#Please Drag And Drop These Two Into A Room Like In The Sims

[halogenes1s]

Please drag and drop these two into a room like in the sims

Bday present I drew for @tinyburninator !!!

[voiceless-terror]

I am so completely enamored with Danny as jons ex and I would be forever in your debt if you finished that

i wasn't expecting people to like this idea so much, its definitely one of my weirder ones xD since im not sure when i'll get around to actually finishing it (if ever) you can have a very rough chunk of it instead. you'll have to forgive any mistakes, im not up to editing it.

In a surprising show of athleticism, Jon ducks under Sasha’s chair before the specter of his past manages to see him.

Sasha swears at the action, backing up in her chair and peering down at Jon in bafflement. “What on Earth are you doing, Jon?”

Instead of answering her question, he backs up even further, tucking his feet out of sight. He thinks Sasha’s umbrella must be under here, and judging from the sharp point currently jabbing at his thigh, he probably broke it. “Is he still there?” he hisses, tilting his head to avoid bashing it into the desk.

“Who?”

“That- that man!”

A pause. “Tall, dark and handsome?”

Jon’s turn to pause. “I suppose you might call him that,” he replies stiffly. And it’s true. The man, from Jon’s brief, panicked glimpses, is at least six foot, with thick, dark hair and a bright grin.

And he looks exactly like Jon’s ex, Danny Stoker.

He’d done an almost comical double-take after a cursory glance; at first he’d thought Danny was the new hire, but this man was more angular, like a sharper, leaner version of his ex. So no, it couldn’t be him.

That didn’t stop him from diving under the nearest object, ergo Sasha’s desk. Not the wisest of decisions, considering his throbbing side, but he’s never been known for grace under pressure.

He’s not exactly sure why this fight or flight mode’s been activated- he and Danny had parted on fairly good terms, each recognizing that although they cared about the other, they simply weren’t compatible in the long term. They’d dated for a little over six months when Jon was a freshman, and he’d fallen hard.

Danny had been his first real relationship, and Jon was shocked that someone like him even looked his way. Impossibly handsome, incredibly fit, desired and envied in equal measure, and he dated scrawny, shy, insecure Jonathan Sims; the rumor mill went wild. They’d met at a party, and not even a good one. In a brief moment of liquid courage, Jon managed to insert himself into a group and fit in one snarky joke that sent Danny into stitches, the rest of the partygoers following his lead. For one second, Jon felt like he truly fit in, like he was someone worth knowing.

Danny had a way of making someone feel special. Big, romantic gestures, surprising him after class, taking him on little expeditions beyond campus. Jon didn’t drive, still doesn’t, and Danny wanted to show him the world outside of their privileged little campus.

But, like all of Jon’s relationships, it came to an end. Jon wasn’t ready for such overwhelming affection (didn’t think he deserved it, quite frankly), and Danny needed someone who could handle his fast-paced lifestyle. Jon was not that man. They broke up amicably, even if Jon shed a few tears in private, saw each other on campus a few times. Danny tried to reach out more than once, just as friends, but Jon’s never been able to handle more than one relationship at a time, and by then he’d met Georgie.

But now it seems the past is unavoidable, and standing near the circulation desk. Well, now walking in his direction, if the steady footsteps were any indication. Jon’s heart begins to hammer in his chest as it hits him that he is, in fact, hiding under a desk because a man who sort of looks like his ex is in his general vicinity. Coward.

“‘Lo!” God, even the voice is similar, if not as deep. “Tim Stoker. Reporting for duty.”

Stoker. Tim Stoker. Jon startles, slamming his head against the desk with a yelp.

Somewhere in his spiraling thoughts and throbbing head he remembers- Danny had a brother. An older brother that he adored. This must be the famous Tim- Danny made him out to be a saint, and though Jon never met him, he felt some fondness via Danny’s descriptions. But Tim’s going to have no fondness for him, especially considering Jon’s current position, hiding in pain under his coworkers desk.

“Pleased to meet you!” Sasha chirps, very clearly amused by the situation. “I’m Sasha James. And this-” she tugs at one of Jon’s legs, dragging him a few inches into sight. Jon buries his head in his hands and wishes he were invisible. “-is Jonathan Sims. We’ll be training you.”

“Excellent.” Tim’s voice holds the same good humor Danny’s always did, and sends a pang of nostalgia through his chest. “Er, you alright down there?”

“Yes,” Jon responds robotically, scrambling to his feet and standing behind Sasha’s chair, unwilling to meet the man’s eyes, lest he be drawn in. “I- uh, lost a pen. P-Probably left it in the copy room, I’ll just be going...there.” With that incredible performance, he fled.

And only tripped once on the way out.

________

So Jon’s kind of cute.

Tim doesn’t normally go for tiny disgruntled academics, but Jonathan Sims is an interesting fellow. He’s got a reputation for being the ‘problem child’ of the Research Department, awkward and prickly and always available with a snide word. He wields his books and files like a little suit of armor, and the only person he’s seen him open up to is Sasha. Besides their little conversations, Jon is all work and no play.

Except with Tim.

Sasha says she’s never seen anything like it, with one of her secret little smiles. Jon’s always staring. Usually, the man can’t hold eye contact to save his life, but he’ll spend full minutes looking at Tim when he thinks he can’t see. The first few times, Tim would turn around and smile, but that practically sent the man into convulsions, dropping his papers and jumping out of sight like a spooked cat. It was funny the first few times, but Tim pitied him enough to ignore it now. He hopes Jon enjoys the view.

God forbid he ask the guy a question. Jon will look around the room, as if waiting for someone else to answer, when it’s clearly directed at him. He’ll blush and stammer his way through every explanation, keeping a wide berth of at least two feet between them. Even when Tim wants him to look at his screen, he’ll squint from far away. Tim starting to think he smells bad, or has some sort of communicable disease unbeknownst to him.

“It’s not that,” Sasha assures him, again with that unreadable smile. “Trust me.”

Time to try something else.

He prints out his latest follow up, a rather elaborate statement regarding mistaken identities and absolutely nothing supernatural. He knows Jon prefers to look at things on paper, as screens ‘trigger his migraines’ if Tim understood his mumbles. Maybe if he can engage with him on familiar territory for the both of them, he’ll be able to hold a conversation. Tim specifically requested his help on this one.

“If you could just look it over, make sure everything’s up to snuff, that’d be great,” Tim says to the top of Jon’s head, as the man refuses to lift his own to meet his gaze. “You know how Dr. Walker is. Always-”

“Finding mistakes where there are none? I’m familiar with her methods,” Jon snorts, and Tim feels like he’s getting somewhere. A whole sentence! With classic Jonathan Sims snark! “I-I can give it a look. I’m rather busy, but -”

“Take your time,” Tim says with a dismissive wave of the hand. “I finished a bit early, so I don’t need it for a few days yet. Don’t want to put you out.”

“You’re not.” Jon meets his eyes for about ten seconds before ducking his head back down.

Progress!

[n1k1tty]

kiss me ! part 2

“hawaii!” niki yells, throwing as fist in the air as he enters the van “riki, it’s 3am in the morning, please shut up” jay retorts, going back to sleep as he leans on the window

as if it was almost planned, you and jake sat beside each other at the furthest seat. it was complicated, you didn’t know if you were comfortable or not, you felt tense, afraid of jake’s teasing if you touch him even the slightest. yet you also didn’t want to leave your seat.

you let out a huff, trying to find a position where you could comfortably sleep in. you were spooked at the sudden hand that leans your head on their shoulders “you can sleep on my shoulders, it’s alright” jake chuckles, already drifting to sleep the second after he did that “thanks” you mumble, easing into his warmth.

you laugh a little at his aching figure “this is funny to you? after i’ve been so kind to let you sleep on my shoulder?” he pouts “i deserve a long massage during our flight” he jokes, continuing to carry your bags.

dumbfounded by the fact that you stayed with him, giving him a glance filled with guilt “y/n seriously, i’m fine. it’ll go away sooner or later” he reassures you, his heart exploding at the sight of you with glimmering eyes, feeling the guilt you expressed them with.

“what do you wanna eat for breakfast?” you mumble, taking the luggage cart from his grasp. he laughs at your attempt to make him feel better “sorry? didnt quite hear that well” he teases, making you give him a glare, almost forgetting that he was ‘injured’ you raise your hand to almost give him a punch “good thing you’re hurting or i would’ve punched your ass back to australia” you roll your eyes “you heard what i said!” eyebrows frowning as you look away “alright alright, i’m fine with coffee really—” he lets out a breathy chuckle, dragging his feet as he follows you around “—nonsense! breakfast is important. don’t give me that type of bullshit sim” you cut him off, stopping by a little restaurant as you tell the other members to go ahead “im getting you pancakes. better finish it or you’re not living to see another day”

he laughs “this is quite a unique way to care for someone don’t you think” you roll your eyes "eat the damn pancakes sim jaeyun"

"yas ma'am"

--

after everyone had met up, you all started finding your seats. you were bewildered, somehow, because now you found yourself wanting to switch seats with sunghoon for obvious reasons. but of course, you --again, didn't have the guts to do so.

a few hours into the flight and a few glances from jake here and there, you received a message

jake :):

hey pretty girl, do me a favour and go to the washroom behind you

you:

and why exactly?

jake :):

no questions asked. i just miss you ;)

you swore you wanted to jump off the plane. pretty girl?! he misses me?!. you feel the heat creeping up in your face as you asked jungwon "hey, could you get up of a sec. i gotta go to the washroom" you whisper, mumbling a small 'thank you' before you walked to the washroom.

you felt a hand pull you "hey" he giggles, arms wrapped around your waist "you scared me! i thought i was getting abducted" you slap his shoulder. although you would be lying if you said you didn't want to just grab him and kiss him right at this moment.

he looked so good with his button up shirt, showing off his collar bones, neck wearing the beaded necklace you made for him during the summer and your birthstone necklace. his hair was messy, and you couldn't deny how hot he looked with his glasses on.

"you should consider buttoning up" you hesitantly say, looking anywhere but his eyes. of course he catches on to your intentions, but he felt like pissing you off "why? i'm showing off your necklace" he giggles "i even bought your birthstone" he grabs the necklace with his thumb, making you roll your eyes as you cross your arms, making sim jaeyun giggle.

he places his hand under your chin, finally letting you looking at him "switch seats with sunghoon please. i don't think i like the sight of you sleeping on jungwon's shoulders" now it was your time to piss him off.

"why?" you pout, "his shoulders are so comfortable, and we don't want your shoulders aching again now do we?" you give him a slight smile, well it wasn't like you weren't planning to switch with sunghoon way before the flight even started anyway.

jake rolls his eyes "that leaves you no choice--"

"can y'all hurry up? i'll switch with you y/n gosh! just let me pee!" sunghoon bangs on the door, making jake laugh "well that was easy"

--

oh how you regret changing seats.

because now you get to fully witness the flight attendants obviously flirting with him.

"good morning sir" she annoyingly giggles, biting her lip as she leans in way too close. jake leans back, letting out a small laugh out of politeness "hi, yeah i'd like..." he orders his food while you glare at the girl who's been displeasingly close to him "what can i get for you ma'am?"

"oh my girlfriend would like the same thing" jake interrupts, giving you a sly wink after placing his hand on top of yours. you let out a small scoff after seeing the disappointed look on the girl as she hands you the food. your skips a beat. girlfriend? you thought

now he was starting to piss you off. he was doing everything but ask you out. and with every ounce of pride you had in your soul, you hated to admit that you were starting to get really impatient. were you not obvious about your feelings? was the handmade necklace and the concern you have for him not obvious enough?

"ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Hawaii" the pilot announces, after you got your hand carry, you didn't even bother waiting for jake. immediately walking out of the plane, causing him to tilt his head out of confusion.

he didn't get a chance to talk to you, i mean, how could he when you would immediately start walking away from him whenever he tried to walk towards you.

as you sat beside jay in the tour bus, he gives you a weird look "why are you here" you give him a lost look "can i not...?" that's when he knew something happened between you and jake "y/n if this is because of jake--" you place your hand on his mouth, leaning way too close. but luck wasn't on your side today, because jake saw.

"shut up please! and yes! it is about him. so please spare me and let me sit here for the meantime" jay chuckles, "jake's going to kill me for this" he mumbles, leaning back to the chair "what?"

"nothing" he gives you a grin

--

after you guys arrived to jay's beach house you immediately grab your bag before jake could help you

"alright riki and sunoo are sharing a room, jungwon and heeseung are sharing, and...." jay looks at you, sunghoon and jake, not knowing what to do "you three figure it out. i'm just letting you know one gets to have their own room" jay starts to head to his own room, shrugging his shoulders as he walks past you with widened eyes.

"we already know what's about to happen. i'm getting my own room-"

"no!" you yell

"yes!" jake yells in unison,

"well......" sunghoon stood there, waiting for the both of you to talk "well, i just think i should get the room since you know-- i'm a girl and-- you and jake are best friends so you should be roommates" you explain, giving sunghoon an awkward smile "yeah sure whatever- ow!" jake hits sunghoon in the arm "you idiot! take the goddamn room!" jake grits through his teeth "you know what y/n! i change my mind. i uh, i think im going to take the room"

"why?!" you whisper with a harsh tone. poor sunghoon "IM GOING TO JERK OFF OR SOMETHING I DON'T KNOW" he yells, although he regrets it after the maids give him a weird look "ayo what?" heeseung peaks through the door "nothing! i didn't mean that. just --ugh! i'm heading out" he grabs his luggage, stomping through the hallways as he walks to the room. leaving you with jake.

--

you were about to have a mental breakdown "jay! you're seriously not helping me at all!" you give him a shove "ow! you need to control your strength sometimes! and i'm sorry okay? i just panicked, and i think you and jake being roommates wouldn't be a mistake. it's better to fix your problems instead of just sweeping it under the rug. you can't avoid him forever y/n" he was right. and you knew that. but you couldn't bring yourself to tell jake what was bothering you. even the thought of it was embarrassing, because what if he wasn't even intending to date you at all?

you walk back to the room, hesitating whether you should open it or not. but after hearing no noise, you open the door "AH OH MY GOD SORRY--" there you saw a shirtless jake, hair wet and his glasses having a few drops of water from his hair. he grabs your hand before you could walk out again "y/n, please talk to me" he places his hands on both sides of your shoulders "did i do something wrong? whatever it is, i'm really sorry" he panics, slightly pouting at the silent treatment you gave him "jake i-"

"dinners ready!" riki barges in, freezing at the sight of you two "oh- hey! riki, let's go!" you grab his arm, walking towards the dining room "please don't mention it" you whisper, sitting in between riki and jay.

jake later follows, now in his grey shirt and the checkered pajamas he wore earlier, he gives you a small smile before sitting next to heeseung.

"so, sunghoon. did you have fun?" heeseung teases

"shut up!"

--

"this wasn't going as planned anymore!" jake groans, he was currently in jay's room, ranting his frustrations out while jay listened. when jake had heard about the trip to hawaii, he originally planned to confess when you guys went to the party, it's not like the party had already happened, but it was already tomorrow "i already apologized, yet she still wouldn't speak"

"do you even know why she's mad?" jay asked, leaning on the bad with his arms as he watched jake pacing around his room "...no?"

"jake sim you idiot"

it was 1 am in the morning and you finally finished playing games with riki and heeseung. you were hesitating to open the door once again. afraid of letting the incident happen once more. you knock lightly, hoping that he was there and you could finally make up

but before you could open the door, jake already opened it. immediately embracing you "please talk to me" he whispers gently in your ear. you couldn't help but burst out crying, causing him to panic, he caresses your hair "let's go for a walk yeah?" he grabs your wrist, his touch so gentle as if you were fragile.

he wipes your tears as you walk along the shore "i missed you. you know?" he holds your hand as you both drag your feet along the sand. you hit him on his shoulder "ow!"

"that's what you get!" you sniffle, looking at the reflection of the moon on the sea "what did i do?" he chuckles, searching for your eyes. he tilts his head when you don't respond "hello?"

"cause! you always flirt with me, calling me your girlfriend and hugging me! i hate it! i hate it because my heart always skips a beat every time and i always expect you to ask me out soon yet you never do!" you yell, your skin was glowing under the moonlight. jake was in awe the moment he saw your glistening eyes that had tears threatening to fall.

he had the sudden urge to kiss you and tell you how he felt.

and he did. because jake was a man who never doubted his feelings when it came to you.

he pulls you by the waist, causing you to let out a yelp. his lips touches yours, and it stayed like that for a while, to make up for the moments he wasted without you this whole vacation. you wrap your hands around his neck, playing with his hair

"can i be your boyfriend?" he cheekily says, his smile making you smile as well "suck my ass. sim jaeyun. yes, i'd love for you to be my boyfriend"

"i'd gladly suck your a--"

"sim jaeyun!"

--

[bonus bcs i haven't posted in a while]

it was the morning of the party, you were in jake's arms "finally you're awake! good morning!" he excitedly says, peppering you with kisses "the guys are in the pool so get changed" he informs you, smacking your ass as soon as you got up "getting too comfortable for our first day aren't we?" you tilt your head, giving him a smirk "can't help it" he send a wink your way.

as soon as you got out in your swimsuit, jake's mouth drops "do a little turn for me" he smirks, twirling you around as he hypes you up "holy shit! i'm so lucky aren't i" he checks you out, earning a smack from you "ow! alright but i'm not letting them check you out like that! wear my shirt"

(he didn't let you go from the jacuzzi after heeseung hyped you up lol)

--

[party]

you told jake to go ahead, wanting to surprise him with the dress you bought.

after arriving to the party jake almost dropped the drink he had in his hand after he saw you. he was smiling so hard when the little girl put a Lei (flower neck lace) on you. he felt so proud when the other men at the party look at you giving him a hug

"that's right, she's mine" he thought

after you walked to wards him he grabs you by the waist "you look so pretty in red" he says, hugging you tightly "is that so?" you ask, giving him a chaste kiss on the lips, making him all giddy

--

part 1

taglist: @zylenes @hwalllllllelujah @theskzvibe

HI GUYS :D. i will be posting the visuals for this fic so pls wait :)

[writer-ish]

φόβος, or the persistence of fear

prompt: to shower with my muse / for sex on a table/counter/desk / for our muses to try a new position + words: “make me” pairing: mason x detective (grace bennett) word count: 5.3k words | rating: super E!!! (minors dni) summary: φόβος (FO-vos) Greek. “fear”. Post-Book 3 Final Demo, Mason and Grace have some trouble overcoming their individual fears.

author note: i know you said “or”, lovely @detective-sweetheart , but to my eyes you were issuing a challenge as to whether or not i could do them ALL. i didn’t quite succeed, but hopefully it doesn’t disappoint. 😘 and, uh… *side-eyes the word count* ...yeah. really should get that ao3 account up and running huh?

warning: this smutty lil fic immediately follows the end of the final demo for book 3 (bobby route) so if you don't want any inkling of what that's all about, stay away.

XX nsfw prompts

X X X X

Saying that it had been “one of those days” would not only be an insult to days but to the concept of singularity itself.

By the time they roll into the warehouse, it's just after nine-thirty in the evening. The sun has already dipped beyond the horizon almost entirely, but there remains an eerie summer glow of light that seems to permeate the atmosphere. Not quite day, not quite night, but instead some liminal moment that feels almost otherworldly. Familiar, yet not.

Grace shivers.

Mason, sitting beside her in the roomy black SUV, turns towards her as the almost-imperceptible tremor runs through her body.

She meets his gaze, taking in his expression – tight and concerned, the grey of his irises stormy and conflicted – before she feels his hand reach across her lap and cup her outer thigh, tugging her closer to him.

They wait in silence as Adam parks and the rest of Unit Bravo gets out, Felix patting her leg reassuringly from beside her before exiting on his side. Mason gets out as well and turns to her, hands now shoved deep in the pockets of his leather jacket.

It's Grace's turn, so she gingerly exits, the weight of the day finally revealing the toll it's taken on her body. The fifteen minutes of inactivity in the car were, apparently, all it had needed as a reminder of what she'd endured in the last sixteen hours or so. All of a sudden she feels exhausted, weighted down, frustrated, and in desperate need of a shower.

"You good?" Mason asks as they walk together towards the entrance of the warehouse, shoulders brushing, a bit behind the others.

"Just tired," she responds, rubbing her eyes wearily. "Can't wait to shower and just lie down."

