat’s going crazy - you can feel it pressing against your ribs almost painfully, and it only doubles in speed as Peter’s hands move slowly across your back, rubbing large, soothing circles over your hoodie. You savour the moment, your eyes closed as you enjoy just being held by your best friend.

“Is this okay?” Peter asks, after a few moments.

You hum against his neck, squeezing his torso softly. He’s wearing one of Midtown’s navy hoodies, and it feels particularly soft against your forehead. “Thanks, Pete,” you mumble, enjoying the moment entirely too much. “You’re really good at hugs, you know that?”

“You’re also a very nice hugger,” Peter replies. You swallow deeply as you feel him tighten his grip on your sides and pull you even closer.

“Sometimes it’s just nice to be held,” you find yourself saying. You’re starting to feel really comfortable now, and find yourself relaxing and shifting further into him.

“Definitely.” His voice is still ringing at a higher pitch than you’re used to, but you put it down to the late evening hour. “Um, Y/N?”

“Hm?”

“If you, uh, ever need another hug, you can always text me.”

You’re so glad you have your face buried in Peter’s warm neck because the grin latched to your lips is so large you think you’d die from embarrassment if your friend could see how giddy his words make you feel.

“Okay,” you say. “Thanks, Pete.” You pause for a moment, and take stock of the way he seems to be clinging to you just as tightly as you are to him. “You can always text me too, if you ever want a hug. Or anything, really.” You manage to collapse your smile so it’s more of a weak grin, and you pull back to look at Peter. His hands fall down to loosely grasp at your hips, and you find him looking at you with warm, attentive eyes and a wide smile hanging from his pink lips.

He looks so cute, and relaxed, and perfect, and you really can’t believe your luck that you’re sitting holed up in his arms just now.

“Thanks, Y/N,” he mumbles shyly, eyes flittering across every part of your face. “You’re a great friend.”

You deserve an Oscar for maintaining the smile on your face, despite the way his words stab painfully at your heart.

“You too, Pete,” you mutter. “The best friend ever.”

The air between you holds just a little too much tension, so you shift and push your face back into his shoulder, hugging him again. Peter’s arms tighten around your waist, and you sigh softly, revelling in rare the feeling of him so close to you, even if it isn’t under the circumstances you crave. You’d take anything Peter could offer you, even if it makes your heart ache.

------

It easily becomes a habit.

Soon enough, it’s been three months, and you’re spending almost every evening with Peter. The more you meet up, the more natural folding into his arms becomes, and soon you find that your favourite parts of the day are the moments you share curled up together.

Sharing affection with Peter is easy, but it comes at a cost - it ties your heart up in knots to spend so much time pressed up against his chest, acting so intimately with him, but then to pull back and go back about your day like nothing really happened. Every second you spend hugging him hurts you because your heart yearns so deeply to have more, but you just can’t bring yourself to tell him how you feel. You value your friendship with Peter too much to risk ruining it all because of a stupid crush, and you’re not ready to stop your evening shenanigans, so you decide to just put up with it and suffer in silence.

A few months into your arrangement, you find yourself at Peter’s when the power across the city goes out in the middle of a thunderstorm.

“Holy shit,” you mutter, shivering as you glance outside and see a flash of sharp lightning cut across the city. The rain pelts down against the pavements so loudly that you can hear it through the gap in the window. You turn and look at Peter, wide-eyed. “Bet you’re glad the Stark internship let you leave earlier than usual today. I’m not looking forward to walking back in that later.”

“Y/N, you can’t go home in the middle of a thunderstorm, especially if the power is out,” Peter tells you firmly, his arms crossing over his chest. He looks so cute with his eyebrows scrunched into a caring scowl that you can’t stop yourself from smiling. “Stay here tonight. May’s out of town, but I can sleep on the sofa. I don’t want you to go across the city by yourself at the moment.”

You bite your lower lip, eyeing the slants of rain that pour over Queens. “It does look pretty horrible out there,” you admit. Your expression shifts into guilt as you eye Peter closely. “You can’t sleep on the sofa, though. I will.”

“No, I’ll sleep on the sofa.”

“Peter, it’s your apartment, I’m not about to kick you out of your own bed.”

“Then join me.”

“In your bed? With you?”