"Need any help with that?" The drawled reply is rife with a familiar irreverence, but there is something heavier in his tone that makes Grace glance up.

He's looking down at her, telltale smirk on his lips. But his grey eyes are dim and there's a furrow between his brows that isn't normally there.

"Yes."

Her quick response seems to surprise him; he stops walking and turns to look at her with an inscrutable expression. She can understand why—she isn't normally so brazen when it comes to his advances and she knows he revels in her shyness sometimes. Mastering the art of getting a rise out of her, making her flustered, teasing her and watching her blush.

But this time she doesn't care if her response feels bold or unlike her. Since dawn that morning, the litany of things she'd experienced were enough emotional and physical turmoil to last a person a lifetime, never mind a period that's comprised of less than twenty-four hours.

And now she wants Mason and she wants a shower and she wants to sleep. In whatever order she can have them.

Instead of saying anything flirtatious or sarcastic, he lets his eyes roam over her face for a moment and then he just nods and drapes an arm over her shoulders, leading her inside.

Upon entering the Warehouse, they’re greeted by Adam, Nate, and Felix, who appear to have been waiting for them. All three agents turn when they see Mason and Grace walking in, and Grace feels a pang of guilt, knowing that Adam will probably want to coordinate a meeting of some sort to go over the events of the day as well as next steps.

Sure enough, he intercepts them as they attempt to walk by.

“We should be debriefing on everything that just occurred." Adam crosses his arms and peers down at Grace. "And Detective, have you gotten a hold of Agent Bennett? I can’t seem to—“

Grace opens her mouth to reply, and perhaps Mason can feel the way her body leans away from him, already attempting to gear herself up for the meeting Adam has planned for them all, because he tugs her closer and begins dragging her away, speaking over her before she has a chance to respond.

“The Detective,” he announces, forcing her to keep pace with him, “is currently unavailable."

She can feel Adam's disapproval radiating at her back and she looks up at Mason helplessly.

"Stop," he commands her, then says over his shoulder: "She's had a rough day, okay? We'll meet in the morning."

Adam grumbles his reluctant acquiescence and Felix shouts after them: "Don't forget how thin the walls are!"

Nate splutters, as Mason throws back: "They're concrete!"

Nate’s splutters turn into a groan as Felix responds: "With you two it doesn't seem to make a difference."

Grace groans as well, feeling the heat surge up into her cheeks as she buries her face in her hands. Mason just laughs and continues to drag her along.

As soon as she gets to her room, she lets him in and then closes the door firmly behind them, leaning on it heavily with a deep sigh.

Mason is already walking around the small room, inspecting the current aesthetic. When the room had been set up for her, cues had apparently been taken from her own apartment. So there’s a vibe that can definitely be considered “cozy”, like her style – long white curtains, a plethora of pillows, a down comforter – while also being weirdly unfamiliar. It’s like a Sims version of her own place in some Bizarro universe. She isn’t sure if it makes her feel more at home—or less.

“What did you bring from your place?” His voice breaks her out of her reverie and she looks at him in surprise.

“Oh, uh—” Taking a look around, her brow furrows. “Honestly, not much. After what happened this morning, I didn’t have the wherewithal to grab anything that I really needed. Thank god there’s some stuff here. But I’m going to have to go back tomorrow and sift through the damage. See what can be salvaged.” She shrugs, then to her horror, she can feel her eyes inadvertently well with tears.

“Hey, hey—” Mason is in front of her before she can blink, tilting her chin up. “What’s that for?”

“Ugh, just—” She rubs her eyes frustratedly. “What a fucking day.”

“Yeah, you’ve been through it,” he agrees, before roughly pulling her into his arms. “One for the record books.”

His arms around her provide more comfort than he could probably ever understand and she feels her whole body wilt into his strength and his heat and his scent.

“I’m so sick of days ‘for the record books’,” she mumbles into his chest and she can feel his chuckle more than she hears it.

“Why don’t we see if we can make this one a bit better, hmm?” She looks up just in time for him to capture her lips with his.

Letting out a little sigh, she twines her arms around his neck and allows him to kiss her slowly, leisurely, taking little sips from her mouth, stroking her tongue with his own, stoking a slow fire that always seems to be maintaining a low burn in his presence. She presses her body closer, enjoying the feel of her breasts against his torso, his growing hardness pressing into her stomach.

He glides his hands down her back and cups her bottom, squeezing it appreciatively, before pulling her even closer still.

Moving his mouth to her neck, his teeth glide against her pulse point, and her heart skips a little beat when she feels the sharpness of his canines against her sensitive skin.

“Relax,” he whispers, kissing her softly right in the place where his teeth had just scraped. “This isn’t where I want to taste you.”

She lets out a little whimper and brings his mouth back to hers, kissing him fiercely, feeling the points and ridges of his teeth with her tongue crowding his mouth. He pulls her tightly to him, dragging her body up so her feet leave the ground, and then he drops her backwards on the bed, his knee already down on the mattress with her, poised to pounce.

“No—” she protests and before she can blink he’s off of her and standing at the edge of the bed.

“What is it?” His voice is calm, with none of the frustration she would assume he’d be feeling in that moment.

“No, it’s just—” She pauses and glances at the door to the ensuite bathroom, teeth digging into her bottom lip. “I really need a shower, before any… tasting happens.”

He blinks and then in a flash he’s on her again, his body pressing her deep into the soft mattress.

“For what it’s worth, sweetheart,” he says, nipping at her lips, “I’ll taste you whenever, however.”

“Reassuring,” she laughs, “but trust me when I say a shower is needed.”

“Then let’s get you wet.” She laughs again with a groan, allowing him to hoist her up.

He tugs at her shirt and she raises her arms accommodatingly, allowing him to lift it up and over her head. Piece by piece, he undresses her, hands grazing her skin with each article he removes, discarding the item as quickly as it comes off her body, until she stands in front of him fully nude.

Self-consciousness at her nudity is a forgotten pastime now that she’s with Mason. It’s something about the way he looks at her —he’s always just so pleased. With her or with himself she can’t tell, but either way it does wonders for one’s self esteem.

Even now, she can almost feel the heat emanating off of him, a hungry smoulder of pure energy as his eyes roam up and down her body.

“Shower,” she squeaks, not sure who needs the reminder more.

Instead of answering, he lifts her up effortlessly, dragging her thighs around him until she can cross her ankles behind his back. She feels the fabric of his clothing rubbing every inch of bare skin it encounters – the leather of his jacket against her nipples, his jeans between her legs – and he settles her onto a dresser that she literally hadn’t even noticed before that moment.

Her breathing escalates in anticipation and yearning, waiting for wherever his mouth or his tongue or his teeth go next, but instead he remains quiet and still, before leaning forward and resting his forehead on her shoulder.

She freezes, unsure what he wants or even what she should do. And then she feels it.

A light tremor, scarcely noticeable, running through his body.

Before she can react, his arms tighten around her in a crushing hug and she instinctively hugs him back fiercely, running her hands up and down his back, pulling him closer with her legs.

“Mason,” she whispers. “What—?”

With a growl, he lifts his head and captures her mouth with his own, teeth and tongues clashing in a hungry, desperate kiss. His fingers tangle in her hair as his thumbs caress her cheekbones in a juxtaposition of rough and gentle.

She kisses him back, trying to keep up with the shift in his mood. Pulling away with a gasp, she attempts to catch his eye.

“Are you—?”

Groaning, he leans in and kisses her again, hands running over her body in frantic strokes, as though memorizing the shape of her with his palms.

When he lifts his head again, she sees the conflict in his narrowed gaze, the grey irises stormy with anger and desire and another, less discernible emotion that causes gooseflesh to rise on her bare skin.

“Just look at you.” His voice is harsh, almost angry, and her jaw slackens in surprise at his tone. He tilts away from her as he speaks and she registers the absence acutely as cool air hits bare skin that now feels on display, her legs still spread open around him.

Shyness overcomes her as she becomes truly conscious of her nudity for the first time. She makes to close her legs and he grips them tighter around his hips so she can’t move them, his eyes flicking between hers, seeking answers and absolution.

“You’re so soft, so small,” he continues, his voice still rough with shades of anger, even as his words feel hollow and almost somehow reminiscent of—grief? “This skin, this body you’re in—it’s so weak.”

“Mason!” She finds her voice finally, confusion and indignation at war with one another in her mind as she tries to coincide his expression – which can only be described as tortured – with the hurtful things he’s saying.

“How can we let you go back out there?” His voice is raw now, the anger appearing to slowly fade away, leaving him worn-out and desperate in its wake. “Unprotected? Out in the open for any fucker to grab, to take. To hurt?” He gives her a little shake and she gasps. “Huh? How?”

Understanding dawns. Yes, it had been a rough day for her. One of the worst.

But it looks as though, maybe, it had been a rough day for him, too.

Immediately, her hands begin to move of their own volition, running up his chest and over his shoulders. His whole body seems to sag, the fight draining out of him completely, and he closes his eyes, turning his head away from her.

“I have the Agency,” she murmurs as she tries to soothe him with her touch, her tone, her words. She tucks her hands under his jacket and pushes it off until it drops on the floor. Smoothing her hands back up his arms, she doesn’t stop until they cup his face. “I have them to protect me.”

She turns his head and waits until he opens his eyes, his gaze still narrowed, but with a telltale furrow in his brow.

“And I have you,” she adds, softly. “To protect me.” She pauses, watching the creases in his forehead smooth even as his eyes drift away from hers once more. “I’ll be okay.”

He reminds her now of a beast being soothed; a wolf, perhaps—hackles still up, but with the understanding that the threat has passed, for the time being, at least.

She knows not to look too much into it; loyalty is intrinsic to Mason’s being. His defence of her would be his defence of any of them.

But she kisses his brow anyway, just in case. His cheek, too, even as he stiffens in her arms.

“I’ll be okay,” she repeats, “unless I don’t get a shower in the next thirty seconds.”

His expression shifts back to a familiar one: arched brow, lips curled up on one side, white teeth showing one sharp canine. He seems almost relieved, though at what she’s not sure – the reprieve? Her unspoken forgiveness? Her assurance?

Regardless, she knows she won’t get the answers she seeks and, sure enough, he says nothing, only lifts her back into his arms and carts her off to the bathroom.

She can’t help but laugh against his neck, although her heart still thumps an erratic beat at the odd moment they’d just had.

Depositing her by the sink, he peels off his shirt, dropping it unceremoniously onto the floor as he reaches inside the shower to turn on the water. He then strips out of his pants and underwear just as quickly, appearing more comfortable in his nudity than he is clothed—a fact that she’s come to realize is true.

She can’t help but take him in, flawless and muscular, a constellation of freckles across his upper body and arms. Unruly onyx waves tumble towards his shoulders and her fingers itch to run through them. His chest is covered in short, curling hairs that stretch across his pectorals and down, over his defined stomach and even further still. His prominent erection is unselfconsciously on display, flushed and waiting, apparently, for her.

Feeling the colour rise in her cheeks as she stares, she hazards a glance back up to his face.

He’s regarding her quietly, a growing smile on his lips, his gaze half-lidded and pleased.

“Like what you see, sweetheart?”

“Always,” she responds before she can lose her nerve, her face heating even more.

He chuckles softly, taking a step towards her, stroking his knuckles down her cheek. “The feeling is mutual.” He nods towards the running water. “Feel that and tell me if it’s okay.”

Hopping off the counter, she reaches her hand in. The water is scalding and she hisses out a breath, before adjusting it slightly cooler. She waits a beat until it runs at a suitable temperature on her palm and wrist. “That’s good for me. You?”

She finds herself craning her neck to look up at him. He’s standing tall in front of her, looking down without really tilting his chin. He has a half smile on his face as he watches her and she feels herself redden again under his gaze.

“I’ll be fine,” he says eventually, before crowding her until she has no choice but to take a step in.

Entering the shower fully, she allows the water to run down her back, tilting her head to wet her hair. He follows her in and runs his fingers softly down her chest, snagging on her nipples, already distended and aching.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, tracing over her lightly with his fingertips, playing and stroking. One finger circling a nipple before going down further until it grazes between her legs.

She bites back a moan as her eyes shut briefly, her palms pressing back against the cool tile of the shower for some sort of purchase.

He loops an arm around her waist and brings her to him, kissing her wetly, open-mouthed and demanding, their bare skin slipping against one another.

Swiftly, he turns her, pressing himself into the cleft of her ass. She can feel his hardness wedged deeply between her; a new sensation, but not entirely unpleasant, either. She wriggles experimentally and gasps at the titillating pressure.

“One day,” he murmurs in her ear, reading her mind, and she knows from the way he chuckles that her cheeks have gone truly red this time.

He strokes down her forearms, linking his fingers overtop hers before pressing them onto the tile so that her body is forced to tilt forward slightly. Then, he adjusts the spray of the water so it’s not hitting them directly.

“Open.” His voice is a gruff command and she can’t help but obey, her feet slipping slightly in her haste to spread her legs.

She feels his hand course over her wet skin, erection still pressed against her bottom, as his fingers move across her, teasing and playing, until they settle into the warm, liquid centre of her.

She lets out a protracted moan, her legs shaking, the relief of finally having him touch her right where she needs him to almost more than she can bear.

He strokes her masterfully, a finger delving into the wetness her body is producing just for him, for his touch, and then circling at the apex of her thighs. Her clit throbs with his attention and she can’t help but cry out as he applies steady continuous pressure. The shaking in her legs increases and his body presses against her even tighter, his other hand coming up to cup her breast, thumb strumming her nipple at the same pace as his other finger works her clit.

“I want you to come,” his voice grinds out next to her ear. “I want you to come all over my hand. I can already feel you dripping all over me, all over yourself. Let go, sweetheart.” He bites her neck lightly and she feels the sharp prick of his fangs on her sensitive flesh. “Let go.”

The pain and pleasure intertwine into a blinding flash of white light, her body convulsing as she cries out, her shout echoing throughout the small room. Her legs give way and he holds her steady against him, his arm the only barrier between her and the tiles.

She comes down slowly from her climax, her shaky breath echoing around them, trembling fingers still scrabbling for purchase on the wet tiled walls of the shower.

Before she can fully catch her breath, he turns her around wordlessly and crushes his mouth to hers again. She matches his fervour, opening her mouth and allowing him to consume her. Their kisses feel hungry, desperate, and she whimpers against his lips. Tightening his hold, he lifts her up into his arms, pressing her against the cool tiles. She can feel his hands splayed across her back, cushioning the impact, and she tightens her legs to draw him closer.

His erection is notched between her legs, stroking hotly up and down the teeming wetness there, both from the shower streaming between them and also, she knows, from her own body’s response to him, his nearness, and the promise of what’s to come.

She reaches between them and grips him, running her hand up and down his length as he tilts his head back and groans.

“Jesus, Gracie,” he bites off, and she can feel his fingers digging into her where they rest on her upper and lower back. “You gotta stop that, sweetheart, before I—”

“Make me,” she teases, revelling in these small, rare moments where she has the upper hand.

His head snaps up and she feels her heart skip a beat at the expression on his face, those silvery irises as thin as crescent moons against the deep black of his dilated pupils. His lips curl in a familiar smirk as he bounces her up higher in his arms. Laughing in surprise, she loses her grip on him and has to put her arms around his neck instead for balance.

At the new height he has her, she can feel the tip of his cock nudging into her liquid centre.

She lets out a breath that extends into a moan, feeling him enter her as she opens for him further. He holds her steady, hands cupping her ass as he guides her down, then back up, then down again, allowing her body time to accommodate him comfortably.

“Oh,” she whimpers, the sensation almost too much for her to bear. “I can’t—I’ve never—”

“Shhh.” He shifts and one hand goes to the back of her neck, drawing her head down his shoulder, while his other arm grips her around her hips. “I got you.”

Slowly, slowly he thrusts and pulls back, thrusts and pulls back, shallow and fluid movements, her body giving and giving some more, until he holds her tightly against him, their pelvises notched together, him fully seated within her.

There is never a moment in which she feels so vulnerable as the moment when they’re connected like this. Her body trembles with emotion, the full weight of the day finally crashing down on her. She tightens her thighs against his hips and her arms around his neck, tilting her head to kiss his wet, freckled shoulder, neck and jaw, happy that the steady stream of water from the showerhead prevents him from noticing the tears streaking down her cheeks.

She can’t do this right now, she can’t allow herself to succumb to this moment, these feelings, because if she does, she’s going to say something she regrets. Something that will ruin everything.

So she distracts herself with the physicality of what they’re doing and with the pressing need for release.

“Move,” she begs with a sob that hopefully he believes is impassioned rather than emotional. She rocks her hips against him, needing the moment to end just as much as she needs it to last forever.

He quickly and silently obeys, using her body to create a rhythm that matches his own, crowding her against the corner of the shower, holding her securely in his arms. She can feel his heart pounding against her body and without thinking, she digs her teeth into the soft skin where his neck meets shoulder, not hard enough to draw blood but certainly enough to leave a mark.

The sudden action, fierce and uncharacteristic of her, almost possessive in its intensity, clearly surprises him. His hips stutter against hers and his hands grip her tightly—so tightly that she knows she’ll be seeing the bruises in the morning. He lets out a hoarse shout and she can feel his release inside her and that’s all it takes to send her hurtling over the edge with him. Letting out a cry that matches his, she rides the wave of her own climax, her body holding tightly to his, inside and out.

They stay like that for a beat, hearts pounding, Grace’s breath echoing shakily against the tiles. Gently, Mason disentangles her from him and sets her down, still holding her against him firmly. He strokes her back until she can get her breathing and pulse under control.

Once she’s steady, he pulls away from her. She inadvertently lets out a whimper as the water, now lukewarm, causes goosebumps to rise on her skin, the heat from his body too tempting to be taken from her. She has no reason to be concerned, however, because he’s back on her almost immediately, this time with a soft, soapy cloth in his hand that he begins to wash with her with.

Long, languid strokes down her back, her arms, the backs of her legs. Gently between her legs as he washes away the intermingled essence of what they’ve just done, rinsing and rewashing, in light, soft strokes.

She allows him his ministrations, feeling sleepier and more languorous by the moment, enjoying the feel of him caring for her. She registers that the soap has a light scent, inoffensive to her own nostrils, but she can’t help but wonder if it bothers him.

Reaching up lazily, with an arm that feels sluggish and heavier than usual, she brushes the damp hair back from his forehead.

“The soap—?” she tries, taking the wash cloth from him and allowing it to drop between them. She steps back slightly and rinses herself with the water streaming down.

“It’s fine.” He shrugs. “I can only smell you.”

“Me—?” She realizes belatedly he means her arousal, and the evidence of their union, and her face flares up with heat once more. His smirk turns into a full fledged grin.

“Oh, sweetheart, if I could make you blush like that forever, I’d be one lucky son of a bitch.”

The word forever seems to hang between them and the smile drops quickly from his face at her sharp intake of breath.

“Turn around,” he says gruffly and she obeys quickly, reluctant to allow the moment to be shattered completely.

She hears the sound of another liquid dispenser and the telltale coconut scent of her favourite shampoo fills the humid space – when the Agency does something, they really do it right, she thinks, impressed and a little weirded out – before she feels Mason’s hands in her hair.

If she’d expected impatience or roughness from him in this endeavour, she’s pleasantly surprised to be proven wrong. For all his brusqueness and usual lack of desire to perform acts of service for others – outside those related to sexual pleasure – he takes his time with her hair, leisurely massaging in the shampoo, fingertips expertly pressing into her scalp and lathering the wet strands.

She tilts her head back and closes her eyes, a hum of pleasure escaping her lips. The warm water streams over her body and she’s convinced she’d be able to fall asleep standing if she let herself.

After a few more moments of quiet bliss, Mason places his hands on her shoulders and turns her back around. He gently tilts her chin up until the water is streaming over her hair now and she brings her own hands up to assist in rinsing out all the shampoo.

As she gets the shampoo out of her hair, his hands idly tease and caress her, his fingers running over her body once more in light strokes. The touch doesn’t seem to be intended to reignite anything; instead, it appears to be for the simple pleasure of just touching her.

They’re both quiet, the need or the desire to speak seemingly sapped out of them, and she allows him his touches, until all the soap is out of her hair and off her body. Then, she languidly opens her eyes and just watches him—watches how his eyes follow his hands as they move over her body, tracing her with his gaze as well as his fingers.

“Your turn?” she asks, finally, her voice a quiet echo in the small space.

He shakes his head and gathers her close to him, kissing her soundly on the mouth. “I’m good. Ready to come out?”

Instead of answering, she wraps her arms around his neck, stroking down his back and into his damp hair, the unruly waves curling around her fingers more than usual. She kisses him again, then nods against his lips, her eyes dropping closed of their own volition.

The rest is a blur. She feels him towel her off, remaining completely boneless the entire time and succumbing to his ministrations with nary a physical protest. He must dry himself as well, but who knows, because next thing she feels is him carrying her to her bed. She snuggles even more securely into his arms and she can swear she registers his lips against her forehead.

When he settles her on top of the covers she doesn’t even bother to do anything except burrow herself underneath them, still naked, hair frizzing and damp.

Her eyes are still closed, but she knows he hasn’t left, can feel him like a physical ache. Hovering but not touching or sitting. She doesn’t know if he’s in the process of dressing or stark naked. Doesn’t know if his intent is to stay or to go.

The need to keep her feelings inside, to not...ruin things, or push him away, is so, so strong. She could ask him to stay and he could go anyway, taking her heart with him. She could stay silent and wait for him to make his own decision, knowing the outcome would likely be the same.

As she wars with herself, feeling time ticking past, feeling him slowly slipping away, an image arises in her mind unbidden.

It’s his eyes.

She thinks of how they’d looked that morning, clouded with worry and not a hint of lasciviousness, even though she knew she’d been about ninety-nine percent see-through as she’d squelched up the drive.

How they’d looked when he’d apologized to her for his harsh words at Haley’s the other day, contrite and a little bit confused.

The way they’d held anger and, more than that, hurt when Bobby had spoken about kissing her.

And then she thinks about the look she’d seen in them as they’d all been overrun by Trappers and, immediately afterwards, as she had faced certain kidnapping by a supernatural he knew he could not defend her from.

He’d been terrified.

Those storm-grey irises, so familiar and already so dear, had been filled with abject terror and fear.

Fear for her.

The images fade as she hears him rustling, collecting his things.

She thinks again about how he’d been scared for her. Scared of losing her.

She’s scared, too.

She’s scared that all of this might be for naught. That she’ll fall deeper and deeper in love and he’ll soon be looking for a way out.

But tonight isn’t for fears, she decides. Tonight, they’re safe. Tonight, they’re together.

Tonight, he's hers.

“Mason?” Her eyes remain closed, but she hears his movements stop. She lets out a shaky breath, releasing the final bit of her trepidation, before speaking with conviction:

“I want you to stay.”

X X X X

👀 tags: @utterlyinevitable , @ethansramsey , @otherworldlypresents , @worldoffandoms , @raleighcarrera , @ejunkiet , @starrystarrytrouble , @terrm9 , @openheartthot , @octobereighth , @campsearchlight , @coldshrugs , @kelseaaa , @homeformyheart , @intothestrawberryjar , @magebastard , @kodysteach , @newfangledsoul , @silma-words , @lalizah , @detective-sweetheart , @lem-20 , @ifshebreathes-shesathot , @takemyopenheart , @v2itbwstct (if you want to be added/no longer want to be tagged, pls let me know!)

[snowgoldwaylon]

And That's When You Came - Naga X Reader

So this is my first Naga x reader fic, I'm a bit nervous about it y'all. I hope you guys enjoy!

TW: Violence, kidnapping, murder, drugs, strong language.

This time around, druglords were swarming parts of the Jungles around the world. This sometimes made working with the CIA and Marines hard trying to tie up loose ends.

So, of course, you took a leadership role, and assembled a small, efficient team to head out to the Jungle, and clean up some of these businesses.

You had gotten word over enemy comms that there was a possibility of trafficking coming up, just a few days short of today. So you know today was the day to make the right move and head out.

You gathered the team up, and took off right there and then. You had to head Northeast until you reached the heart of the Jungle. The plan was to ambush whoever was doing this and make them lead your team right to the main compound.

After 4 hours of constant flying, your heli touched down a few clicks North of the potential location. You took out the evidence from the comm broadcast and looked around.

The druglords were smart around these areas. They communicated in code. Morse code, to be exact. Thankfully you could read and understand morse code like you could in your native language. Looks like some classes pay off!

You took a minute and looked over the past conversation between these unknown individuals. You read the morse code with ease, and quickly you understood what was said.

'TRIBAL VILLAGE, WEST OF THE RED STREAM. FOLLOW IT 5 CLICKS AND MAKE A SHARP LEFT BY THE SKULLS.'

You felt a sick, sinking feeling when it mentioned skulls. Now you knew that you were about to walk a thin line with danger, or possibly even death.

You looked back at your team who geard up. You turned your radio on and spoke to the one man you could trust.

"Lazar, I might not come back from this. If I don't, please send a search team. I'm about to broadcast you my current coordinates." You said calmly.

"Y/N, you will come back. I promise to come to save your ass myself." Lazar said.

"Appreciate that, I'll keep in touch. 2-3 out." And off your radio went.

You rounded your team up and stood upon a rock so they could hear you loud and clear.

"Okay Strike team, we are going in. You will follow me and my orders, we stay together at all times. This could potentially be a large threat, and I will not have any deaths today. Now, follow me. Keep an eye out for any potential harm. Form the formation we talked about. Always check those corners and look back!" You said, strapping your MP5 around you tightly.

You led your team off in the direction that the morse code told you about. You came to the red stream and decided to take a look around and see if you saw any possible movement or another break in the case.

You took your binoculars and scanned the area. In the distance, you saw a small, white building. It was covered by trees, well hidden if you didn't have good vision.

"Hey Houston, take a look over there, almost 3 and a half inches to the left. See the white building?" You said, handing the binoculars to your teammate.

Houston took them and looked, he turned back to you and nodded.

"I see it. Do you think we should go check it out?" He asked.

You thought for a moment. What if this was another building with possible evidence or even someone in there you could question? You looked back towards him and nodded.

"Yeah, I think we should. Let's get in there and at least check it out. It'll be worth it if we do I think." You reasoned.

He quickly gathered the team, and you made a slow but steady movement towards the building in question. There was no doubt you were nervous, you had a really bad feeling and you weren't sure why.

When you came up to the building, it was a garage. It had a large, retracting door and a small door for someone to walk into. But there was no house, just a garage.

"Okay Houston, we're gonna walk into this place very carefully, and slowly." You said.

After getting confirmation from everyone, you walked up to the small door. You carefully took the handle and twisted it. The door creaked open as if this was some sort of horror movie and the killer finds the person hiding.

You took a few steps in and checked all the corners. Your team followed behind and within minutes, the whole place had gotten a clean sweep. There was nobody to be found. So, you quickly gathered everyone in the middle.

"Okay, so this place is clear. What we are going to do next i-" You were cut off by a large bang.

BANG!

You drew your MP5 and took a protective stance. Suddenly, thats when a loud and frantic banging started to happen. What took you off guard was the cries for help that followed.

"PLEASE HELP, I'M DOWN HERE!" The male voice cried out.

You looked all over the room, and noticed a hatch to what looked like a cellar, the doors chained shut with heavy rocks on top.

"Commander, I don't like the feeling of this..." One of your team, Leon shuttered out.

"Cover me, we must save this man!" You said with no hesitation.

You ran over to the doors, and ripped the rock off with brute strength. You smashed the chains off with the butt of your gun, and yanked them off. You could now open the door.

"Houston, Leon, with me!" You commanded.

They stacked up behind you and took stance. You ripped the doors open, and out came a man fell out, wearing some sort of uniform. And behind him was a some of two dozen men, armed. You had been tricked.

"Commander!" Houston yelled, jumping in front of you as a bullet as shot. It ripped through his heart like a dagger. He fell to the ground, going limp.

"You fuckers!" You shouted.

You went to shoot, but a rock came flying and hit you right in the eye. You heard everyone else struggle and a few gunshots. When you came back from the hit, you were grabbed and restrained.

The man you first saw, immediately tied all your team up, but a couple of the guys had you in a hold, rather than tied up. You were so scared, for everyone. The first guy who came out grabbed his walkie and talked into it.

"Naga, this is Blade. I have their Commander. Waiting your order."

"Good, bring their Commander to me. Take the rest to the pit. We have work that needs done." The mysterious voice spoke over the radio.

"Got it."

When your team started to get taken away like cattle, you got pissed. You saw the bodies of a few crew mates and it made you almost get sick. Houston and Leon were dead, all because of you.

When you started to be dragged away, you began to kick and scream.

"Get off me you rat fucking bastards! I'll kill you all!" You shouted.

The men only chucked, and kept walking.

You were able to get an arm free and sucker punch one. The other, you kicked straight in the teeth, which made him double over. You took the opportunity and snapped his neck with ease.

The other man though quickly recovered and tackled you. You both fought for a minute until you somehow got on top, flipping him to his back. You restrained his arms with your leg and grabbed his face.

"I fucking told you, asshole. Now, join your friend." You said with anger. You quickly pulled his head back, killing him. You got off and took a rifle he wore.

You looked around and started to gather your surroundings. Now you were kind of confused. First thing first, you had to find your team. You ran back to the garage and went to the corpses of Houston and Leon.

"I'm so sorry you guys." You said, picking up their dog tags. This was the only way to identify them now.

You left and followed a blood trail to a nearby meadow. There, in the distance, you saw thick trees. You came up to a set of some, and in front of you was a 4-way split.

"Fuck! I'll be fucked if I go the wrong way...." But before you could even think, you felt a presence.

Like, somebody was watching you. You looked up into the trees, and that's when you saw a man wearing a strange cap, sunglasses, and a bandanna. He held a tube in his mouth.

Before you could run, he put air into it and shot out a dart at you of some sort. Luck was not with you today though.

It sucks right into your neck. And it felt like a rock had just dropped on you from a great height. You fell to your knees and collapsed. You tried to crawl, but the world went black around you.

The man jumped down from the trees and came over. He removed the dart and rolled you over to see your face. When he saw it was you, he picked you up and carried you towards his large camp.

"Finally got you."

Meanwhile, back at the safe house

Lazar came up to Adler and Sims.

"Doc, Y/N was supposed to come back 5 hours ago. I was even told if I don't hear anything, to come to find them." Lazar spoke with worry.

Adler almost brushed it off, until he heard your name.

"Wait, as in Y/N Y/L/N? Commander of Strike team?" He questioned.

"Yes, remember they went into the Jungle for the possible compound raid. I think something is wrong." He said.

Adler put out his cigarette and got up. He walked over to a plan made out by you. His eyes went large, and he immediately started to pack up and get ready.

"Lazar, you are right. There is a good chance they are in danger. We leave right now! Get everyone rounded up and locked and loaded." He commanded.

Lazar did as he was told, and got everything in line. The crew left within 5 minutes.

One day later, Y/N POV

You finally woke back up, but you were changed to a wall. Your clothes have scratches, and your head felt like a bobblehead. The room had a bright, uncomfortable light above the head. You looked around and saw so much drug paraphernalia.

You were about to pass out again until the door opened, and the same man from before stepped into the room. You both made eye contact, and you saw a slight smile behind his bandanna.

He came over to you and ran his hand over your face.

"Well, look who is finally awake. I thought you weren't going to ever wake back up, my precious little dandelion." He said in a creepy tone.

You revolted to his touch and tried to kick. But, you were held in place by the tough shackles.

"No no no, little one. You won't be leaving now. Do you know how long I waited for you? And here you fall right into my lap...." He trailed off.

You still kicked and screamed, until he finally walked away over to a projector.

"Oh Y/N, I've been watching you for months now. I knew you had been tracing people like me to raid their compounds. Well, I didn't want you fucking up my business." He said, pulling up the images on the projector.

You looked at them in horror when you realized they were of you, in many different states. You at your own home, on a date with Lazar, out with the safe house team for bowling and drinks, even you in the shower. The fucking shower!

You began to cry. You were very afraid.

The man only laughed upon seeing your tears and started playing audio logs of you calling your family on holidays.

"Don't cry, little one. I've always wanted you in my life." He spoke, slowly walking towards you. You began to panic, and started kicking and muffled screaming again.

When he reached you, he ran his hand up your side, and to your face.

"Don't worry. My name is Naga and I'm here to keep you forever. You are mine now, you know." He said.

He stepped back and turned on an older song. He kept the pictures up as he walked towards you with a knife. Your heart sank.

"Do you see this, honey? This is what you'll get when you misbehave. Understand?" He spat at you.

"I'm going to undo your gag. Don't do anything stupid." Naga said.

As soon as he did, he smiled.

"There. Now, why don't you tell me something with that gorgeous mouth?"

You looked right at him, and spit right into his eye. He jumped back in disgust. That pissed him off, and his gaze turned cold.

"You fucking bitch! You'll pay for that!"

But before he could even lunge, a man came from behind and wrestled him to the ground. That man was none other than Lawrence Sims.

You started to wiggle as you saw Lazar and everyone else behind him. He quickly ran over to you and got you free. Adler jumped in with Sims and restrained Naga. He put up one hell of a fight though.

You were carried away to the EVAC chopper, where Mason sat.

"Y/N!" Mason shouted, helping you get onboard.

You sat up and coughed. Your body hurt so much, you felt drained.

"Please Mason, clean up this cut on my leg. It's getting infected." You pleaded.

Immediately, he started to tend to every wound you had. It stung like hell but you were relieved it was over. Lazar sat with you and held your hand. You felt like you were in shellshock.

After about 10 minutes, everyone came back to the heli. Lazar didn't look happy.

"What the hell? Where is he??" He questioned.

Adler pulled out a cigarette and lit it. Sims just signed.

"He got away. The bastard is like a snake. Plus not to mention, he turned my balls into innies." Adler said with defeat.

You sat up and hugged the blanket tighter around you. You looked around at everyone as the heli flew off.

"Wait, what about my team? They still might be down there...."

Adler nodded at you.

"We sent in spec ops to recover survivors. But we are glad to see you back here safe."

You nodded with relief and lay back against the heli. You looked out over the dark skies and the now ominous trees below. You knew, deep down inside down there, this wasn't over.

Naga still roamed these trees. You looked down over the treetops and clenched your fist tight.

"I promise, this isn't over. I'll be back, even stronger."

[captaincravatthecapricious]

Crutches- Prompt Fill

cw broken bones, food, internalized ableism, dizziness, headaches

Card by the wonderful @celosiaa! I am still accepting bingo prompts! Please send me more because the starred ones are back written already! Send me a prompt and a character and let me know if you want a drawing or writing!

Navigating the London underground on crutches had been trying to say the least.  But, Jon has gotten very good at navigating it with his cane, so out of sheer spite, he managed it without incident. 

He is still clumsy on them, and by the time he reaches the university, he is more than out of breath, having to stop and use his inhaler before he can reach his classroom.  (He will not be sharing that information with Martin, no way.  He is Fine, and that would only cause worry, and Martin has enough to worry about being an EMT).  

Of course the annoying thing is that he broke his Good leg.  

Of course he manages to break his one more functional leg.  What a very Jonathan Sims thing to do.  

He sighs.  He does not want to explain this to his students.  (And he certainly doesn’t want to explain this to Tim and Sasha, but of course they are coming over for dinner.  Actually… he’s grateful that they don’t already know.  Somehow he actually managed to calm Martin down and talk him out of calling them.  Jon leaned hard into the look I’m fine!  It’s a clean break!  It hardly hurts!  It’s fine!  I’ve had much worse, please don’t fuss!  I’m still conscious and everything! Thing.)

Frankly, it’s embarrassing.  

He misses the days where he would just… heal.  

He might still.  Well, he certainly would the old fashion way, but his recovery might be faster than normal.  Physical injuries are still a little aided by his connection to the Eye, however weakened that connection might be.  Doesn’t do Shit for illnesses, but as much as his EDS causes him to bruise, the bruises don’t stick around for too long.  

Just have to wait and see.  

His students stare.  

Jon shivers.  

He tries not to think about the Institute.  He tries not to think about the prickle on the back of his neck… the feeling of eyes on him when there was no one around.  Don’t be daft, Jonathan, you can see the students right there.  You can see their eyes.  You are just their odd professor who looks even more haggard and beat up than usual.  

He Feels much more haggard than usual.  And he’s shaking from the albuterol.  

“Professor, what happened?” One of his students ask as he maneuvers the podium so he can drop his bag.  

He curses at the lack of chair in the lecture hall.  He’s asked for one.  Repeatedly.  And he’s dragged his office chair in with him before, but… he doesn’t exactly have the hands to do it.  

He has to balance on one leg to dig is computer out so he can connect it to the projector.  

“I’m fine,” he answers automatically.  He was.  He is.  Just tripped like the idiot he is, and broke his good leg.  His bad leg had been throbbing since he got on the tube.  

He ignores it.  

His students eye him with clear suspicion.  Which… Jon would have worried about if… they weren’t perfectly justified.  

They had seen him faint many times, pop his hip back in place, watched him dislocate and relocate his arm, and there was the time he had the concussion, and the time he had a migraine and had fainted when someone tapped him on the shoulder, and the time when he had come to class feverish.  

These students have called Martin so many times by now.  

He deserves those cautions glances.  These kids (not really kids, but sue him, they look like kids in his eyes) are ready to call him on his bullshit.  

“I fell the other day.  I’ll be fine.  Just a broken tibia.  I’ll be fine in couple months.  Let’s get on with the lesson.”

One kid raises their hand, and Jon calls on them.  “Yes?”

“Professor Blackwood-Sims, isn’t that your good leg?”

Damn these overly observant students.  If only they payed that much attention to his lectures.  (No, that’s not fair, they are all good students.  The ones who struggle, have good reason to, and Jon has managed to get them to all come talk to him and tell him what they need to do better).  

Jon smiles tightly.  “Well… it was.  Okay, on with the lecture.”

His leg hurts.  The not broken one.  The broken one… well that hurts a little too, but not nearly as much as the one full of holes.  (They are both full of holes, but one was wormed much more thoroughly and hasn’t been the same since.)

Balancing on one leg proves difficult as he’s hit by dizziness.  He’s been standing too long.  Too long on his bad leg, and the tension and pain have given him a headache bad enough that he’s had one of his students turn off the lights.  He can’t face the light of the projector, so he gives the lecture angling away from it.  

One of his students offers to run the PowerPoint so he can sit in one of the desks as he teaches, but he turns her down.  There are only a few minutes left.  He can make it.  Then he can get home and take some painkillers and shower before Tim and Sasha come to dinner.  

He knows he can cancel, but he doesn’t want to.  He’s more dreading having explain what happened.  

He reaches the flat quickly enough.  He should have time to shower and cook.  He hopes.  

He swallows some painkillers dry (just a few so he can still take more before bed and not worry Martin by pushing the recommended doses too far) and works his way out of his work clothes while sitting on the bed.  It isn’t fun.  

He swallows his pride and uses the shower seat.  He hates it.  He hates that he needs it, yes, but honestly it’s more an issue with the textured plastic under his naked skin.  It feels… wrong.  Both because it reminds him of the circus, and because it’s just a bad texture.  It also feels gross… as in unclean.  He cleans it vigorously often, but it still doesn’t feel clean to him.  

Between the headache, and the dizziness from the hot water and several nights of poor sleep (from nightmares and trying to sleep with a cast on which gave him More nightmares), and the pain in both his legs, Jon fights back the darkness around the edges of his vision.  

He will Not pass out now.  

No.  

Will not happen.  No thank you.  No.  

He fights to keep upright and conscious.  And, surprisingly, wins that battle.  He sits on the bed again while dressing, and while braiding his hair. 

It takes him a long time.  There is a lot of hair to work with, and his scalp hurts with the intensity of his headache.  He also dallies, the more time this takes, the longer he can sit.  He should consider dragging a chair in front of the counter and a chair in front of the stove.  That could make cooking less painful.  

Well, in some ways.  

The unnatural angles are hell on his wrists when chopping.  

Lesser of two evils, however, he supposes.  

Shit.  He isn’t going to have time to finish dinner by the time Tim and Sasha arrive.  

And Martin isn’t going to be home for another hour.  He knows, he knows (not Knows, though), that they won’t mind.  Tim might even Help him cook, but… he doesn’t like being a bother.  He wants… well frankly he wants to erase the years of hurt with food (Christ, Martin has worn off on him.  Not that he minds.  He loves Martin).  

The sauce is almost done, but he hasn’t even started the pasta by the time Tim’s voice drifts through the door.  Sing-song and loud.  No knocking (thankfully).  