“Yes.” Peter’s face is a bright red as he flusters, “Um, only if you’re comfortable with that though, Y/N. You don’t have to. I just thought that- because, y’know, we’re kinda… close now, you might want to. But you don’t-”

“I want to,” you say, the words tumbling out before you can think them through properly. You’re rendered utterly incapable of sensible thought, because Peter’s looking at you so intently that it whips the breath straight out of your lungs. “Really, Pete, that would be nice, if you’re sure you don’t mind..?”

“No! I want to,” he replies. Peter runs his delicate fingers through his brown waves, pushing his strands away from his face easily. His smile is gentle, and it grows as you return it shyly. “I’ll go get you some clothes.”

You make light conversation as you both get ready for bed together. Peter even finds you a spare toothbrush in the cabinet beneath the sink, and you pull faces at him in the mirror as you brush your teeth together side by side. It feels so domestic, but also incredibly comfortable and normal, and you decide that you feel more at home by Peter’s side than you do anywhere else in the world. You realise that maybe you’d just been deluding yourself each time you’d dismissed your feelings for him as simply a crush. Maybe, your feelings run a lot deeper for your friend - far deeper than you’d ever intended for them to grow. Because you realise, as Peter laughs loudly when you pull a face at him in the mirror, that your feelings for the boy have taken firm root in your heart, and you’re absolutely fucking in love with him.

“So, um, I normally sleep on the left side, but I can swap if you want that side,” Peter tells you. The power has finally come back on and the weather has cleared up, but neither of you comment on it as he closes his bedroom door behind you and gestures at his nice, gingham-patterned bedspread.

“I can go on the right side,” you offer.

Peter turns off the light and you both shuffle to your respective sides of his bed. You’ve been in his room a thousand times before, but you’ve never ventured beneath his lovely soft covers, and you find yourself sighing slightly as you shuffle beneath the duvet. His pillows are light and feathery, and your head sinks into them easily.

He seems intent to stay as far away from you as possible, and he clings to the far edge of the mattress. It brings a frown to your mouth, but you let him be; if that’s where he has to be in order to feel comfortable, then you’ll let him stay there. Just because you feel something else fluttering about in your heart for him, does not mean he feels the same way - even if you were sure he’d been hugging you a little closer, recently, and staring at your lips more than he used to. But maybe that was all in your head.

“Do you need anything?” Peter asks slowly. You stare up at his ceiling, your eyes taking in the dark curves of his smooth roof.

“No,” you reply. “Your bed is very comfortable.”

You hear the sheets ruffle as Peter slowly turns over. You fold over onto your side and find yourself facing him, his bright eyes twinkling slightly beneath the light that streams in from the city outside. He looks very cute, with the duvet bunched up beneath his chin and his fluffy hair all messy and waved out across his forehead, and it makes you happy to see him so relaxed and free. Sometimes it feels as though Peter carries the weight of the world on his shoulders, and you’d give anything to see him gentle and carefree like this. It makes you feel a surge of pride to know you can give him just a little bit of peace.

“Yeah, I dunno where May got the mattress but it’s amazing.” Peter breaks off, shifting around a little, and you freeze up when you feel his hand brush against yours beneath the covers. “Oh, uh, sorry,” he mutters, immediately jerking his hand back. You can just about make out the dark flush of his cheeks.

“‘S okay,” you murmur, biting your lower lip. A beat passes, and then you add, “We hug all the time, Peter. You can touch me, y’know.”

He takes it as an invitation, and he tenderly reaches out. His warm hand finds the curve of your waist, and you stay remarkably still as he slowly shuffles a little closer.

“Is this okay?” Peter whispers into the air.

“Yeah.”

Finally you unstick, your heart beating rapidly in your chest. You shift towards him, as if magnetised, and your hand goes up to rest on his side, too. His t-shirt feels soft beneath your hold, and you find your mind reeling as you take in his warmth, his scent, his touch.

Peter’s face is very near you now. Your legs are tangled together. Your head shifts onto his pillow, and suddenly he’s holding you flush against him, your noses almost touching.

“Y/N,” he says slowly. His eyes are wide and nervous, and they keep dipping down to settle on the curve of your lips.

“Pete,” you respond, your voice fragile. You can hardly keep still, for how nervous you’re feeling now. He’s pulled you right against him, and for the first time, you question whether your feelings are actually one sided. His warm fingers burn against your side, tracing delicate circles over the material of your borrowed shirt. “You’re really close.”