Jon hates that he needs the crutches to get to the door.  He hates that his vision is swimming by then too.  The painkillers took the edge off the pain, but can’t do much about the other stresses on Jon’s mortal frame.  

“Be there in a moment, or you can just let yourself in,” Jon calls back.  He has to pause and lean on the wall.  This is all very irritating.  

Apparently, Tim had already been halfway through unlocking the door, because he’s in before Jon can even finish the sentence.  

“Jesus, Jon, what did you do this time?”  Sasha exclaims, quickly, but gracefully pulling off her coat, hanging it on one of the hooks by the door.  It’s less a question than a statement.  

“Hello Sasha, Tim.  Dinner isn’t quite ready, but it’s not too far away.  In the meantime there’s wine.  Martin will be here soon, but his shift isn’t over yet.”  His eyes are closed.  Head tilted back against the wall.  The room finally stops spinning around him.  

“What did you even do?”  Tim this time.  

Jon… doesn’t meet his eyes.  He knows he is blushing, but there isn’t much to be done about that.  He mumbles.  He doesn’t know why.  He knows it won’t work.  Shoving out the words too fast to be understood.  

“What was that Jonny?”  That is a cackle.  Tim is cackling.  Tim, is very irritating… but he does love him, even when he’s teasing.  

“Tripped over my cane.”  Jon says as quickly and quietly as possible.  

“Only you, buddy.  Only You, could do something like that.  Now PLEASE SIT DOWN BEFORE YOU FALL OVER.  I can finish making dinner!”  Tim herds him to a chair.  In the kitchen, because Jon knows that Tim knows Jon won’t actually relax on the couch or the bed if he’s told to.  

“Okay, Jon, what’s left to do… No buts!  This smells amazing and I can’t fuck up pasta, probably.  At least I assume you planned pasta, because there is a box on the counter.”  Sasha says this brandishing aforementioned pasta.  

Sasha makes him tea.  Tim makes the pasta.  (Tim is absolutely the chief between the two of them.)  

“When did you last have painkillers?”  Tim asks.  

“Not too long ago.  Really I’m fine.”

Tim hmmms.  

Jon finds himself nodding off at the table by the time Martin comes home.  

He knows he’s being talked about.  

“Hey, sweetheart.  Hey?”

Jon sleepily raises his head from the table.  “Sorry, I went to work.”  

“Love, I thought you were going to Zoom in today.”  Martin doesn’t sound Angry.  But he doesn’t sound happy about this.  In Jon’s defense, he did say he would see how he felt, and he felt fine in the morning.  

Jon whines, he hates disappointing Martin.  

“We can talk about that tomorrow.”  Martin presses a kiss to his forehead.  

“Hey!  No sleeping until we eat!”  Tim.  Mock serious.  Although he will be very serious if Jon tries to skive off to sleep without some food.  

“Dinner, then I vote we cuddle Jon until he gets some rest!”  Sasha this time.  

Just like old times.  

He knows he will be teased for How he broke his leg.  He knows he and Martin will have a serious chat about him pushing himself.  

But for now there is food, and cheer, and his loved ones.  

[babyangellee]

“Please Find Me”

Summary- The reader gets kidnapped and her captor exposes her relationship with Spencer to the team. They race to find her before it’s too late.

Warnings- Blood, stabbing, injury, possible swearing?, the usual criminal minds drama

Word Count- 2.3k 

[Part 2] [Part 3]

You danced around your kitchen while wiping down the counter. You were so into the music that you didn't hear your front door open and close. You didn't hear the slight squish of his boots on the hardwood as he slowly approached you. When you finally turned around you let out a small scream and dropped the cloth you were using.

"Jesus Danny! You scared me!" You yelled whacking your cousin's chest as you started to laugh.

"Sorry Y/N didn't mean to startle you" He replied slowly bending down to grab the cloth and then handing it to you.

"So how long are you in town for? I have to get into work soon but I'd love to get dinner or something when I get bac-'' You were cut off by something hard hitting the back of your head causing you to fall to the floor.

***

"Alright let's get started!" Garcia said enthusiastically while clapping her hand together.

"Wait, where's Y/L/N?" Hotch asked and everyone looked at each other realizing you weren't there.

"Maybe she's sick or slept in?" Spencer piped up, slightly confused himself. You guys had been dating for a while but only JJ knew about it. "I can give her a call to see what's up?"

"Let's brief first and then call her, tell her to meet at the police station," Hotch said and nodded to Garcia to continue.

"No need to take your Dramamine! This case is right in DC. Alright so in the last month four bodies have turned up. Allison Mark, Taylor McLaughlin, Jaime Hunt, and Kayla Johnson. All women in their late 20's were abducted from their homes, held for a week, and then killed." Garcia explained while going through the case on the screen behind her.

"This unsub definitely has a type, all the victims look like they could be sisters." She pointed out. She couldn't help but have a weird feeling about how eerily similar they looked to you. The same y/h/c and y/e/c, the same sparkle in their eye, and the same bright smile. She tried to shake the thought from her head as the rest of the team continued to go over the details.

"Alright. Prentiss and Rossi I want you to head to the ME, JJ, and Morgan I want you to go and pick up Y/L/N and then head to the dumpsite. Reid and I will head to the station." Hotch said picking up his case file and walking out of the conference room. Everyone nodded and split up heading to their SUV with their assigned partners.

Morgan and JJ had pulled up to your apartment and saw your car parked outside. They headed into the building and walked up the stairs to your apartment. You lived on the fourth floor but taking the stairs was faster than the elevator. When they approached your door Morgan knocked fairly loudly so that if you were sleeping hopefully it would wake you. After about 30 seconds and still no response JJ pulled out her phone dialing your number as Morgan knocked again.

Still, no response so JJ pulled out the emergency key you had given her about a year ago. Penelope and her were your closest friends on the team so along with Spencer, they both had a key in case of emergency. JJ deemed this an emergency.

She went to put the key in the lock but realized it was already unlocked. That was weird. You never left your door unlocked. The only people that ever needed to get in had keys. She gave Derek a concerned look as she pulled her gun from its holster. Morgan quickly followed her action as they opened your door.

"Y/N!" JJ called out walking into your bedroom as Derek made his way into your living room and then into the kitchen.

"JJ in here!" Derek yelled. JJ ran in seeing broken glass on the floor and your cell on the kitchen counter. As Morgan pulled out his phone to inform Hotch, JJ looked around more closely noticing a few drops of blood near the broken glass. You didn't leave without a struggle.

"Hotch, she's not here...... no, her car is but she isn't...... there looks like there was a struggle...... yea we're on the way." Morgan looked at JJ as he hung up the phone. "Another body just turned up. We just found this guy's pattern. And his latest victim."

JJ swallowed a lump in her throat that she didn't know was there. She nodded her head as she followed Morgan back to the car.

****

You woke up in a cold sweat not knowing where you were or how you got there. You quickly realized you were gagged and bound to a chair. You frantically tried to wriggle your hand free but they wouldn't budge. You looked around but there wasn't much to see. You were in a big open space. The floor and walls were concrete, you assumed you were in an abandoned building of some kind, maybe a warehouse.

Your head was pounding and you could feel the dried blood on the side of your face. You closed your eyes and tried to take a deep breath and remain as calm as possible, given the situation you were in. Just when you got your breathing in control you heard his voice and it sent chills down your spine.

"Good, you are finally awake! I was getting bored." He laughed. You looked at him absolutely terrified. How could he be doing this to you? You were his family. He just gave you a wicked smile before pulling out a camera. He placed it on a tripod and turned it on. You stared at the blinking red light drowning out what he was saying.

You only reacted when he took a knife dragging it across your cheek making you cry out in pain. He just laughed moving the knife to your arm before pushing down causing the cut to go deeper and you let out a muffled sob.

" I think that's enough of a message don't you?" He smiled again before taking the SIM card out of the camera and placing it in an envelope. He then handed you a sharpie and placed the paper under your hand. Forcing you to write the words FBI BAU TEAM on it so they couldn't analyze his handwriting.

Once you were done he took the envelope and the sharpie before leaving you alone again. He drove the hour-long distance to Quantico and walked up the building with a dark hoodie on. He knew it was kind of risky but if he got questioned he could definitely talk his way out of it. Once inside he handed the envelope to a security guard.

"I don't know man! I was across the street enjoying a nice iced coffee and when I went to get in my car I saw this on my windshield." He explained. The guard just nodded before making his way up to the sixth floor and handing it to one of the team members.

****

Your head slowly lolled to the side as your eyes fluttered closed. You were tired and in pain. You just wanted this to be over with. Just as you let slumber claim your body you were instantly awoken to the feeling of cold water being sprayed at you. You whimpered as the freezing water completely soaked your body making your teeth slightly chatter against the gag. The water turned off just as fast as it had been turned on and you saw Danny laughing holding a hose. He dropped it before making his way over to you. He slowly stroked your face and then retracted his hand.

"I think your friends might want to see this." He said walking away before reappearing with the camera, this time it was hooked up to a laptop and you knew he was going to live stream it. He set up the tripod and then turned around typing a few things into the computer and then stalking back over to you. Once he could tell the team was watching he started speaking.

" Ya know, I didn't really know how to feel when your mom told me you had a boyfriend." He started playing with a small knife in his hands. "She wouldn't shut up about him! She told me how you met up for lunch and told her you thought he was the one. Now when she said that, it struck a nerve. I've known you your whole life and never once were you ever serious about any guy but then all of a sudden you've had a boyfriend for four and a half years and are planning a future with him." He was starting to get angrier as he spoke and you knew Spencer and the team were hearing this.

"So it got me thinking. You always liked to brag and everything needed to be perfect with you. And after I looked him up it finally clicked. Supervisory Special Agent Spencer Reid. Or is it Doctor Spencer Reid. Who has three PhDs and two BAs? A child prodigy who went to high school at the age of twelve. You must have eaten that up." He laughed. He was trying to get under your skin and it was working. "He's just a fancy label to you. You don't love him for his personality, you love the attention you get from HIM being your boyfriend!"

"So tell me. How'd you do it? Huh? You were never interested in someone for longer than two months, how's you manage to fake four years?" He gave you a quizzical look before you saw a light bulb go off in his head. "Actually! Don't just tell me. Tell him." He pointed to the camera before stalking over to you and untying your gag.

"Don't listen to him, Spencer! I love you! Please find me!" You cried before you were silenced by the gag again. You had made him angry.

"You liar! You're lying to him! You bitch!" With that he took the knife in his hands, pushing it into your thigh. He twisted it and then pulled it out. You screamed in pain against the thick cloth material in your mouth. You looked down at the red liquid quickly oozing out of your leg as you continued to cry.

"Don't you get it! I loved you! I'm in love with you! What does he have that I don't!" He screamed as you started seeing spots. The pain radiating through your body. You started to struggle to keep your eyes open, your head dropping. As they started to flutter closed Danny aggressively grabbed your cheeks causing you to stare at him.

"I'm not done!" He yelled slapping you harshly before letting go of your face, your head immediately dropping again. He growled in irritation before walking back over to the hose spraying with the freezing cold water cause you to be on high alert.

"Now let's tell that boyfriend of yours the truth." He said coming up behind you and untying the gag again. This time held a knife against your shoulder. "Now tell him! Tell him you don't love him!"

You shook your head staying quiet. He pushed the knife into your shoulder with just enough pressure to break the skin, and you let out a soft whimper.

"SAY IT!" He yelled again causing you to flinch. You still stayed silent and he pushed the knife in all the way. You yelped at the pain finally giving in.

"I-I-I don't love you. I-I'm s-sorry" You cried out looking straight into the camera. Your heartfelt like breaking for saying those words. Danny, satisfied, pulled the knife out of your shoulder and walked around to the front of you. He bent down so he was face to face with you.

"I really hope he's still watching," He said quietly as he leaned in and kissed you. Danny slowly pulled away with rage in his eyes after about 20 seconds. "You didn't kiss back! Why did-" He was cut off but rustling outside of the warehouse. He stopped speaking and placed a hand over your already gagged mouth. When the rustling got closer he panicked and jabbed the knife into your stomach making you sharply inhale.

"FBI! DANIEL ANDERSON DON'T MOVE!" You sighed a breath of relief as you heard your friend and co-worker Derek Morgan's voice boom out. Danny went to plunge the knife into your body again before you heard a shot fired, the man in front of you falling to the floor. Knowing he was dead and you would be safe made your entire body relax.

"Hey, sweetheart" Morgan quickly walked over to you. Derek yelled into his radio for a medic once he saw your injuries. You started seeing spots again and felt weaker than ever before. You felt his hand reach up and gently grabbed your face so he could look at you. Your skin was paler than ever before and your lips had a bluish tint.

"JJ! Hurry!" He yelled behind you and you heard heels clicking over to you. Your eyes started to flutter closed again as you didn't have the strength to keep them open any longer. "Hey, hey, hey come on pretty girl keep those eyes open for me," Derek said hurriedly as JJ was untying the restraints that keep you in the chair. You tried your best but you just couldn't stay awake. The last thing you heard was Derek yelling into his radio again for the medics to hurry up.

[traitorousheroes]

and she greeted the End as an old friend

(Hannibal/The Magnus Archives Crossover. I've had this sitting in my drafts for over a year, and its technically finished, although originally it was going to be part of a series.)

Case #0170723

Statement of Abigail Hobbs, regarding her fathers and her subsequent deaths at their hands. Statement given directly by subject on July 23rd, 2017 to Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London. Statement begins...

The London streets were cold in the early morning, very different from the warmth of Italy. In a way they reminded her of Lithuania, of the dungeons beneath the old Lecter estate. The moth that Will had left was still beautiful, even as the skin sloughed off and spiders spun their webs in the empty eye sockets. There had been echoes of death that clung to the very stones of that place, but nothing that was unique, except for the fact of who it had affected. Those that it was continuing to affect.

Abigail pulled at the braid that covered her missing ear as she walked up to the Magnus Institute. Pressing her hand against the door, the feeling of being Known overcame her. The Eye focused on her as she stepped through and into the foyer, and she could feel that it wanted what she had come here to give. A small smile tugged at the corners of her lips. Unlike her own patron, the Eye was unused to waiting.

“Excuse me,” she said, walking up to the main desk.

The woman who sat behind it looked up at her in surprise. Her name tag read Rosie, which seemed to fit the woman.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

“I was hoping to make an appointment to speak with Elias Bouchard?”

“I’m not sure that Mr. Bouchard has any openings in his schedule for the next week,” Rosie said, flipping through a planner. “If you’d like, there looks to be an appointment open in a fortnight-”

The phone on her desk rang. Rosie gave her a small smile and held up a finger as she picked up the receiver. Abigail could hear the sound of a male voice on the other end, though what he was saying was indistinct. Rosie looked back up at her, confusion on her face as she listened to whatever the man on the line was saying.

“Of course, Mr. Bouchard,” she said. “I’ll let her know.” Rosie put the phone receiver to her shoulder and turned her smile back to Abigail. “Mr. Bouchard says that he has an appointment open at around noon. In return, he asks if you would be willing to give a statement to the Archives.”

“Of course.”

Rosie relayed her acceptance to him, giving a perfunctory goodbye and hanging up the phone. “If you’ll follow me, I’ll take you down to the Archives.”

Abigail nodded. Rosie turned and walked further into the building, her heels clicking against the stone floor; Abigail’s own shoes, a pair of comfortable flats, made no sound in comparison. They walked past a set of large wooden doors, above which sat a plaque that read Artifact Storage, before coming to a set of stairs that led down. At the basement landing there was only one door, which sat innocuously against the left hand wall. The plaque above it was similar to the one upstairs, but read Archives instead. It also appeared to be damaged with what appeared to be some sort of fire suppressant caked on the upper right hand corner.

Rosie opened the door, revealing a surprisingly large room with two chairs on the wall next to the door. Four desks sat in the middle of the room, each one stacked with paper and knick knacks. On the far left hand side of the room there were offices, one of which had a plaque next to it stating Archivist. A piece of paper was taped over the name holder below it, with the name Jonathon Sims printed on it. There were another two offices beside it, though neither of them had any designations. The door to the furthest one was cracked open slightly, letting her see what appeared to be a cot wedged against the wall. A small kitchenette sat against the back wall, the sink filled with what looked like used mugs.

“You can wait here if you’d like,” Rosie said, gesturing to a chair. “Would you like a coffee? Tea?”

“No, thank you,” Abigail replied, taking the seat. “I’ll be fine.”

“Well, if you need anything before they arrive, I’ll be at the front desk.”

Abigail nodded, letting her smile drop as the woman left. She let out a deep breath, all the air leaving her body in a deathly rattle. The air in the room was silent as the grave, not even the spider spinning its web in the corner making a sound to disturb it. She could feel the cold as it overtook her limbs like an old friend embracing her, her sight disappearing behind clouds of milky white. The echoes of death that lingered in the Archives were tantalizing in their amount. There was the faint tang of Corruption to them, a hive mind bound to flesh screaming out in unison as their lives were snuffed out.

“I think she’s dead.”

“Christ, not again.”

Abigail drew herself back from the deaths of the Flesh Hive, a curl of satisfaction settling itself in her chest. A faint whirring caught her ear as she acclimated back to her body, the sound like the VCR from her childhood. She blinked, clearing away the clouds that had settled over her corneas. One of the men who had been talking yelped, the soles of his shoes squeaking on the floor as he stumbled away. Abigail rolled her neck and stretched her fingers, chasing the torpor away.

As she focused on the two men in front of her she smiled. The one who yelped was braced against a desk, his eyes locked on her. The other had drawn a knife, the edge pointed at her chest. It was obvious that he had never used one before, not only for the slight tremor that transferred from his hand to the blade. Abigail took a deep breath, feeling her lungs reinflate with a wheeze.

“If you wanted to kill someone, you need to point the blade a bit lower,” she told the one with the knife. She raised her hand slowly and wrapped it around his own. He flinched at her touch, but didn’t resist as she pulled him closer and set the knife right below her sternum. “Press in and pull down to disembowel them. If you want them to suffer,” she said, dragging his knife down lower to her abdomen, “you can cut across and perforate their intestines and let them bleed out.”

“Let go,” he said, trying in vain to pull his hand from her grip.

Abigail didn’t, pulling it up so that the edge of the knife rested against the scarf that wrapped around her neck. “Of course, you can also cut the throat. It’s a bit harder than they make it look in the movies, but your victim is aware the entire time they choke on their own blood. Though the blood loss makes the pain feel almost non-existent. It’s almost peaceful.”

“Please,” the larger, terrified man said, “let him go.”

“Of course,” Abigail agreed, releasing the hand that held the knife. The man stepped away, the knife clattering to the floor between them. He rubbed at the skin she had touched, as if doing so would erase the feeling of it.

“Are you okay Tim?”

“Fine,” Tim spat. “Just dandy in fact. There’s only something else that wants to kill us here, Martin. Why wouldn’t I be okay?”

“I’m not here to kill you,” Abigail said.

They both looked at her sceptically. She sighed, bending over and picking up the knife from the floor. Both men flinched as she did so, but neither made any movement to get closer to her. It was a passable knife, though the edge was a bit dull when she tested it against the tip of her finger. Folding it back, she stood and held it out to Tim, whose gaze had turned wary. She waved it, and he reached out and took it like a snake striking at prey.

“What are you doing here then?” Martin asked. “How’d you even get in here?”

“Rosie let me in. I’m here to make a statement for the Archivist.”

“You’re here to make a statement,” Tim said, his tone disbelieving.

“I need to give it to the Archivist,” Abigail said. “It’s very important that I do it now.”

“Well, Jon isn’t here right now,” Martin told her. “We could set you up with some pen and paper if you’d like-”

Whatever he was offering was cut off as a man stormed into the Archives, almost running into Tim. He looked between the three of them, his eyes cataloging the two men before looking at her. Abigail felt a tingle of power spread over her skin as the Archivist focused on her with the full weight of the Eye.

“What are you?” the Archivist asked, a thread of power snapping out at her.

“Someone who came to give a statement,” she said, neatly sidestepping what he intended her to answer with another truth.

The Archivist grimaced, accepting what she said while still knowing that what she said wasn’t what he wanted. His shoulders slumped as he let go of what little power he had mustered against her. He rubbed at his eyes with a scarred hand before letting out an annoyed breath. He stalked over to the office marked as his, leaving the door open behind him. Abigail looked at the other two, who seemed unsure of what they should do. Tucking a loose strand of hair behind her remaining ear, she went to the Archivist’s door.

“May I come in?”

“If you want to give a statement, yes,” he said shortly. “If you’ve changed your mind, I’m sure you can find the way out.”

“I’m sure,” Abigail said, passing through the threshold and shutting the door behind her. There was a click-whirr as the tape recorder on the Archivist’s desk turned on. She raised an eyebrow which he returned drolly. “I hope you don’t mind me ambushing you here, Archivist.”

“As long as you aren’t here to kill me, I’m sure we will get along fine. And it’s Jon, please. And you are?”

“Abigail Hobbs. It’s nice to meet you, Jon.”

“At least one of us is happy about this. You said you’re here to give a statement?”

“Yes.”

“What about?” Jon asked. For all that his tone implied disinterest, there was a hunger behind his eyes.

“My deaths,” she said simply. “Should I just start, or...”

Jon nodded, his posture straightening as he looked her directly in the eyes. Abigail met them directly, letting the Eye in. She took a deep breath, letting the memories flow out.

“I knew from a young age that my dad was different. He wasn’t too different, not in any way that would make anyone suspicious. He worked a blue collar job, but a lot of people in my town did. It paid well enough, and we were happy. Or, at least, I was.

“My dad never really let me out of his sight. I just thought he was overprotective, especially when I hit my teenage years. It wasn’t until I caught him sitting outside my junior prom that I thought it was weird. He played it off, saying that he was worried about someone spiking the punch. Which, I mean, someone did, but that’s part of the high school experience. But it was soon after that when he got super weird.

“I wasn’t a fan of hunting, but my dad was really into it. He always bagged his allotment during deer season, which meant that we had enough venison for the winter. I think throughout my childhood I ate more deer meat than hamburgers. But that year he took me with him during deer season. He said it was important that I learned how to hunt. He had this weird look in his eye when he said it. Like he was sizing me up like one of his bucks. So I went with him and bagged one. I didn't like it, and I don’t think he liked the idea that I didn’t like it. I thought it was just the fact that he wanted to share it with me.

“After that, he never took me back to his hunting cabin. I can’t say I wasn’t happy about it, because it honestly creeped me out. Mom had put her foot down on the amount of antlers and hunting trophies in the house, but the cabin was absolutely stuffed with them. The upstairs was full of antlers and hooves. I thought he would have sold some of them to collectors or hobbyists, but I don’t think he ever did. I don’t think he thought that would be honoring them.

“That was a big thing with him. He used every part of a deer. You would think there would be some kind of waste, but he was very careful to limit that. It's probably what stopped him from being caught for as long as it did.

“I guess you don’t really pay attention to a lot of American news over here. Which is fair, since I never really paid attention to what happened over here. Plus, there are a lot of serial killers in the States. And I’ve met more than most people. Including my father.

“Like I said, my father was really overprotective. The therapists I talked to, afterwards, said that it wasn’t my fault what happened. That he was just sick in the head and that it manifested in him hunting girls who looked like me and eating them. And they were mostly right. Only they didn’t know that he used me to pick them out. He was a good hunter, you see. And a good hunter knows how to stalk his prey, how to use bait to get them where he wants them. I was his bait. And I knew it.

“I wasn’t scared of him. I don’t think any of the therapists understood that. Even after everything, I never was afraid of him. It wasn’t even fear of what he did when he was hunting. Because the only thing I wanted to do was survive. I wanted to live past whatever happened. If that meant helping him choose his prey, I would do it. In his own way, I think he thought I was close to him, close to the Hunt that drove him. He didn't realize that I was already marked for something else.

“From what I’ve learned about the Hunt, my father wasn’t fully under its influence. Certainly not enough to become something... more. I think that’s why one of the Web’s agents decided to press. I think he was curious to see what happened. He called our house, and when I picked up the phone he asked to speak to my dad.

“He told me afterwards what he said to my dad. That the F.B.I. was onto him, that they were coming for him. But my dad just hung up the phone and continued cooking breakfast. My mom didn’t notice anything different, which I guess is a small kindness. When we heard the car pull up outside he grabbed her and put the knife to her neck. He walked her to the front door, slit her throat, and tossed her onto the front porch. She bled out not knowing why it was happening.

“I should have run the moment I saw him grab my mom. But I couldn’t. I was so afraid, but it wasn’t because of him. Even when he came back, the knife in his hand wet with my mother’s blood, I wasn’t afraid of him. He whispered how sorry he was in my ear, that he loved me, and I still wasn’t afraid of him. It wasn’t until the man from the F.B.I. rushed into the kitchen and my dad slit my throat that I realized what I was afraid of.

“It was the same reason why I had picked out the girls for him to kill. I didn’t want to die. The man from the F.B.I. killed my dad, and still the only thing I could think of as I choked on my own blood was that I didn't want to die like this.

“I did though. For less than a minute on the operating table, my heart stopped. It was enough for the thing that had marked me to deepen it's hold, but not enough for it to claim me completely. That came later. Instead I was dragged into the Web’s games.

“His name was Hannibal Lecter, and he became my father. If it’s a manipulation of the Web for me to think so, I don’t really care. He did do that, of course. It’s in the nature of those who weave. But he cared for me, cocooned me in safety, for a given value of the word. Of course, I was simply a pawn in a game to get him what he really wanted.

“The F.B.I. agent who killed my dad was like me, marked. But the one who held claim on him had more of an influence. I think he would have happily gone through the rest of his life being a conduit and repository of fear if Hannibal hadn’t caught him in his machinations. The Web is always interested in what the Eye does, after all.

“Will didn’t know what Hannibal was. Anything of what he was, really. Remember how I said I’d met more serial killers than most? Hannibal was one as well, and fairly prolific. The Web’s influence helped, letting him make horrific displays that fed it and let him express himself. That same influence let him blind Will to the fact. Not that he needed to do much, other than let Will’s brain cook itself. I’m not sure when he decided to let him live, but I played a part in what came next.

“Hannibal took my ear with my permission. Or, at least, as much permission as the Web needs. We faked my death and framed Will for it. Then he left me to my own devices in a house by the sea. He told me that when the time was right, I would come back and meet him and Will. That we would leave and go somewhere far away to be a family.

“It was a lie, of course. A pretty lie, but a lie nonetheless. Or maybe it wasn’t. I’ll have to ask Hannibal when I see him again.

“It always comes down to choices. And Will chose to stand against Hannibal. He saw the manipulations, the cocoon that Hannibal had put him in, and chose not to become what he wanted. It made him angry. You probably think that monsters can’t get angry, but they were human once. And under everything, they still are. It just depends on how much they want to acknowledge it.

“I asked Hannibal how he would kill me once. He said he would slit my throat like my father had. And he did. He severed me from his web; the same hands that had saved my life, ending it. And I felt the same fear. I didn't want to die. I wanted to live.

“Will tried to save me, but Hannibal had gutted him. The last thing I saw was myself reflected in his eyes. And my life Ended.

“I don’t remember making my choice. Of giving myself over to the power that had claimed me. I know that I made the choice. And so I woke up in a body bag, my own blood caked across my face and clothes, breath rattling in lungs that did not need it.

“I’m still not sure how I got out of the morgue without someone screaming about a dead girl returning to life. There wasn’t ever any news coverage about someone stealing my body from the morgue. I do know that the grave that bears my name is empty; they held a closed casket funeral to hide the fact that they don’t know what happened to my body. I wouldn’t be surprised if they think Hannibal took it. I hope no one ever asks him about it. I want to surprise him.

“That’s part of the reason I came here. He’s up to his games again, from what I’ve seen, and he’s dragged Will back into it as well. So I wanted to leave them a message. I’ll be on the Silver Coast, waiting for them. For as long as it may be until we see each other again.”

Jon blinked, his eyes losing the manic need that had filled them during her statement. Abigail watched as he seemed to sink into himself, a pall of weariness weighing down his limbs. Despite it there was a brightness to his complexion, as if he had just spent the day lazing in the sun.

“Statement ends,” he said. The tape recorder clicked off, leaving their breathing as the only sound in the room.

“Thank you,” she said.

“You’re of the End, then?”

“Yes.”

“You’re not what I would have expected,” Jon said.

Abigail shrugged. “We can’t all be grim reapers and shambling corpses. Do you need anything else for the statement?”

“No, I think you’ve given us enough details. Not that it would be easy to follow up on, considering.”

“Kind of hard to explain talking to a dead girl?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve talked with the dead. You seem more at peace than some of the others.”

“I’ve had time to get used to it.”

“Yes, I imagine so. Do you need help finding your way out?”

“I actually need to go speak with Mr. Bouchard. Could you direct me to his office?”

“Um, yes,” Jon said. He looked perturbed at her question, but she imagined he wanted her out of his domain as soon as possible. “Up the stairs, past Artifact Storage, then take the stairs to your left and it will be on the second landing. You can’t miss it.”

“I’ll leave you be, then.”

Abigail stood up from her chair and opened the door. Four sets of eyes looked up as she left the office, with Martin getting up from his desk as she walked past. She heard him say something to Jon as she exited the Archives. Unlike when she had entered, the doors to Artifact Storage were open, with what looked like a few people examining pieces on long tables. Following the instructions Jon had given her, she went up two flights of stairs. As she began to walk across to the door marked Head of the Magnus Institute, it opened.

“Ms. Hobbs,” Mr. Bouchard said. “Please, come in. I do believe we have matters to discuss.”

[justkeeptrekkin]

Saturday mornings

Anyone want some domestic Jonmartin?

***

Jon wakes up in his own bed, alone. 

This is normal enough. In fact, this is just the way he likes it. He has never been good at sharing beds, struggling enough with insomnia without another person radiating body heat and taking up room. And yet, this morning, something about the empty left hand side doesn’t feel quite right. 

First of all, he’s sure he didn’t go to bed alone.

Second of all, he smells something cooking. 

And, last but not least, there is pop music playing from the other side of the door. 

Perhaps it’s a testament to how much he’s been through these past two years that he scrabbles upright in bed, giving himself headrush. The alarm that used to shoot through his stomach and up his throat, now replaced by something more calm and alert. Time and experience has taught him to expect the worst and act quickly. No time to panic. 

And then he remembers. 

It’s the backpack by his chest of drawers. Seeing that brings his floating, anxious mind back into his body again. The zip is open, a t-shirt pooling out. Jon looks to the left side of the bed; a small divet, wrinkles in the sheets like layers of cake batter. A glasses case left open, a mug left empty. 

“Martin,” he sighs.

He came over last night, didn’t he? He wasn’t alone last night, neither of them were. Not anymore. 

Ah, yes. He’d slept poorly last night. He knows this because of the groggy feeling that clogs his throat, the heaviness of his eyelids. A couple of hours sleep at most, whilst Martin had snored gently beside him. He’d been so careful not to get in Jon’s way, not to take up too much space, not to accidentally touch him whilst Jon tried to sleep. Considerate to the point of making him feel horribly guilty, guilty enough that he’d pulled Martin into a cuddle at roughly two o’clock in the morning. 

Which explains why he feels all clammy. Winter pyjamas and warm Martins make an uncomfortably warm Jon. 

Leaning against the head of the bed, he casts his gaze about the small pieces of evidence that show Martin’s presence. The contact lens case on the chest of drawers. The bottle of Irn Bru he’d brought with him, half finished, sat beside the backpack. Jon lets out a long, luxurious breath; listens to the music drifting from the kitchen-living room. 

Aaaaand that was Kim Petras with Heart to Break. What a classic. Next up we’ve got a bit of Carly Rae Jepson, because who doesn’t want some Carly Rae in their life on a Saturday morning? We’re taking calls at the moment, we want to know what you’re making for breakfast today. What’s your weekend morning treat-?

The only reason Jon had bought a radio is because Daisy has successfully hooked him on The Archers (he refuses to admit this to anyone but her). It’s been a long time indeed since he’s listened to a station that plays music. Pop music, for that matter. And he can’t say he’s totally enjoying Carly Rae Jepson, even if the BBC presenter seems to think that’s an option. But then there’s the sound of Martin tunelessly singing along, and that - well, that more than makes up for it, doesn’t it? 

Jon pulls himself out of bed. Rubs his groggy face. Opens the bedroom door. 

Is it the Archivist in him that makes him linger there and watch? Is it the Beholding that hums through his veins and neurons that keeps him leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed in front of his chest? Or is it simply Jonathan Sims, a man in love, watching his partner with a subconscious smile on his lips?

Martin, with a whisk and a bowl in the crook of his elbow. Martin, with steam drifting around him seconds before the kettle clicks. Martin, in an old band t-shirt and boxers, nodding along and humming poorly to pop music. 

In Jon’s kitchen. 

Back turned to Jon, now wielding a spatula like a microphone and shimmying with a bit more enthusiasm now. At this point, it seems a bit cruel to watch without making his presence known.

Quietly, so as not to frighten him, he steps towards Martin. He puts his arms around his waist and moves to rest his chin on his shoulder, vision obscured by curls of dark hair--

“Ah!”

Spatula, dropped, with a clatter in the sink. Jon, elbowed. Squarely in the ribs.

“Christ-!”

“Jon! I didn’t- oh, God, I’m so sorry, are you-?”

“I’m fine,” he wheezes, bent over. 

“I just- you really snuck up on me!”

“It was supposed to be sort of romantic.”

“You scared the absolute bejesus out of me, Jon.”

Hard to deny that, with the blossoming bruise in his flank. “Yep.”

“Are you OK? I’m so, so, so sorry. That, that genuinely would have been really adorable if… if, you know-”

“I hadn’t crept up silently,” Jon agrees with growing amusement, leaning a hand against the fridge door.

“And if, you know, we weren’t both so traumatised that we jump at seeing a fly land on the windowsill.”

“Mm.”

“Oh, God. Jon. I’m-”

“Stop, stop, I’m fine.” He laughs. He doesn’t know why. Laughing is a thing he does with Martin, sometimes. It’s a quiet, knowing sound. A blink and you miss it laugh, but Martin never seems to miss it. He smiles back at him when Jon continues, “Am I safe to make another attempt?”

“Yes. Please.”

Martin opens up his arms, and Jon finds himself where he’s found himself a lot these days: head nestled under Martin’s chin, arms around his back, leaning into his gentle body. Martin smells like nights in with a cup of tea. 

“Oh.” Martin steps back, keeping a hand on Jon’s arm. Twisting towards the stove, he turns it off, manages to flip a pancake onto its other side. Then, giving Jon one of those heart-breakingly earnest smiles: “I’m making breakfast!”

“You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to.”

“One of these days, Martin,” he says, voice quietly teasing whilst pouring water into their mugs, “do you think you might let me look after you? Make it up to you after all the years you’ve dragged me to the cafeteria and made me tea?” He snorts. “Jon, I think you’ve made up for it by saving the world, and also me.” He casts a mischievous glance. “Nothing hotter than your boyfriend saving your life from evil worm monsters.”

Jon sighs, shakes his head. He will never understand. “I’ll take your word for it.”

The sound of London life calls through the windows. The radio mixes with it, a synth-falsetto over the grumbles of the traffic. The sofa fits them both like they designed it themselves, for Martin’s legs on Jon’s lap and enough room to balance plates. 

“Besides,” Martin says, after some time. Jon wipes a fleck of Nutella from his cheek. “Thanks. Anyway, it’s not about… owing each other. I like making breakfast for you. For us both. I think we both deserve a pile of pancakes and Nutella every now and then, don’t you?”

Now probably isn’t the time to mention that he prefers lemon and sugar on his pancakes. “Yes. I suppose you’re right.”

[beholdme]

All the Many Shades of Gerry - Chapter 9

Chapters: 9/19

Fandom: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Gerard Keay/Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood/Gerard Keay, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist, Gerard Keay/Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist

Characters: Martin Blackwood, Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist, Gerard Keay, Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives), Sasha James, Gertrude Robinson, Elias Bouchard

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, Library AU, Librarian Jon, Artist Gerry, Trans Male Character, Trans Martin Blackwood, Canon Asexual Character, Asexual Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist, Ace Subtype - Sex Positive, Polyamory, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Romantic Fluff, Falling In Love, Boys in Skirts, Kissing, Demisexual Gerard Keay, Minor Character Death, Past Character Death, Canon-Typical Child Neglect, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Flirting, Minor Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker, Adventures in Hair Dying, Happy Ending, Banter, Gerry has a lot of sass, Gerard Keay is Morticia Adams, Jon is a very grumpy Librarian, Martin adores them anyway.

Summary: In which Gerry is a kaleidoscope and Jon and Martin can’t help falling in love with him.

He happens to love them back.

Find it on Ao3

[1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8]

On a Tuesday in the middle of November, not long after Gerry's 28th birthday, the three of them eat dinner at Gerry's flat, as they often do these days. Jon cooks for them and after, Martin and Gerry wash the dishes and debate the book they both just finished reading.

Jon has been twitchy all evening, so they leave him to read his own book in peace.

He wanders in at one point, leaning against the counter. "Gerry, do you know what day it is?"

Gerry looks over at him in such a way as to indicate that he really doesn't.

"Our six-month anniversary?" He tries.

"No," Martin pipes up, "That's not for weeks yet."

Jon and Gerry both look at him askance. "What? Your boyfriend starts dating another man, you remember the date. I can't believe you two don't know." Martin says as if that about covers it.

"Nevermind that." Jon snaps, and even with his previous moodiness, the others are taken aback at his blunt words and even harsher tone.

"Something wrong, Jon?" Gerry asks quietly, leaning against the opposite counter to Jon and crossing his arms. His tone suggests what he actually wanted to say was 'Do we have a problem here, bitch?' but he manages to reign the actual words in.

"I want to know why you left without saying goodbye." Jon's words are filled with a multitude of frustrations, none of which are actually conveyed in his limited words.

"Yesterday?" Gerry asks, incredulous. "You were asleep!"

"No! Not yesterday." Jon snaps back. "When we were younger. It's been ten years today since you disappeared off the face of the planet."

"Oh," Gerry responds quietly, his defensive posture dropping. He leans his hands back on the table behind him, bringing his shoulders up around his ears. It’s a rare display of confident, edgy Gerry trying to shrink himself.

"I thought we were, you know. Together. Then one day you were just gone! As if you had never existed. Your mother wouldn't tell me anything at all, just sat there smirking at me, said that you were gone and she didn't know when you were coming back, or if you were ever coming back. Which you never did, actually." Jon has been pacing, his voice rising with each new word until the final words are shouted accusatorily into the space between them.

Gerry knew Jon had wanted to talk about this since the day he walked in the library and back into his life. He had waited, been patient, and Gerry had put it off in the hopes that he would never have to choke the words out. Now, that patience was obviously over, and he knew he owed Jon this explanation.

"We were together Jon. I loved you."

"So why? What did I do so wrong, that I got to wake up one day and find you gone ?" Jon's voice has become desperate, and they can all hear the tears that he is trying to hold back.

"Don't say that. You didn't do anything wrong. We weren't perfect, but we were always so good together. I... I had to get out of there. And I couldn't leave any clues behind, so I couldn't tell you anything, because it wouldn't have been safe for either of us." Gerry reaches towards Jon to soothe him, but he flinches away and Gerry doesn't pursue him.

"I don't understand." The tears have come, and Gerry desperately tries to hold back his own when he sees them.

Martin had up until that point been standing resolutely in the corner, trying not to interfere in their pre-Martin argument. At the advent of tears, Martin moves to stand at Jon's back, gripping his shoulder for comfort. Gerry looks bereft and Martin holds out a hand to get him to come closer as well. They huddle all together, both Jon and Gerry taking comfort in Martin's steadiness.

Gerry leans into Jon, sliding his hand around his neck and pressing their foreheads together. "I'm so sorry, love. I've never forgiven myself for just disappearing on you. I thought about you every day."

"I love you," Jon whispers as Martin rocks them both gently. "But I need to know."

"I love you too." Gerry shuts his eyes and wishes more than ever to erase his shitty legacy of pain and blood.

*

Martin drags them to bed and offers to leave them alone to their talk.

"Please stay," Gerry says, grasping his hand. "You both need to know, and I don't want to have to talk through this twice."

So they all pile into Gerry's bed together, sitting in a vague circle like teenagers at a slumber party.