“Do you want me to move?” You’ve never heard him like this before: all warm, and gentle, and inviting. It ignites a whirlwind of butterflies inside your chest, and you really can’t stop yourself from saying, quietly,

“I want you to kiss me.”

Peter’s lips are on yours before you know it. Soft, at first, and a little bit bumpy and awkward. But he loosens up as you reach up and wrap your fingers around his hair, and you kiss him back with all that you have. Peter pulls you closer as you kiss him deeply, savouring the feeling of his warm, pillowy lips and enjoying the way your heart blooms in your chest as your best friend kisses you back. He releases a small noise of enjoyment into your mouth as you nibble over his bottom lip, and then he’s pushing his tongue into your mouth, and you’re making out, your figures lazily intertwined.

It feels so right to be kissing Peter that you briefly wonder why you’ve never tried this out before.

“I, um, I really like you, Y/N,” Peter whispers against you, when you finally pull back. Your lips tingle as you giggle into the air, your fingertips trailing through the soft strands of his chestnut hair. “In fact, I… I’ve been in love with you for months.”

Your mouth runs dry, and all you can really do to stop the tears of relief from slipping out of your eyes is lean in and kiss him again, hard. You kiss him like you’ve been dreaming about for months: slowly, passionately and lovingly - growing in tempo as you fervently try to convey everything you’ve kept hidden away inside your heart.

When you break away, you keep your lips nuzzled against his and breathe out a deep, “I love you too, Peter.”

You giggle together, and you feel so overcome with adoration for the boy that you simply have to kiss him again.

“D’you want to go on a date with me?” Peter asks gently, between gaps in your soft kisses. You finally move away from his lips and settle nearer, your forehead finding his chest as his arms encircle your waist and he holds you close in a warm, consuming cuddle.

“I would love to go on a date with you, Peter,” you mumble against his front. You smile softly as you feel his lips trail across your forehead, and your heart stirs happily in your chest.

“Okay,” he says, sounding immediately relieved. “I’m excited.”

You hum sleepily into his chest, your fingers curling around his strong back. “Me too,” you mumble.

“Night night, Y/N,” he says, his voice already being carried away as you drift further into dreamland. “I love you.”

“Love you too, Pete,” you reply. You know nothing else will compare to the feeling of being holed up in your best friends arms, with his lips scattering a dusting of kisses across your forehead, and you try to cling desperately to every single moment and sensation. “Sweet dreams.”

Peter leaves a final kiss on your forehead, and then you drift off to sleep with him, your figures entangled, and, for the first time, your hearts beating together as one.

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any feedback?

masterlist

#peter parker #peter parker x reader #peter parker x y/n #peter parker oneshot #peter parker fanfic #peter!friends to lovers #friends to lovers

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michaelmalloryfanfic-blog · 6 years

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fic update: o thou, destroyer named - chapter vii

they are like two wounded animals, circling one another, waiting to see who will strike first

. millory outpost 3 au .

post links: chapter i // chapter ii // chapter iii // chapter iv // chapter v // chapter vi // chapter vii // chapter viii // chapter ix //

ao3 links: chapter i // chapter ii // chapter iii // chapter iv // chapter v // chapter vi // chapter vii // chapter viii // chapter ix //

a/n: sorry. again. it's crap and I don't ever edit before posting. I'm like an overly excited puppy with a new toy. So. Idk guys. I've been feeling real down on myself lately. I just feel like...this whole fic is kinda shit and pales in comparison to other fics that are waaaaay better and more popular. I really wanna finish but I feel like my heart isn't in it. I'll finish the next chapter and see where I fall.

and remember kids: kudos are nice comments are better but nosy anons get me wetter :)

chapter summary: uh. mostly filler. I split up this chapter like I did the last one but I figured I'd try stretching this out since I may be giving up on this fic.WARNING! Dream sequence ahead. Also Langdon gets a little handsy ;)

Michael Langdon is bored. This is as true of the current moment as its true of the last year or so. Oh sure, the whole apocalypse thing had been exhilarating at first. When the first bomb had fallen, Michael had felt such an intense moment of fulfillment. He had been standing at the precipice of the completion of his entire life’s purpose. He realizes all too late, what many a grade school genius may already know, that it’s a terrible thing to peak too early in life. Currently, he finds himself sitting in a car in complete silence besides the occasional hiss from Mead who’s operating system is working overtime on her update and needs to let off heat and a sleepy sigh from Mallory who is fast asleep.