As Gerry starts to talk, Martin drags him over toward him and begins braiding his dark blue hair. It's both an offer of physical comfort and affection (easily Gerry's main love language) and a simple way of letting him off the hook for eye contact.

With Jon staring at him quite intently, Martin doesn't think he needs any further pressure.

"Jon, you-" He starts and then halts abruptly. Jon reaches over and grasps his hand, attempting to further ground him. "You remember my mother. I know you saw how, how just off she was. Manipulative and controlling. By turns demanding and completely uninterested in me. One day I would be free to run wild for weeks at a time, the next she would have a meltdown if I wasn't exactly where she wanted me, every second of the day and night." Gerry blows a breath out, shuddering at the memory of a particularly bad incident with a vase that had left him needing several stitches over his left eye.

"Well, she wasn't always like that. I remember her being a pretty good mom when I was young, if distant. She was always far more interested in being a wife than a mother, and she loved the way my father adored her.

“When I was 7, my father was blinded in an accident at work. I remember the day the phone call came. She spoke very calmly to the hospital, before hanging up the phone and shattering every picture frame in the house." Martin is finished with Gerry's hair and simply leans into him, offering silent comfort. "He coped okay with his new disability actually, and I liked helping him learn the world again with no sight. My mother never recovered from her initial breakdown though. She was angry and petulant that she needed to help and support him for the first time in their entire relationship and became more and more unhinged over the course of a year.

"One day I came home from school to find a puddle of blood soaked into the floor of the living room. She said there had been an accident and my father wasn't coming back. She hit me for the first time when I cried. She told me that I was a man now, and tears were for useless girls and disgusting… Well, you get the picture."

Gerry pauses and glances between them. A few tears have started to run down his face, but he doesn't seem to even notice them.

"We moved a few days later, and that was all I ever knew about my father's death until I was eighteen, almost ten years later. I'll spare you the horrid details, but as I'm sure you've already guessed, she murdered him. She explained very, very graphically what she had done with the body, and that she would never be caught, no one would ever think to blame her, even if anyone could ever prove that he was dead at all."

The words hang heavy in the air between the three of them. Gerry feels the comfort of their touches, but can hardly stand the affection anymore. He gets up off the bed and goes to look out the bedroom window, arms crossed and posture hard.

"Then she looked me right in the eye. And she told me that was exactly what would happen to Jon if she ever caught me with him again."

Dead, cold silence fills the room.

Gerry turns back around to find them both watching him. "So, I packed whatever I could fit into my duffle bag, and I got the hell out of dodge. I ran. I ran because I couldn't close my eyes at night with seeing your face white and cold and covered in blood and," he breaks off and takes a shuddering breath, covering his eyes and sinking to his knees. "And I couldn't stand that she would hurt you because of me. That all your light and potential would be ripped away from you in blood and pain and nothing I felt for you could make even the risk of that worthwhile."

He lifts his head to look up at them, where they’ve moved to the side of the bed towards him. “And do you want to know what the worst part is, actually? I can’t get over the idea that even though I haven’t seen Mary Keay in 10 years, the ghost of her demons lives inside of me. That I'm really just… Her. That one day my mind will snap and I'll be a danger to you both and I'll be the one hurting you, just like she hurt him. And then I'll just be the same monster who has always haunted my dreams."

Martin and Jon exchange a heavy look. They can scarcely believe that Gerry had endured so much and yet is still… Gerry. Happy, flirtatious, loving Gerry. Gerry, who fills their lives with colour and spontaneity, always showing up when they least expected him, pushing himself into their gravity and asking for space in their lives.

Despite the rather violent nature of Gerry's confession, it doesn't change anything for either of them. Things are not yet settled between them, but they curl around Gerry on the floor and they cry together over shattered innocence and sacrificed futures, and Jon promises himself that he will never let Mary Keay come between him and Gerry ever again.

[janekfan]

aah i just sent this prompt but tumblr told me it didn't send so if it sent twice ignore this!! so prompt: how about early s2, where jon is pulling away a bit but the others are concerned about it more than angry, getting a horrific migraine. like "has to leave a team meeting early" horrific. and the others know he wants to be left alone and try to respect it, but eventually they can't just ignore it anymore. <3 if you don't like this i can try again!

Oof, migraines. Amiright??? This is based on a personal experience of mine I had in college :D

My whole floor thought I was dying and almost dragged me to the hospital.

Thank you @taylortut as always for giving me such great ideas! :D

Looking back, Jon felt incredibly foolish.

Insisting that he could persist through his day without taking medication for headaches when it resulted in the same outcome every time was the very definition of insanity.

But, in his flimsy defense, they never started out badly and he got so caught up in his work that by the time he realized what was happening, it was far, far too late to do anything but suffer it out until it ended. Which is how he found himself here, now, nearly completely blind in his right eye while Elias droned on about workplace safety and considering recent events it seemed laughably mundane because yes, back strain from lifting incorrectly certainly outweighed a sentient worm queen trying to devour your assistants.

Filled with a desperate desire to rub away the disorientating blind spot, Jon let his focus slip over his employees.

Tim: bored. Not doing anything to hide it and Jon supposed he was at fault for that too, because he was certainly not paying Elias any mind.

Sasha: attentive. Most likely thinking of something else entirely while she nodded along to the lecture notes at the appropriate places.

Martin: engrossed. Despite his suspicions, mostly due to the constant checking in with him about how he was feeling, and really, maybe that was on him because maybe that’s what coworkers did after bravely surviving an onslaught of supernatural entities together. Despite them, he found it. Pleasant? Pleasant. That he would commit the effort to pay such careful attention.

Jon: quickly realizing this meeting would not be finished by the time the majority of the pain struck him like an oncoming lorry. By his estimations, based on when he first noticed the aura as a funny spot in his peripheral he tried to see around, he had roughly three minutes left.

Elias continued to endlessly intone while the buzzing lights continued to beat down on him and Jon fought against closing his eyes against them both and their ceaseless stabbing. Two minutes. Probably less and the anxiety which accompanied knowing almost exactly when he was about to be incapacitated rose like a tide and threatened to drag him under. Jon began to shake minutely as the agony manifested like an icepick in the back of his head and spread its grasping, greedy fingers. It took the rest of his very limited restraint to stay silent and keep breathing; shallow and slow, controlled and careful because the nausea was beginning to set in and throwing up during a staff meeting was at the very least, unwise.

But oh he needed somewhere silent, somewhere he could hide in total darkness and not move until he was able to force himself to sleep, to sleep, to sleep because that was the only way he’d found to make it through to the other side.

“Jon?” He was standing, blinking unevenly, fighting with himself and his desire to shield his face with both hands. The sound of his name was too loud. So loud and the murmuring of the others in the room created a beautiful sensory nightmare and if they knew his head was about to split open would they really be speaking so loudly? Doubtful. Martin. Martin wouldn’t at least.

“I’m leaving.” Inadequate, but he didn’t have the wherewithal to elaborate even if in his right mind he wouldn’t. And this wasn’t even the worst of it.

Each step was a rung up the ladder of agony and he’d taken to trailing a hand against the wall, not trusting his quickly dwindling balance and equilibrium. Rudely, without his express permission, a sob snuck past his clenched teeth and he just had to make it down the stairs, into the archives. Into the dark. The cot was still in document storage and the room would be dim and quiet and he could sleep. Please, let him sleep. Trembling so badly he could barely work the door handle, desperation doing its level best to claw its way through his ribcage, Jon began to panic. Gently, gently, gently, he closed the door behind him, trying to breathe because not breathing would make it worse. The buttons at his throat were so tight, the vest, while comfortable this morning was strangling him and he fought his way out of it like a tiger before all but tearing open his collar.

Sh. Shh. You’re alright. Shaky. Ill. But alright and you will be alright. Jon collapsed to the cot, sighing at the momentary relief laying down provided but there was still so much light and it was like glass behind his eyes even though they were closed as tightly as he dared close them. The blanket that had been left behind was very contradictory, too much and not nearly enough, and when it brushed the bare skin of his arms it felt like sandpaper but he wanted more of it. More weight so he could relax without feeling as though he was going to drift away because who even knew which way was up anymore? If he hadn’t left the meeting, he could’ve asked.

Don’t cry. Do. Not. Jonathan Sims. It made it worse, so much worse so he kept his tears trapped behind a false calm. Each time he’d thought he would die from one of these or at the very least prefer it and each time he woke the next day groggy and sore and exhausted, useless for anything except more sleep. He dropped his glasses on the floor, hugged his middle with one arm and threw the other over his face.

Please, please, please.

Just go to sleep.

“I’ll thank the rest of you for continued attention.” Martin nodded absently, worried. Jon didn’t just walk out of meetings. And he’d been so pale, rubbing his temple and wincing. A bad headache? He got those sometimes.

Didn’t like to be bothered about them either.

He caught Tim staring at him over the table, done with his paperclip sculpture for now it seemed, and he nodded just slightly toward the door with a questioning look. Martin just shrugged discreetly, now too distracted to pay attention to whatever Elias deemed important enough to waste their time with after an attack on the archives. Needless to say, the rest of the hour passed excruciatingly slow and as soon as they were released, Martin headed straight for Jon’s office, momentarily confused when it was empty.

“Not there?” Martin shook his head and Tim frowned in concern. “The cot? Maybe he needed a lie down?”

“You’re probably right.”

“Still strange.” He nodded in agreement, already headed to check, knocking quietly on the worn wood.

“Jon?” Martin swore he heard something suspiciously like a whimper before his voice floated through the door.

“Yes, Martin?” It was strange, off, wavery? The tail end of a gasping breath.

“You just, you left in such a hurry.” He’d give anything to open the door and see for himself. “Are you feeling well?”

“I’m. Yes, Martin, I’m, I’m alright.” Jon was many things, a good liar was not one of them, but he was the type to lick his wounds alone, preferring not to show any vulnerability and Martin would respect it. “Bit tired.”

“Okay, I’ll. Check on you in a bit then. Bring some tea.”

“Yes, alright.” Despite his worry, Martin smiled at the tiny familiar spark of frustration.

When Martin spoke his voice seemed to echo in the hollows of Jon’s bones, reverberating into his head and only exacerbating the throbbing pain, not even really aware of what he was saying, just trying to get him to go away so he could be as still as possible in silence. The more he moved, the more it felt like his stomach was trying to turn inside out and the fear of moving, of being sick, of causing himself more hurt, made tears sting at the corners of his eyes, made him itch where they slipped down his face.

If it would just stop for a moment. If he could just fall asleep. Calm down. Stand to have anything against his skin right now.

He wanted to be alone and not be alone. Wanted Martin or Tim or Sasha to, to, he didn’t know, just wanted. The strange disconnect from his physical body was maddening, confusing, and he wanted so badly for it to please stop.

When Martin looked up, Sasha was so close to his desk he startled. He hadn’t heard her but she looked worried.

“I don’t think Jon is feeling very well.”

“I don’t think so either.”

“He’s been in there all day.” Tim joined them. “Maybe we should check on him again?” Martin looked at the clock. It had been hours since he’d talked to him and he had yet to reappear.

“You’re probably right.” This time, it was definitely a hurting sound and Martin decided it was for Jon’s own good to let himself in. He’d only just recovered from Prentiss, what if the stress had made him ill? “Jon?” He was curled into himself on the cot, clothes in disarray, vest discarded and half the blanket piled atop his face. When the door closed, Jon clapped his hand over his ear, the other tangled into his button down so tight Martin was afraid he’d pop the buttons. “You’re shaking.”

“Mmartin…” the barest exhale, pleading. “S’loud…so...so loud…”

“Okay, okay, what’s wrong?” He knelt beside him, resting his hand over Jon’s. “How can I help?”

“Jus’...jus’ need t’sleep.” Shuddering, his breath caught, was released, uneven, fast, gasping. “Can’t.” He decided at that moment that sound should never come from Jon again, not if ever he could help it and the fingers that had been digging into his greying hair were now clutching Martin’s.

“Okay. I’m coming back.” Jon seemed to collapse inward like a star and it was hard to leave him but he’d seen migraines before and it had been hours since what he guessed was the onset. “Tim, do you have any paracetamol?”

“What’s wrong?”

“Jon’s not well, of course.”

“Figures.”

“This time I really think it wasn’t his fault. These things sometimes come on suddenly.” Tim grumbled, digging through his desk and heading with Martin to the breakroom for some water, waiting while he brewed a strong black tea.

“He gets a pass. One time, Martin. This one time.” While the tea cooled Martin retrieved a few cloths from the drawer and a bowl of water.

“He needs quiet. Everything is really overwhelming right now. A lot of input and nowhere for it to go.”

“You’re the boss, Marto.” With a jaunty salute, Tim followed, staying calm and quiet, kneeling down to Jon’s level before whispering a greeting. “Hey. Gonna get you fixed right up.”

“Nnng…okay.”

“Jon? We’re going to help you sit up.” With no refusal forthcoming, Tim and Martin shared a look of alarm before lifting him as though he were made of spun glass and he buried his face in Martin’s soft, well worn jumper. “Good, Jon.” Martin pressed his palm against his forehead and found it cold and a little clammy, his clothes clung slightly with sweat and it seemed like he had trouble coordinating his limbs.

“Hur’s…” trembling, his muscles spasmed randomly, and Tim had to help hold his hand steady enough for a dose of paracetamol while Martin followed quickly with the bitter tea, washing the taste away with a sip of water.

“Okay, love. Doing such a good job. Almost done.” More tears. He went to nod, instead ending up with his head hanging, neck too tired to hold it up any longer and Martin eased him back down onto the pillow. “Let me know if this is too much.” He wrung out a flannel and smoothed it over his eyes, pleased when Jon groaned in slight relief. Tim stroked his hair, soft and slow, and together they waited, watched his shivering gradually stop and his breath deepen into sleep.

Sasha met them outside the door and Martin stepped further down the hall, just in case they were loud enough to wake him.

“Well?”

“He’s asleep, bad migraine.” Martin winced in sympathy, “and hopefully he’ll sleep through until morning.”

“That’s a relief.” Collectively, they agreed. Jon had been under a lot of pressure lately and while he’d never been one to confide in them often even those moments were becoming rare

Jon felt heavy, tired and slow, and when Martin opened the door with a mug of tea in one hand and a plate of toast in the other, he reasoned that he hadn’t dreamt the entirety of the day previous. Which meant he did sit through most of Elias’ dry speech about safety.

Embarrassing. To have walked out like that.

“Martin.” The memory of gentle hands and a soft voice made him flush.

“Jon, how’re you feeling?”

“Better, uh, much better. Thank you.” Sitting up was only somewhat a chore, the dizziness faded into the background for the most part. The fogginess was expected and would last a few days but for now he accepted the tea graciously, eyed the toast suspiciously, and settled on another round of painkillers and a few mouthfuls until he thought he might be pushing it. “Thank you, Martin.” He’d been in a bad way and at his wit’s end before he and Tim essentially rescued him. Passing back the empty mug and setting the remaining toast aside, Jon decided he deserved a lie in especially considering he was in that fragile inbetween where turning his head too fast would trigger another one. “If you see Tim before me, would you pass on my gratitude?”

“‘Course I will” Martin retrieved the dishes and turned back before closing the door. “Sleep well, Jon.”

[thiswasinevitableid]

“On the Edge”verse - Stern and Barclay act out a scene where Stern, trying to hide that he’s a Sylph, shows up in Barclay’s, a famous cryptozoologist who is trying to find and document the werewolf, room late at night to intimidate him into leaving town. He tells Barclay that he is an FBI agent undercover at the lodge and that having any kind of reporter could jeopardize his mission. Barclay tells him to fuck off and things get heated, Stern accidentally gets revealed as the werewolf and tries another method of intimidation. NSFW, please

Here you go! For folks who want to know, On the Edge is my reverse AU. You can read this as a standalone as long as you know that Barclay is a human cook and amateur cryptid hunter and Stern is a Sylph.  Barclay is trans, and has had top surgery and phallo.

“What would you’ve done if I made it back and shared that footage I got of you?” Barclay asks from his favorite spot in the world; laid out on his boyfriends furry torso, watching him try to do a crossword puzzle without tearing the pages on his claws.

“After Mama read me the riot act, I would have tried to get it back from you before you could put it online.”

“You realize it woulda looked hella suspicious if the Lodge Manager was suddenly trying to get me to turn over my camera. Or, like, snooping in my room.”

“Hmmm” Joseph sets the puzzle book and pen aside, scratching Barclay’s back lightly through his shirt, “I would have come up with a cover story. I’m not bad at those.”

“Babe, I love you, but you’re one of the worst actors I’ve ever met.”

“That’s in roleplay. Cover stories are different; I’m me, but in a different context. I could have pretended to be an FBI Agent, for instance.”

“Oh fuck that’s hot.” Barclay groans.

“Yeah? In that case, big guy,  I have an idea...”

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

Joseph adjusts his tie, smooths down his lapels, and knocks on the door. A click-thunk of the deadbolt and it swings open, revealing his favorite Lodge resident. Barclay is a lumberjack pin-up come to life, complete with short beard and a fondness for plaid. He’s gentle to a fault, an amazing cook, and taller than Stern (when he’s human, of course). His size features frequently in the unhelpful part of Sterns brain dedicated to fantasizing about his future mate.

“Hey, you’re up kinda late.” Barclay smiles at him. His auburn hair is tied back, his thick, blue bathrobe tied tight, and for a moment Stern is tongue-tied.

When he collects himself, he crowds the other man back into the room, “It’s because something important has come up.”

“Do you have a sec before you get into it? I have something I gotta show you. You know how I’ve been on the trail of those werewolf sightings? I finally got lucky and got footage of it. An honest to god werewolf, Joseph, can you believe it.”

“Yes” he says, grimly, “that’s why I’m here. I, um, haven’t been honest with you. I’m not just the manager here at Amnesty. I’m an FBI agent with the department of Unexplained Phenomenon, and I’ve been investigating the strange goings-on in Kepler for years.”

“But...but that’s great! We can work together, with my footage and your resources, we could finally prove the existence of cryptids.” Barclay grabs his arms, beaming.

Joseph shrugs them off, “No, it’s not good at all. Barclay, I’ve dedicated my life to this mission. Any kind of publicity could put it all at risk, and that is not something I will allow. Which is why” he holds out his hand, “you’re going to give me the footage.”

Barclay balks, “Like hell I am. You wanna talk about life’s work? Half my profession thinks I’m crazy, and I’ve spent years wandering around every fucking backwater town, chasing every half-baked, wild-ass lead in hopes of finding the truth. This footage is it, it’s everything I’ve worked for, and no one is taking it from me.”

“If you don’t hand it over, I’ll charge you with interference in goverment business.”

“Fucking try it.” Barclay brings them toe to toe, glaring down at him, “the man in black shit’s never scared me.”

“It should. I know you’ve heard theories about what we do to people who know too much, and some of them are true.”

“I thought you were better than this, Joseph. I thought you were on my side.”

“I could be, if you cooperate. I don’t want to do this, any of this, but my mission is to valuable to let you post that video.”

Brown eyes dart towards the cookie-cutter dresser, the same one in each room of the lodge. Atop this one is a SIM card. Joseph is just a little faster than Barclay, grabbing the card the instant before the taller man grabs him.

“Get your hands off me!’

“Give me back my fucking stuff!”

Joseph pushes off the dresser, nearly sending them both to the floor, “No, I have it, it’s goverment property now!”

A laugh that Barclay just manages to cover with a growl, “That’s not how that works, asshole!”

“Face facts Barclay, the footage is mine, and I’m going to get rid of it.”

Barclay grabs his wrist, twisting it to try and free the card, “Over my dead fucking body!”

Joseph shoves him away, discovers two things at once: Barclay has the card, and his enchanted bracelet is on the floor. The suit rips as reality shifts, black fabric hanging, tattered, as the tie snaps and drops onto the rug.

“Hah!” Barclay’s eyes are on the plastic square in his palm. It’s not until he hears the growl that he glances up, “fuck!”

“Over your dead body?” Joseph bares his teeth, “that can be arranged.”

Barclay stumbles backwards, too focused on the werewolf stalking towards him to watch his step. His knees catch the edge of the bed and he falls onto it with a yelp. Keeps crawling, as if the headboard and wall will just dissolve when he hits them, rather than trap him. Or maybe he’s planning to hide under the cover. Joseph doesn’t really care, his plan allows for plenty of contingencies.

“You, you’re the one. The wolf in the video.”