Michael Langdon is bored and so through his subjectivity he has always been bored. The only upside to this is that he’s found that he has a propensity for finding entertainment wherever it can be found. And one of the most entertaining things he’s found is invading the minds of other. However, slipping into another person’s mind is a messy affair, even for the Antichrist. It can be discombobulating; memory and thoughts are rarely ever straightforward. Strangely enough, the human mind, which is supposed to be used to understand, seems to naturally resist being understood. Sight tends to take a back seat and experience becomes more about sensation. One moment he is in the back of the SUV. Mead is about fifteen minutes into her update and Mallory is across the seat. The next moment, he can taste the salt sea. He feels the cacophony of her limbs tangling around one another. The world tumbles over and over on its axis while the white wash pulls her under. He feels the grit of sand in her teeth when she crawls back up onto the shoreline. She’s just nineteen and it's the first time she's been to the ocean. He hears the echoing chambers of her heart. She is struggling to breathe, her chest burning yet she feels alive for what seems like the very first time.

There are other memories, most of them like an impressionist painting of emotion and sensation. Many memories resist comprehension, too intense or too faded into nothing more than a single feeling so vague that it has no name. But other things come easily, vividly. Pain is the clearest of all in her mind. How like a glittering jewel of broken glass, how like the revolving illumination of a lighthouse is pain in her head. He can taste her own saliva, pink with blood from biting her lip too hard, as her father buries his steel toe boot into her side for the third time. The memory is old, worn down to just the most intense bursts of pain and sadness. She’s only seven. Michael can smell her mother’s perfume when she drops down and curls around Mallory. The shock wave of her father’s boots can still be felt even through the shield of her mother’s body.

All this is both illuminating and not. She’s had a rough go of things but nothing that should make her singular. Mallory should be nothing to him, just another sad kid with a hole in her heart and yet he wants to feast upon her, gorge on all these moments of her humanity. In the darkness of the backseat, he looks at her placid features and feels her mind turn over. She’s beginning to dream. He can feel the tumult, fear, and intrigue pulse through her mind. In her dream, she is running. He can feel something behind her moving like a great, shining beast. It’s amazing how her mind can dream of heated pursuit but her face remains as impassive as ever.

He smells blood and feels panic rise in her. Dreams are always such messy, impractical things and he has never had much use for them. He is already disengaging from her mind when he becomes stuck in her mind like a pieces of fabric snagged on a thorn. In the physical world, he feels the communication device in his hand vibrate but he is hypnotized by his own image in her mind like Narcissus and his reflection. It is always strange to see yourself in someone else’s head. People tend to either exaggerate the things they like or the things they hate. Michael has seen himself hewn as a god, as an enemy, as an object of desire in the minds of others. He has seen himself so distorted to the point where he is unrecognizable even to himself but when he sees himself in Mallory’s mind he’s surprised. Not just because she sees him so terribly clearly, he’s like a photograph in her dream, but because of what she feels.

The car jolts, the vibration of the device in his hand has just ceased and a red dot pops up above the little phone icon on the screen. He feels her dream tremble. It buckles under the weight of her conscious mind awakening. Just as she wakes, the phone vibrates in his hand again and he answers. It is disappointing news but he barely cares, instead he focuses on how she tries so hard to steady her breathing. He ends the conversation with a threat and watches as her eyes shift beneath her eyelids. He waits for a moment to fiddle with his device but soon enough he can’t hold his words anymore.

“Sweet dreams?” Langdon asks from across the seat.

Once the two SUVs crunch to a halt and three bio-suited figures immediately hop out of the front seats. They hurry towards the other car, popping open the back doors. They extract from the second car what turns out to be a portable decontamination station. The three figures make quick work of the set up and soon enough one of the men are leading Michael and Mallory into the tent. Mead stays behind. She waves over one of the three suits and they discuss the next steps to decommission Outpost 3.

Their suits are sprayed down with a chemical cocktail and then they are led into another chamber where they are stripped of their suits and then its into the back of the SUV. As soon as they are seated, Langdon pulls out a device that looks suspiciously like a smart phone but like none Mallory's ever encountered. In the darkness of the cabin, his face is set aglow with pale blue light from his screen. His seem almost silver.

Mallory tries to peek over at what he's so fixated on but when he catches her looking he just pulls the device closer and smiles.

“Eyes to yourself, Mallory.”

After being chastised, Mallory turns her attention to the view out her window. Finding it an endless of expanse of gray mist, she presses her head against the cold glass. Despite all that’s happened, she’s a little excited to be taking a drive. Mallory had always loved long drives. The first one she could remember was when she was eight. Mallory remembers that they had started out early in the morning, long before sunrise. Her father, still drunk from the night before, sat snoring in his recliner as they shuffled out into the frigid darkness. When Mallory thinks of this moment, the image of her mother pressing one finger up against her lips, purple and bruising, always returns to her. It’s such a fragmented memory. She remembers thinking how pretty the shiner darkening her mother’s left eye looks in the early morning light. Mallory remembers the ache in her own right side where her father had kicked her five times the night before. It is to this memory that her mind wanders as she sits in the silence of the back cabin of an SUV while they wait for Mead.

She isn’t sure when it happens, but before she notices any difference she’s fast asleep. And as Mallory sleeps, Mallory dreams.

The outpost is a maze. Outpost 3 had always been a confusing network of passages, hallways, and chambers but now it is transfigured into something organic, nonsensical, alive. In the dark, she stumbles blindly and always behind her there is some burning, writhing thing that stalks her every move. It never reaches out, never strikes but she knows that if she stops running, if she is caught she will be consumed. So she runs. And runs. And runs.

Runs towards an orange glow that is always just beyond her reach, around another corner.

Behind her she hears a voice and realizes with dread that it is her own voice speaking.

“Look back,” the thing says as if it has her own tongue in its blazing mouth. “Look back and know me again. Perish and be reborn.”

It’s a trap. She knows this. Knows that if she looks back all will be lost. A pillar of salt, a vicious wound is all she will be. And yet she feels her muscles tense, move beyond her will. She is turning even as she runs. Is she moving in slow-motion or does it only feel that way? She wills her eyes to close but her body is not her own. Every second she inches closer and closer to looking back. The bright thing behind her, the orange glow before her, her life hangs in the balance between.

Just a little further. Please, please just a little more and I will be safe, she pleads. To whom? She doesn’t know.

But they must hear her because before she looks back, before the thing reaches her she is standing in a haze of orange and before her is a door. She remembers it and looks down to see Langdon’s blood seep out from beneath. Above the door the words are written but they are different now.

Igne natura renovatur integra

Behind her the shining thing hisses, I am the fire. I will birth you anew. Let me hold you. Let me devour you.

She slips into the room but instead of the antechamber, the candlelit room circling around, she finds her own room. It is both as tiny as she remembers but as vast as anything she knows. Her bed has become an alter and on it are her things, the crystals, the sprig, the charcoal and the matches. Kneeling at the altar are three cloaked figures. Blood pours from the altar like water bubbling up from a spring. Suddenly, Mallory realizes she shouldn’t be here. She tries to back away. The cloaked figures rise to their full height. Someone grabs her by the shoulders and spins her around. It is Michael and he is exactly like he was in that moment when she was no one, a nameless creature who had just spit up her own death like a ball of tar black phlegm. He is smiling when he wraps his hands around her little throat. He squeezes and she gasps but not from pain. No it isn’t as simple as that. It is pain but also comfort. Even as her vision bleeds to black, her windpipe buckling beneath his thumb, she is grateful, relieved even.

He leans down to whisper in her ear. His cheek his so warm against her own and his breath is scorching in the shell of her ear.

“This is what happens when you ask for it, Mallory darling.”

The last thing she sees is the curtain of Langdon’s hair falling over her like a golden curtain of light.

The world shakes and the sound of great metal gears echoes through the dreamscape. All color begins to drain. Red from the blood that still pools at her feet. The gold from his hair that smells of smoke and secret things. The blue from his eyes that shine like the summer sky. They all fade until all that's left is -

Darkness. She is thrown into the amniotic blackness behind her eyelids by the sudden shifting of the car around her, the crunch and howl of machinery sounds around her. It is a cacophonous reintroduction to consciousness and it takes a great amount of effort to keep quiet. For a moment she is lost, adrift. She tries to keep her breathing even, her eyes closed and then she hears from somewhere besides her Langdon’s voice.

“I ordered that the update include the restoration of all her old memories in full.” There is a series of no's punctuated by brief silences before he sighs deeply, “I don't respond kindly to failure as I’m sure you’re aware. Fix it or I will handle both you and the situation myself.”