“That’s right.” He reaches out, plucks the card from Barclays fingers. Waits until he’s watching to snap it in half and toss the pieces into the trash, “hmm, that was much easier. Maybe I should have started with this plan. I avoided it due to the downsides.”

“Like?” Barclay is gradually flattening against the headboard.

“Like the fact that if you know the whole truth about me, I can’t let you leave.”

“Joseph, please-”

“I didn’t want to do this, but you didn’t leave me much choice.”

“I’m gonna call for help, someone’ll hear me-”

“Everyone at the Lodge knows the truth about me, knows I’m getting that footage tonight. They won’t come to help you, not matter what they hear through the walls.” He snarls, grabbing Barclay’s ankles and yanking him flat on his back. Fear spikes though the air, sharp and acid in his nose. The sweeter scent of arousal floats behind it. He ignores that part; it must be coming from another room.

“I’ll be quick, I promise.”

Barclay pulls a pillow protectively across his chest, “Wait! T-there’s a duplicate if the video. I burned it to another drive just in case. If, if you kill me, it’ll always be out there, waiting for someone to find it.”

Joseph cocks his head, “That does put us at an impasse.”

“If you promise not to hurt me, I’ll give it to you AHgod” He whimpers as Joseph crawls up his body, nudging the robe open with his snout as he scents the arousal once more. It’s undoubtedly coming from the man under him.

He drags his tongue up Barclay’s throat, grips his chin to force him to keep it exposed as he snuffles and licks at it, “That’s fair. And I have a further, um, incentive for you. You” he growls low in Barclay’s ear, chuckles when he squirms, “monsterfucker.”

“Do you mean you’ll, uh” his voice creeps up an octave, “fuck me? Like, fuck me fuck me?”

“Yes, needy boy, it does.”

“Drive’s in the bottom of my suitcase, in the trick bottom of the black pair of boots.”

Joseph laughs, “That didn’t take long. I’ll deal with it later.” He flips Barclay onto his stomach with ease, “right now I have a handsome human to handle.”

“Yes, fuck, please handle me babe, please. Wanted you to touch me for months.” Barclay flails his robe off.

“Yeah?” Joseph ghosts his claws up and down the human’s sides, “does the werewolf thing add to that desire?”

“Yes” the blush spreads up his back, “I just, I want you so bad Joseph, in any form, every form.”

“Was that what you were thinking of when you put this in?” Joseph presses his thumb down on the blue, silicone plug nestled in Barclays’ ass.

“Look, jerking off to you is an important part of my nightly routine.”

“I do love a man with a schedule.” He squeezes his ass in both hands, admiring the pinpricks of red from his claws. Barclay whimpers, pushes his hips up as Joseph goes for another handful.

“I see someone likes to be submissive.”

“Fuck yeah, wanna be held down, roughed up, wanna do what I’m told.”

“Oh? Does this fit the bill?” Joseph blankets himself over the human, letting him feel how he dwarfs him.

“Uhhuh, fuck, fuck that’s so fucking hot.”

The werewolf noses the base of his neck, draws his lips back to bite it. It doesn’t break the skin, but it clearly communicates that Barclay cannot get away unless Joseph allows it. It’s rude, an inelegant sign of dominance over a partner, but Barclay has not been well-behaved tonight. And from the sounds spilling out of his chest, he likes the threat of teeth on tender skin.

Joseph rolls his hips, grinding until his cock perks up. As soon as it bumps him, Barclay reaches off the side of the bed, retrieving a bottle of lube from the bedside table.

“Glad you have a large bottle. We’re going to need it.” He works the plug out, hums approvingly when he finds it on the larger end. Dumps a handful of lube onto his cock, trying not to think of how much laundry this will all generate.

“On your knees and raise your hips. Good boy.” He works the tip in, Barclay moaning the entire time.

“More, I want more, please” the human pushes back, cried out in delight when he gains another inch. Joseph is keenly aware that his tongue is starting to loll out as he watches Barclay spread wider and wider on his cock. It’s been years since he fucked a human this way, and the tight warmth has him panting in no time.

“So, should I, ahfuck, expect your next book to include a chapter on the mating habits of werewolves?” Joseph teases, pulling Barclay’s hair free of it’s tie so he can bury is face in it, scenting him in new ways.

“Y-yeah but it’s, it’s gonnaFUCK, be like a fucking sentence, max, because the other is too busy getting his brains fucked out to research.”

“Why not do both at once?” He grips the human tight, hauls him upright and turns them ninety degrees to face the mirror on the closet door. Barclay takes one look at the clawed hands grabbing his chest and waist and tips his head back to moan loud enough that Joseph’s ears perk up. The fact he just slid another inch down his cock may also be a factor.

“Now” Joseph skates a hand down his tan, hairy belly, stops to tease his cock once before continuing lower, tilting the human so he can clearly see the cock thrusting into him, “you’ll notice that you’re hitting the protoknot. In many instances of sex, it’s the stopping point.”

“Don’t wanna stop, wanna take it” Barclay paws at Josephs arms and thighs.

“I thought you might say that.  I suggest bracing your hands on mine so you’re upper body isn’t thrown about.” He plants his hands on Barclays hips, waits for the human to follow the suggestion. Slowly, he puts more and more downward pressure on that sturdy yet oh-so-fragile frame. At the same time, he pushes his hips up, wiggling them back and forth, side to side, so the knot works in incrementally. Barclay gasps and grunts, holding him so tight that he feels his fingernails through the fur on his hands.

He gives a sharp growl and a final thrust, and bottoms out.

“AHnnnngod”

“I agree.” He dips his head, nipping and mouthing at Barclay’s shoulders. Then he grins, “if you want a sense of scale, look down.”

Barclay does, whimpering when he sees the outline of Josephs’ cock inside him.

“For such a sweet little mate, you can take an awful lot.” He starts on a slow tempo, Barclay reaching down to touch his lower belly.

“Holy shit, that’s wild. I wonder if--uh, b-babe? What’s happening.”

Joseph kisses his cheek, “Remember how I called it a protoknot?”

“It’s gonna get bigger?” There’s a fine line between excitement and hysteria, and Barclays’ voice is riding it.

“Yes. This is a reward, but it’s also insurance against you running off an revealing my existence. Keeping you stuck on my cock all night is an excellent way to keep you from acting on any second thoughts. Mmmmm, oh that’s good” he speeds up, the human bouncing in his lap, “I cannot wait to fill you up. It’s going to take all night and it’s going to be great, you’ll be covered in my marks, stuffed full of my cum, no one will doubt you’re mine.”

Barclay snickers, “Getting territorial on me, blue eyes?”

In reply, Joseph sinks his teeth into his shoulder, the thought of anyone else daring to touch his human, his Barclay, his mate, his love, driving his hips faster and faster until he spills into him, leaving no doubt as to who his ass belongs to.

“FUCKfuck, babe, baby, ohgod” Barclay wriggles, then throws his head back as Joseph closes his fingers around his cock. Turning his face leaves it half-buried in black fur, his breath warm on Josephs upper chest, “yes, that feels so good, please don’t stop, wanna cum, wanna cum on your cock.”

Joseph kisses his head, “You will, good boy, I promise.” He works him over with loving efficiency, growing more protective and affectionate with every moan and whine that Barclay tries to muffle in his chest. When the human cums he bears down and tightens, which Joseph’s body takes as a cue. He cums again as he strokes Barclay through his climax, letting out a satisfied growl at the fact he can already feel his cum starting to pool around the head of his cock.

“You’re so small” He coos, caressing every part of the human he can reach, “you’re already straining to take it. I wonder what state you’ll be in tomorrow morning.”

Barclay raises a clawed hand to his lips, kissing it before rubbing his cheek into the palm, “Only one way to find out.”

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

“Barclay? Are you with me, big guy?” Human fingers card the hair from his face as warm lips kiss his forehead and nose.

“Uh huh. When did I finally conk out?”

“Around three in the morning. I was able to pull out about a half hour later. I toweled off the worst of the mess, but you’ll probably still want a bath.”

He opens his eyes; Joseph, in his X-Files pajamas, smiles at him and then nestles down into his arms, “I already started coffee, and I got you those granola bars you like so you’re not going into your shift too hungry.”

“Thanks, babe.”

”Are you sore?”

“Sitting might be a challenge today, but it was worth it.”

“Need anything?”

He tips his boyfriend’s chin up to kiss him, “Nope. Got what I need right here.”

[dr-imagines-modfuyuhiko]

Reader helps Nagito in his plan to expose the traitor

Came up with this one on my own, just something for you guys to see my style of writing for if you want to request :)

Category: Angst Imagine

Specifics: GN!reader, obviously takes place in chapter 5, reader is Ultimate Actor

Warnings: Gore, swearing

I legit finished this but forgot to save and had to rewrite it all over again-

Nagito had told his lie of planning on blowing the island up. You, of course, saw through his bullshit, there was no way he had more than one bomb from the Ocagon. And he had just used it. So when you had stopped him walking away from the restaurant and confronted him, he let himself take his chances.

The boy had decided to confide in you after a minimal amount of convincing. There was no use in lying to you, especially when his time to execute his plan was limited. He told you what he knew. Absolutely all of it.

He told you how you were all Remnants of Despair, the 78th class’ killing game, Hajime’s “identity crisis”, about Junko Enoshima, everything. He even shared the fact that you had your left eye replaced with Junko’s while some other classmates, including himself, had other body parts.

While his claims were unbelievable at first, you could tell he wasn’t lying. He took you to his cottage and showed you the book he had received in the Octagon and he got some sort of poison. It was insane, yet it explained so much: Mikan’s behavior, Hajime being talentless, the swirls in Nagito’s and Mikan’s eyes when they got despaired, and so much more.

However, with this explanation, you had also gotten a hope/despair rant of how you all deserved to die for being Remnants. And for the first time, you actually agreed with his ideas. This part seemed to shock him slightly before he chuckled and explained what had to happen.

Whilst everyone else was on a wild goose chase for the bombs, the two of you got to work. You were told of the traps he already set up the night prior. He had you tie a spear above him, tie his legs and arm, and finally, made sure no one could hear him through the duct tape. You weren’t completely aware of why he needed that last point, but you guessed you would find out soon.

When leaving the warehouse to “meet up” with the others, his last words before you left had sent chills down your spine;

“Just make sure no one can hear me screaming, Y/n..”

——————

You had finally met up with your classmates just after they left the plushie factory where Nagito set his video message. You discreetly led them to the warehouse, using your talent as a shield of sorts. The domino fire trap had been set off, then they found the grenades in the break room, all according to plan. You made sure to stay back and not throw any of the grenades in case you screwed it up and took the poisoned one.

Once the fire died down, you had entered the next phase of this plan, the part you had to complete alone. You carefully led the group to Nagito’s body, not having to act as the shock of his self-mutilation took over you. Quickly shaking the nerves off best you could, you focused on the rest of the plan. Before you knew it, everyone was in the trial grounds being led by your lies.

That is, until a certain protagonist decides to call you out.

“Y/n, you don’t usually speak up so much during trials,” the boy gulped a bit and suspiciously looked to you. “Especially since you weren’t there until after we found the video.”

“I just want to help as much as possible,” you bit the inside of your lip nervously, “and like I said, I was in my cottage the whole time to avoid being blown up.”

“Then how did you know to lead us outside of the warehouse?”

Shit, shit, shit...

“I-I..” You had to think fast. So you did the only thing you could think of. Besides, all they had to do was vote incorrectly, right?

Lowering your gaze, you let your voice take on a dark tone, forcing a visible smile to tug at your lips.

“Because I killled Nagito.”

The room went dead silent for a moment. It was almost amusing. But you had to finish this plan out.

“I think we can start the votes now Monokuma, I killed Nagito-”

“No that’s wrong!”

Hajime’s voice rang out like an annoying alarm. You looked towards him and raised a brow for an explanation.

“Y/n, I don’t think you killed Nagito. I think you’re covering for something.” Hajime was getting closer to the truth, but thankfully your classmates were short tempered at this.

“What the fuck do you mean?! They already confessed!”

“Buddy, they already said they did it!”

“Hajime, they have just confessed their crime!”

“I don’t get the fuss, just start the voting!”

Their voices tangled together, most ready to start the vote. Unfortunately for you, Hajime apparently had backup.

“Y/n, if you did kill Nagito,” Chiaki’s voice had silenced the others, “then please give an explanation of what exactly you did.” You felt your chest tighten but remained calm on the outside.

Taking a breath in, you relaxed and focused on using your talent to complete your mission.

“When Nagito told us he’d blow up the whole island, I could tell he was lying, so I went to confront him. I knew there was no way he’d get a bomb large enough to take out the whole island. At least, not without any of us knowing beforehand. Plus he already used a bomb, and there was no way he had a second.”

You stated with a truth as you always did before delving into your lies, carefully weaving the two together. You were ready for this rebuttal battle.

“He refused to tell me anything, so I dragged him to the warehouse and tied him up. There, I tortured him to tell me the truth. When that didn’t work, I threatened a painful death.”

The thoughts of having to commit the actions you were describing caused you to pause for just a moment before continuing your faulty explanation.

“He began to mock me, saying I wouldn’t do such a thing. I decided to prove him wrong. I stole the key to his cottage off him and forced him to hold the spear above him. To keep him from screaming for help, I covered his mouth in tape.”

You felt yourself grip your trial stand just a bit tighter.

“I took the poison from his room and placed it in a granade for later. From there, I had set up the rest of the traps like Hajime said. All I had to do then was lead you all along and throw the grenade with the poison into the room-”

“I’ll cut through those words!”

Ignoring the odd word choice Hajime had been using in every trial, you turned to him, annoyed and nervous.

“Y/n, you’re the only one who didn’t throw a grenade,” the ahoged boy pointed out.

“Hey wait a sec- Hajime’s right!” Kazuichi joined in, “You were standing behind us the whole time!”

“So why the fuck are you lying to us?!” Fuyuhiko swore.

“They’re acting a bit like Nagito in the first trial..” Sonia was quiet but you still heard her.

“Do you know who the culprit is or not?!” Akane shouted from across from you.

Now you knew you were in deep shit. If you couldn’t keep the culprit’s identity safe, you would’ve failed. You would’ve failed to keep the world safe from the remaining Remnants.

After a few moments, you had your next course of action planned out. You lifted your head once more and smiled sickingly sweet. You were going to follow what Sonia had said.

You were going to play Nagito.

“Heheh..” Keeping the same dark but nonchalant tone as he always did, you continued, “Yes and no, Akane..”

“What do you mean, Y/n?” The plain boy seemed confused as ever.

“Well you’re the smart one Hajime, so I’ll give you one hint that should pull this together for you..”

The group had gone silent once again, awaiting your words.

“He used our talents to find a certain someone.”

Your head tilted to the side in false glee. Hajime had gone into his own mind for a minute, processing your claim. Once he figured what you meant by that statement, he turned to the group in shock.

“You’re telling us, that Nagito set this up?” He almost looked scared to say such a thing.

“Indeed I am,” You gave a crazed look, “I’m sure you know who the culprit is now, Hajime, don’t you?” The boy gulped once more.

“It’s the traitor.” Hajime looked down, “He was trying to kill the traitor.” At that, you erupted into Nagito’s signature laugh.

“Not quite, Dating-Sim-Protag.” You let out one more chuckle at your teasing. “It wasn’t the traitor he wanted to kill. It was everyone but the traitor!”

You continued your cackle. Having to laugh in his way made you feel guilty for your actions and words. You were hurting everyone. But what had to be done had to be done.

“They’re messing with us like Nagito did!” Kazuichi seemed more freaked out than everyone, as per usual. “Just tell us who the traitor is!”

“Not so fast, Kazuichi,” Chiaki once again calmed down the commotion, “I think Y/n isn’t lying. Nagito wanted the traitor to kill him and be the blackened, right?”

“Y/n,” Hajime kept his gaze towards the floor, “did you really know where the poison was?”

“In the grenades? Yes.” You felt this as your chance to come clean, convinced they couldn’t find the traitor. “Which one, however? I had no clue.”

“Then how would the traitor have known which one it was in?” Sonia was so close to getting it, but Hajime sealed their deal.

“They didn’t, Nagito used his luck.”

“Correct.” You decided to drop the Nagito facade, deeming it unnecessary now. Your face instead fell solemn.

“Why the hell did you help him, Y/n?!” Fuyuhiko’s voice called out.

“I’m sorry, I really am,” You let yourself speak the truth, “but it was what had to happen for the world to be safe. Safe from-”

“Ah, ah, ahhhh!!” Monokuma jumped in, “We wouldn’t want spoilers, now would we!”

You grit your teeth, feeling even more horrible that you couldn’t explain your actions. Although there would be no need to once the vote had started.

“Just..” Your voice fell weak, “..know all but one of us deserve painful deaths. And we’re about to get those as I assume the traitor wouldn’t reveal themselves.”

The room was completely silent. Even Monomi kept her usual whimpering to herself. Monokuma probably would’ve jumped up again if it weren’t for said traitor speaking up.

“I killed him.”

Chiaki’s voice made your head snap up. She must be lying right? No, there’s no way she’d help you and Nagito.. right?

“Chiaki what are you talking about?” Your voice trembled, knowing you won’t know if she’s helping you or everyone else until after the vote.

“I’m the traitor.” She smiled sadly, “Hajime, you want to do your usual run down of the case?”

Hajime’s face was in complete shock along with the rest of us. He quickly shook himself out and nodded. You could tell he didn’t want to vote on his (what you assumed to be) girlfriend. Nevertheless, he gave the story of it all.

“Here’s everything that happened: The person who actually arranged this incident was... the victim, Nagito Komeada. He kept a specific item inside his cottage that he needed for his plan. Monokuma's Special Poison, which he brought with him from the Octagon.

“Using the gloves and gas mask that he got from he military base... Nagito swapped the contents of a fire grenade he took from the Plushie Factory break room with that poison. When he did that, a specific item was left as evidence: the blue aluminum seal on the grenade.

“With that, Nagito finished making the poisoned fire grenade, took it with him to the factory... and put it back with the rest of the grenades in the break room.

“The next morning, Nagito appeared before us and declared that he hid a bomb somewhere... However, one of us wasn’t fooled. That person was Y/n L/n. Through some sort of convincing, Nagito had told them his plan and the two of them got to work.

“While we were looking for the bomb, that's when Nagito and Y/n headed over to the goods warehouse. In order to set up a fire, the two arranged the Monokuma panels in a line going from the door... to the curtain, and placed an oil lighter in front of it. From there, Nagito set his insane plan in motion.

“First, he hung the spear that he took from Nezumi Castle from the ceiling girder by its cord... then he had Y/n tie his arms and legs at the back of the warehouse with rope. However, they burnt off the rope on his right arm beforehand.

“In doing so, they made sure that only his right hand was free while his remaining arm and legs were tied up... As he gripped the tip of the rope hanging over the ceiling girder with his left hand... He laid down face-up, just beneath the dangling spear.

“But this was just the beginning of Nagito's plan, and then...he did something no one could've predicted. First, he covered his mouth with duct tape, and after making sure he was unable to scream... He made Y/n leave and stabbed himself with the knife multiple times in his left arm and in both of his thighs.

“Finally... He propped the knife on the plushie, and slammed his right hand onto the blade! He didn't just want us to think he was tied up, he also wanted us to think he's been tortured... Through all this, Nagito never let go of the spear. His plan still wasn't over...In fact, it was just about to begin.

“Meanwhile, we finally arrived at the plushie factory and found Nagito's message... After seeing his message, we instantly made our way to the warehouse, Y/n leading us there even though they had shown up after we left... But that was part of Nagito's plan. We opened the door to the warehouse, which inadvertently started the Monokuma panel domino effect...

“The panels fell, one after another, until they reached the lighter, tipped it over, and ignited the curtain. Shocked by the sudden fire, we rushed to the factory's break room to obtain some fire extinguishing grenades.

“We then aimed for the fire's origin point, which was the curtain, and unloaded the entire supply. It never occurred to us that one of those grenades was the poisoned grenade that Nagito had prepared... But because Y/n knew it was there, they made a crucial mistake in Nagito’s plan and their later lies... they didn’t throw a grenade.

“The poison sank to the floor, instantly vaporizing due to the intense heat, and spread everywhere... The poison gas quickly drifted to the curtain at the back of the warehouse, where Nagito was. Also, Monokuma's poison has a unique quality in which it becomes heavier than air when vaporized. That poison gas completely surrounded the area where Nagito lay face-up on the floor.