She peeks over at him. He seems to still be completely preoccupied with his device. His eyes are almost silver in the blue light of his screen.

“Sweet dreams?” he asks suddenly and Mallory jumps.

“I - uh - sorry,” she settles on the last word with an embarrassment.

When she glances up at him she sees the tiniest smirk on his features.

“Answer the question. What did you dream about?” he asks sounding less than interested.

He is still fiddling with his device. He taps the screen with his thumbs, texting someone or writing something down.

“I was back at the outpost,” Mallory mumbles as she turns to look back out the window.

Instead of gray mists, she finds that its just darkness now, smooth like oil. Occasionally, a soft orange light would pass overhead barely detectable through the heavily tinted windows. There was an oily smudge where head had been pressed up against the window. She moves to wipe at it with her sleeve but winces when she feels a tightness in her left shoulder from sleeping in an awkward position for too long. Mallory reaches up with her right arm to try and massage her crick in her neck.

“Is that all?” he says this time the tiniest bit of interest seeping into his voice.

She shakes her head, no. Rotating her shoulder a few times, Mallory presses harder into the tight bundle of muscles tucked under her shoulder blade. A spasm of pain shoots through her and she hisses. Mallory stretches, hoping to hear that satisfying crack but to no avail. She begins to work at the muscle again before she hears him call to her.

“Come here,” he says quietly.

He is still in the same position as before, so completely still that she thinks she may have imagined hearing him. Mallory glances at Mead who sits stone-faced, staring straight ahead. She too is completely silent and when Mallory waves a hand in front of Mead’s face she doesn’t react.

“Leave Ms. Mead alone,” Langdon sighs then he tucks his device away and reaches out a long arm to wrap it around her. “I said come here.”

Mallory’s first instinct is to jump back. She’s never been big on physical intimacy, more than one of her former partners have bemoaned her unwillingness to cuddle or hold hands, calling her a cold fish. But Langdon is persistent. His fingers find the tight muscles in her shoulder and begin to knead them. The sudden relief that his touch brings is enough to throw Mallory off her guard. For a moment, she forgets to resist and that’s all Michael needs to pull her in.

“You capricious thing,” he murmurs only mildly irritated.

Mallory can only hum in response. His hands are so warm on her skin and seem to know exactly where the tightness is. There is one particular spot, the root of the problem, that he seems to always just miss. He is so maddeningly specific in his ignorance that she’s certain he’s doing this on purpose. Instead of giving her release, he works at the areas around that longing spot and after a few minutes of this she’s practically keening for relief.

“Tell me more about the dream,” he says and he’s so close now that she that she can feel the warm air carried by his words as they run over her head.

“I was running from something,” she breathes and then hisses as he ghost over that spot she so desperately wants him to press down on.

He knows, he knows. Though he touches her where she needs him to his fingers suddenly lose all strength. They are like air. Mallory shifts hoping to catch the pressure of his fingers on the bundle of muscles that she longs for him to attend to but he knows what she’s playing at.

“I couldn’t see it but I knew it was behind me,” her voice is almost nothing more than a whine now. “I could feel it.”

She’s embarrassed at herself pressing up against him like a cat in heat. But the undulating shift between pleasure and pain is heady. Mallory is still half asleep and in a haze.

“What was it? What was chasing you?”

She’s fully pressed against his side now. This is the first time she’s been close enough to smell him when he isn’t covered in blood. He smells warm like amber and sweat.

“I don’t remember,” she breathes her head is spinning and she’s needy for that one spot to be attended to. “There were women there too. The women who live in my head. They were kneeling at an alter. And then - then you were there.”

“Dreaming about me, Mallory darling?” he hums into to her ear.

She begins to nod but then yelps when he suddenly presses down right at the center of her tightness. White flashes behind her eyes but the pain passes as quickly as it comes. She is practically melting as he slowly begins the knead the tightness away.

“Keep going,” he whispers hotly in her ear.

“You told me, you - you said something ,” she slurs as the tension flees her body. “I can’t remember.”

Mallory’s eyes begin to droop and her breathing slows. Michael can feel her fighting against the darkness, against the comfort and warmth.

“Sleep, Mallory,” he insists, his voice is a purring in her ear. “We still have a ways to go.”

Zoe Benson is no stranger to death. Not even the current reigning Supreme can boast familiarity with the darkest art the way Zoe can. Only Madison rivals Zoe in this way. Despite its pristine look, Outpost 3 reeks of death. The witches can smell it. Its energy is rotten to the core. All three of the witches know this but Zoe feels the narrative of its evil of how it reaches back not just to the bombs but years and year, decades and decades of evil. It opens to her like a book.

Despite what Cordelia orders, the witches find none of their sisters in the abandoned outpost. The place is for all intents and purposes, barren. The shelves had been stripped of their books. The rooms have no mattresses. Metal and wooden bed frames sit like skeletons in their rooms. Much to their dismay, the provisions have also been cleared out. When they had taken down the first few outposts, there had been a plethora of supplies but now, the kitchens and med-bays are cavernous in their emptiness.

Scorched earth. The Cooperative may be on to them and this makes Cordelia cautious.

“Split up and search the rest of the facility, but stay close,” Cordelia says her face grim as she takes Zoe’s hand in her’s. She squeezes lightly. “I can’t afford to lose you.”

“Any of you,” she adds with a pointed look at Madison who only rolls her eyes at the sentiment.

Almost immediately after this interaction, Madison finds a bathroom to hole up in and lights up the other half of the blunt she had rolled that morning. The place is empty and everyone that used to live there is either dead or long gone. No amount of searching is going to change that. Madison hated outpost runs and she had previously had no reason to be involved. As far as she was concerned, she’s given more than enough for the sake of her coven. She’s died a few times already for this little girl scout troop and then some. She didn’t really feel like dying again. So make no mistake, when her name had come up in conversation about the next and possibly last outpost run, Madison had every intention of telling Cordelia and the council to fuck right off. Except, Zoe had come to her first with her dark eyes and mournful mouth. Zoe had come to Madison with a worried plea.

“Please, M,” Zoe had said. “I have a feeling about this one. I think something big is gonna happen and I can’t tell if it's gonna be good or bad. I need you with me.”

She had reached out a small pale hand and laced her fingers through Madison’s. The next she knew she was cloaked up and hiking cross country through radioactive mists. Madison had always been a sucker for a pretty face.

“Madison!” a voice rings out and Madison nearly drops her joint in surprise.

“Speak of the devil,” Madison mumbles to herself.

Madison takes one last drag before leaving her little hovel to seek her sister witch out. It takes a little while and a few more shouts before she finds the tiny room that Zoe inspecting a little square impression in the wall that forms a sort of shelf.

“Mah-” Zoe begins to shout again but halts with a small ‘oh’ when she turns to find Madison leaning against the door frame.

“What’s up buttercup?” Madison says casually.

Zoe only rolls her eyes but Madison catches that small secret smile that she thinks Zoe keeps only for her.

“So you girls always split up like the scooby gang on these runs?” she quips. “Seems a little risky doncha think? You know the whole split up thing was just so Fred could screw Daphne’s brains out behind a dumpster.”

“Or smoke a joint?” Zoe replies with a knowing look but doesn’t press any further. “Come here. What does this look like to you?”

Madison finally enters the room although it’s so small there’s barely enough space to actually be in the room. She saddles up next to Zoe who stands at the head of an empty metal bed frame. She’s staring intently at what seems to be a bunch of trash.

“Uh. Four Swarovskis and some crap,” she replies and looks around again at the meager room. “Listen, can we get out of this place already. I’m getting seasonal depression just from here.”

Zoe sighs but honestly isn’t surprised. Casting had never been Madison’s strong suit.

“Crystal for clarity, four of them for each cardinal sign. Charcoal to absorb evil intent and a sprig of rosemary for remembering. Fire for purity,” she explains but the look on Madison’s face says that doesn’t follow. “It's a memory spell.”

“Who would be doing a memory spell?” Madison says and as soon as she does she seems to answer her own question.

“Someone who was made to forget,” Zoe unnecessarily replies. “We need to get Cordelia in here. Now.”

Zoe makes to leave but before she can go Madison takes her hand.

“You think it’s her don’t you.”

Zoe only squeezes Madison’s hand tighter. Both witches leave the memory spell behind and seek out their superior, their hands still entwined.

Next Time: Welcome to the Sanctuary! We have tasteful sweaters, chinos, and nefarious plots galore!

#michael langdon fanfiction #michael langdon #millory #millory fanfic #mallory x michael #otdn

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