“There, Nagito inhaled the poison, and if it didn't instantly kill him, he certainly lost consciousness... Which caused him to let go of the rope in his left hand, and the falling spear plunged into his stomach.

“But even then, his plan wasn’t completely over as his accomplice, Y/n, had to lie in order to voting wrong. Unfortunately for Y/n, the traitor did something they couldn’t expect... the traitor revealed themself.

“This is all the information related to Nagito's plan. His true intention was to set one of us up as the killer... At the time, we didn’t know who the killer was... Because the killer wasn't aware they killed someone. Try as we might, if the traitor hadn’t revealed herself as Chiaki Nanami, the Ultimate Gamer, we could not reach that truth... That was Nagito's trap.”

You could feel yourself shake as the rest of the trial went on. You didn’t trust your voice to not get all shaky if you attempted to speak. Instead, you simply listened as arguments were made on Chiaki really being the traitor. As well as the insults occasionally thrown your way.

Soon, though, the guilt of failing Nagito and the world settled in as Monokuma declared that Chiaki was indeed the traitor, and possibly worse, correctly voted as the blackened.

———————

As soon as Chiaki’s execution had ended, you made your way out of the trail room and to your own cottage. You didn’t want to end up tied in the warehouse like they did with Nagito in the restaurant so many weeks ago. So when there was knocking at your door, you didn’t answer it.

The knocking continued, but you stayed in your curled up position on the bed. When the knocking finally ended, you sighed in relief, that is, until you heard Hajime’s voice.

“Y/n.. please come out and eat.. you haven’t had anything since this morning..”

That certainly wasn’t what you had expected to hear. You expected scolding, anger, anything other than concern. Hearing a sigh from outside the door, you decided to slip out for just a moment.

When you did open the door, you saw Hajime as he was about to turn and leave. His form seemed stressed, like he’d definitely been crying.

“You aren’t gonna tie me up, are you?” You tried to joke, but your voice was hoarse, your own crying to blame. Even so, Hajime let out a tired chuckle.

“No, I did have to stop Kazuichi and Akane from trying though..” He scratched the back of his neck. A small, breathy laugh of your own forcing it’s way out of you.

“Why aren’t you siding with them?” You looked downward towards your shoes. “I mean I did quite literally act as Nagito and try to get us all killed..” At that, you felt a hand on your shoulder, forcing your gaze back to Hajime.

“If your reason behind doing that was good enough for Monokuma to stop you from revealing it, I think it’s justified.” He gave a weak, but reassuring smile, “The others agreed with me once I pointed that out.”

“Let me guess,” you attempted to lighten the mood once more, “Sonia agreed with you so Kazuichi just magically changed his mind and Akane was forced to join?” The two of you shared a small laugh as he pulled his hand away and to his side. There was a short, awkward silence that followed before Hajime spoke again.

“Just.. please help us figure out what’s going on. With the information you now have, you may not be able to directly tell us, but you can help so much more.”

You felt yourself nod, slightly ashamed. “In that case, there’s something I need to show you and the others. I can go get it-”

“Let’s wait till you get something to eat, okay?”

Hajime, no, everyone was really willing to give you a second chance after you essentially killed two classmates? You couldn’t believe it. But it was the truth. A small smile made it’s way to your mouth and you nodded once more, this time more assured. This made Hajime smile in return.

“Now how about we go eat something before Akane gets to it all, Y/n?”

[throwaninkpot]

My reactions to reading RotT. Part 1!

seeing all the books listed before the title page. crying.

to sounis. crying.

I WAS JUST THINKING IN MY REREAD THAT A TABLE OF CONTENTS WOULD BE DOPE.

this would be why he's only just learning to read when we meet him in TaT. bc he has horrific ableist parents and his nurse probably can't read herself, and so she couldn't teach him even if she wanted to.

"I bit him hard on the ball" 😳 "--of his shoulder" 😑

"my father is easygoing" *6 pages later* "one time my father kicked me so hard I had to spend an entire winter in bed" pheris, I'll kill him for you.

good job, gen. take care of the child.

"not everything that is easy for you is easy for the rest of us" holy smokes.

the unified crest!!!! (it reminds me of gen's coat from the official art, but not quite.)

"people love a dancing bear. no one wants to be one."

matching embroidery. awwwwww.

gen, babe, I feel you. I feel you. somedays I would like to be dead if it meant not getting out of bed and seeing people, but I swear to the GODS, gen, don't even joke about being dead. don't you speak that into being.

"if you were dead, we couldn't just leave you alone" they've learned how to deal with him.

he smiles at pheris, and that's the first time he smiles in the books.

"attolia raised an eyebrow, too much a queen to say anything else." I am madly in love.

"at a very minor goddess's altar [...] he closed his eyes and lay still for some time" mystery goddess????????

there's a lot of pheris being distraught by noise and disorder and movement and touch. he liked watching the order of the servants and the bees back at the villa. that's all I'm saying. idk.

gen sees earrings and that Activates Interest, no mask can keep that excitement hidden. heiro is so funny and a good friend.

his family aggressively trying to trick and politick gen into self-care.

they're his family, I just realized. wife and cousins, now that sophos has married helen. sophos was his family in affection before, but now he is legally as well I'm emotions.

"there were eleven, a frustrating number" hmmm. the whole thing with the orange. hmmmm.

"smacking people will not persuade them" idk it worked for gen in KoA.

exchange on pg 71 feels vaguely directed at the fandom.

"as your kind always fall" OKAY, BUT. IS THAT THE FALL OF A THIEF? THE FALL OF A KING'S REIGN? WHAT KIND DOES MOIRA MEAN? IS HE STILL A THIEF?

"men fall in battle [...] they fall ill" SEE, THAT'S PRECISELY WHAT I'M AFRAID OF. H E C K.

"wouldn't it cause confusion having two cleons?" I'm entirely confident that megan whalen turner has never heard the name of jonny sims much less knows who he is and about his infamous naming conventions, but nonetheless, mwt has thrown some major shade at jonny sims.

"verimus pursued the poet lavia, who wrote terrible poetry about celia, one of the queen's attendants" oh?

"why a guard stared at layteres, the second son of baron xortix, and why layteres pretended so poorly not to notice" oh??

costis name drop!!!

"I remember this moment particularly because died clopius died trying to protect the king after the ambush at the roadside tomb" I'm sorry, what?

why do characters keeping writing in-universe fic mocking my boy

Bythesea. By the sea. I'm so angry.

What ambassador hurt Megan that she has to drag their ilk through the mud and fire so

What if Cenna were one of his sisters or a niece

"Costis may still be alive" I'm an idiot, bc of COURSE this takes place during his travels int he mede empire, bc pheris only just got here. but it took until this line for the timeline to click in my head. and for me to realize that irene is pregnant rn. we will see the pregnancy. and....what happens.

"oh, what a lie that was" I see, that is how they say I love you.

I'm so sad. Juridius loved him and used to be his brother. honestly, and you know I don't cuss, but fuck their parents and the household for making a child choose between loving his sibling and being treated well by the rest of his family.

he's singing "the king's wedding night". I can't, I can't. have you no shame, boy.

SOPHOS. XD

gen having a pitcher of water dumped on his head and then just crawling up a wall like a vengeful spider.

my laughter immediately turns to terror. gen, you were JUST given a prophecy that you will die from a fall. be careful!

I keep needing to take breaks bc this is So Much. just the reality of holding this and reading this and turning pages.

"unwanted attention he paid to the women of the court" what is it with sexist ambassadors in these books, huh?

excUSE ME? EXCuse ME? not even nahuserfush was so rude and forward as to call her "irene". please, go kindly impale yourself on gen's hook.

"ugly women do not?" ANSFKSGMDJSHHSV.

KILL.

KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL

oh, I feel physically sick.

they deserve that. they deserve a little rest, and to take over a council room for a nap and cuddles.

he sexually harrasses and assaults the queen, and HE thinks HE deserves an apology for receiving a modicrum of punishment. I hate that I'm not surprised. I've met his type.

how are people still coming to this country and underestimating them????????????

good, dite has him. dite will be a good influence.

pheris and juridius are both children. this is so cruel of erondites.

gen sailing over the fence. no one told me this was going to be a comedy.

oh.

I spoke too soon about the comedy.

genny.

the only person who has called him genny before was megan on her tumblr, so I read that message in megan's voice. it is also very like megan to request earrings.

the dolphin signet ring returns! (briefly.)

megan, how come relius gets to know how old pheris is but we don't? >:[

okay, enough hmm-ing. you know what? pheris has autism. I was kinda wondering even back in tat, and I'm just very happy.

"by then, I knew why the guard Legarus stared with such anger and misery at Baron Xortix's younger son" okay, this in the context of love and being in love. idk if that's just meant to be him being jealous maybe bc the baron's son is dating someone he likes? or? megan said Legarus the Awesomely Beautiful and Gay.

relius where did you go?????? establishing a spy network mayhaps??? with some kick butt spy ladies like heiro and agape???

"one would have thought relius would be done with love and lovers, but I'd seen a veritable parade of them. none of his affairs lasted long, and I'd witnessed several spats when he showed someone the door." s... s. sexy. sexy relius canon. why. why this. dear God, why this.

the art in the middle is BEAUTIFUL. but the two dead birds at the bottom left corner have me worried for symbolic reasons.

[spoondrifts]

the evergreen needles inside your bones

ao3 link

Whumptober 2020 Prompt, Day 8: Isolation.

Fandom: The Magnus Archives

Characters: Martin Blackwood, Peter Lukas, Martin Blackwood’s Mother, Jonathan Sims, Daisy Tonner (Mentioned), Elias Bouchard (Mentioned)

CWs: self harm, emotional/psychological abuse, unhealthy coping mechanisms, depression, past child abuse, suicidal thoughts

He's walking. He isn't sure where he is or how he got here, only that it's rather nice. The air is cool and the breeze is gentle, the sand beneath his feet shifts as he steps. The coastline stretches endlessly on into the fog, which collects in thin, wispy tendrils around his ankles, condensing in little droplets in his glasses. He wipes them off every few minutes. Distantly, seagulls call back and forth, shrill and grating, but the fog muffles it well enough.

There might be a lighthouse, off a ways, but he can't focus on it properly. Every time he tries, it seems to blur and shudder, refusing to be locked down. He understands, sort of. To be seen, to have eyes cut down to your core and pin you in place, defining you... it sounds awful.

To his left, the ocean rushes quietly, white waves lapping against the shore. He can taste salt.

A rush of cloying static fills his head, and then Peter is there. He's wearing his ridiculous sailor's coat, the dumb hat brim on his head hiding his empty eyes.

"Hi, Martin," Peter says, voice warm. He is anything but. "What are you doing in here?"

"Here?" Martin says, a bit confused. His voice sounds distant. He's not sure what Peter means.

"In the Lonely. You weren't in your office and I wanted to go over some emails from tech support I got this morning. Apparently, the archive is having trouble with their computers again, they keep breaking, and if they go over the Institute budget..."

Peter's voice fades out. Martin looks over at the sea; the fog rises to his knees, chilling him to the bone. He's been rather tired of Peter, lately. Despite being typically absent, the man has an exhausting presence, and when given the opportunity he can and will talk for hours. Martin is an expert at tuning him out by now.

"Martin," Peter says sharply, snapping his fingers in front of Martin's eyes and regrettably drawing his attention. "Are you listening to me?"

Martin blinks slowly. Lukas' form is indistinct, growing more hazy by the moment.

"Blackwood," Peter says. He sounds startled as he lurches forward, face twisted in confusion, but Martin steps back and the fog swells up, encompassing, swallowing Peter up. And then Martin is alone.

He hadn't known he could do that.

Far away, the lighthouse beam sweeps through the gloom.

His notebook sits open on his desk, blank white pages staring accusingly at him. Several pages have been ripped out, crumpled, and tossed away, covered in jagged scratches of pen. He rolls the pen over in his fingers, eyeing the notebook.

Picking it up, he braces it on his knee, uncaps the pen, and lifts it. Stares. He presses the tip to the page. Stops, removes it.

it's like drowning

he writes, then scowls and crosses it out. Too Buried-esque.

like clogging, like stifling, like I could reach down my throat and rip my emotions out by their throats. maybe then I could strangle and kill them for good. maybe then I could feel something.

He thinks he can hear someone like his mum scoffing at him, telling him to write something real. Something that isn't so silly, so theatrical.

He looks at the lines for a long while. Grits his teeth. Crosses them out.

Martin watches Jon hurry into the Institute, soaked all the way through and shivering violently. Rain is pouring in unrelenting sheets beyond the doors, a steady drizzle of cold and grey and wet.

Maybe once, Martin would have fetched Jon a cup of tea, offered to hang up his coat to dry for him. Fussed over him all the way into his office, where once, Jon would have snapped out a terse, yes, thank you, Martin, before unsubtly ordering him back to work. Maybe once, Martin would have stood in the break room over a cup of tea for himself, warming his hands, chest aching so deep he feared it might shatter him into a million pieces.

But he can't do that anymore. So he watches Jon shake himself, grumbling about the foul weather, and storm down the hall to the archives without so much as giving Martin a glance.

It's better, this way.

Make yourself useful, Martin, his mum's voice echoes in his head. He's making tea. The Institute is dark and everyone has gone home for the night. Everyone except for Jon, of course, and Daisy, who has been sleeping in the archives ever since Jon dragged her out of the coffin by her fingernails.

Martin doesn't get it. He doesn't get a lot of things about Jonathan Sims, but he doesn't understand the whole Daisy situation most of all.

He remembers the way Jon had staggered into the archives with his throat slit and bleeding, choking out with wry humor that Daisy, the cop, almost killed him, as Martin pressed a handful of paper towels to the wound. He remembers the a rush of worry and anxiety and fury.

And now they're—

They're friends? Maybe more?

No, that's ridiculous. Don't be so melodramatic, Martin. Selfish, jealous boy.

His hands shake as he pours his tea. Stirs in the sugar. Burns his tongue on the first sip. A piece of prose has been rattling around in his head all day, itching to be written down. He doesn't think he has the strength to open his notebook again.

there's a pickaxe behind my eyes, chipping away at my face, causing such a thudding and pounding racket that I can scarcely gather my thoughts into neat little boxes, where they belong. tucked away. pocketed, pocketed, pocketed. I am pocket-sized; stuff me away and fold me into the dark, the background. hide me away. please don't look; I may fracture like stained glass.

Christ, Martin, his mum sneers.

He loses his pen.

It's an accident, and a harmless one, really. He's leaning over his desk—once Elias', once James', once Richard's, once once once all the way back to Jonah Magnus. Painted eyes bright and green and sharp with something, maybe it's amusement, maybe it's malice; who can tell, does it matter—and his fingers fumble, and he drops the pen.

Martin straightens, sighing, and gets up to look for it, assuming it had rolled under the desk. He sweeps his foot over the carpet, peers into the shadows, even paces the room a few times to make sure he's searching everywhere, but it's gone. Frustrated, he pushes the desk out of the way, causing a few papers to slide off and scatter across the ground. The pen still isn't there. He hisses lowly as the damn pen refuses to make an appearance. There's no way it just vanished. It can't have vanished. He very clearly dropped it right there, it should be somewhere on the floor, but the more he looks the more he becomes convinced that it's not.

He stops for a moment. Assesses the office.

It's a mess. The desk, haphazardly shoved to one side; cabinets flung open, none fully closed; himself, panting and flushed hot with irritation and in the epicenter of the disorder. His notebook is on the floor, face down.

There's no pen.

He can feel the anger rising, something burning and steely that squeezes his lungs and rings in his ears, and then—

Christ, it's only a pen, a voice snarls in the back of his mind.

It sounds like his mum.

She's dead and he's here. Sometimes Martin thinks he shouldn't be: here and alive and fine when everyone else is suffering so badly, but then he chastises himself—It doesn't matter. That's his mantra, these days. It doesn't matter how he feels about it. All that matters is that he does it, and he does it well, and no one else has to get hurt by monsters like Elias or Peter or the—the thing that stole Sasha, ever again.

He won't save the day, but maybe. Maybe he can save them. Even if it costs him his life.

Martin sucks in a breath. One. Two. Three. Four. He takes in another.

Faintly, he registers that his wrists are stinging from how hard he is pressing his nails to the skin. Not bleeding, not yet. He has the good sense to pull his hand away and inspect the damage. Four crescent gouges, likely to bruise, and bruise a dark, sickly purple, like rot. Like crawling, infestation, like Jane. He still has scars. He has not touched a peach in over a year.

He breathes deeply, sniffs, and then all at once he is crying. His eyes burn as tears well up and spill over, trickling down his cheeks in uneven rivulets, stopped by his scrabbling fingers that rub valiantly over his face in an attempt to quit, but somehow that only makes it worse and his chest stutters through a hitched sob.

Dropping forward, he gets on his knees and starts to pick up the papers he'd messed up, sniffling and choking down the involuntary sobs. His hands tremble badly as he grabs his notebook and presses it to his chest.

Useless arse, his mum growls. Can't even clean a bloody office because you're too busy getting all weepy over something you chose.

His teeth grind so harshly that his jaw aches.

"Shut up," he hisses, his voice horrifically watery and broken. His notebook slides back to the floor as his hands fly up to cover his ears, desperately trying to block out her cruel words. "Shut up, shut up, shut up, you're gone and you're not coming back and I'm still here when you're not so shut UP!"

He isn't sure how long he crouches there, hands shut tight over his ears, wracked with loud, gasping cries as his body shudders and shakes and falls apart.

It's only when he notices how quiet it is that he finally opens his eyes, lowering his hands.

He's on the beach. The fog curls, gentle, around his huddled form. The waves crash and collide with each other, sending great sprays of salt water into the misty air. His pants are covered in sand.

And the lighthouse looms before him, dizzyingly tall, it's outline distinct and crisp for the first time. Martin breathes in the scent of the sea and slowly rises to his feet. His head is fuzzy, but his chest doesn't hurt anymore, and he isn't sure why he was so upset in the first place. It was just a pen, after all. He sniffs, shaking his head, taking a few wobbly steps towards the lighthouse.

The door is open. Waiting. He can't see what's inside.

When he manages to reach the entrance, he pauses, glancing back. The empty expanse of beach and coastline is still there. It's rather beautiful.

Martin takes in a breath. Another.

He turns, and walks into the lighthouse.

[captaincravatthecapricious]

Concussion- Prompt Fill

Jon falls out of a Kayak

CW nausea, concussion, hospital mention

Thanks for reading! I am still accepting bingo prompts (Bing card by the wonderful @celosiaa​)! Tell me a character and which prompt, and let me know if you want art or writing! The starred prompts are ones I already have received, and probably have outlined! (I am much faster at art just fyi).  Sorry this one took so long, I wrote it a week ago and hated it! 

Jon doesn’t like the outdoors.  In his experience it’s loud or wet or sandy or bright or crowded or filled with bugs or hot or spider ridden or just generally uncomfortable.  

But that doesn't matter, because he needs to prove that things are alright with Tim.  He has finally earned enough trust or goodwill or something to be invited on a kayaking trip.  

Even back when things were good, Jon rarely got invited along to these things.  Tim knows Jon isn't the outdoorsy sort, but occasionally invites him so he doesn't feel excluded.  

A traitorous part of Jon thinks that he was only invited as a joke.  But more of Jon doesn't care if that is true.  He earned that invitation, and it doesn't matter that he is baking in the heat or that driving to the lake made him carsick or that he already has 30 mosquito bites and counting.  He.  Does.  Not.  Care.  

It doesn't matter because he is here with Tim.  And Tim is having a good time.  

They paddle around the secluded lake for a couple hours.  Jon almost has fun.  He isn't having a bad time.  Tim has been cracking jokes, and Jon is having something adjacent to fun.  Not to mention... it just feels damn good to be included.  Usually it's Tim and Sasha, or on occasion Tim and Martin.  Not that this is the first time since... everything that Tim and Jon have been alone together... it's just.... Kayaking is important to Tim.  And Jon rarely merits such a heartfelt invitation.  And even if it isn't really his scene.  It's worth the itchiness, and sore muscles, and carsickness and oppressive heat.  It is all worth it.  

Jon doesn't really know how he ends up in the water.  One minute he is breathing hard, his back and shoulders burning after all that paddling, trying to convince himself that he probably doesn't need his inhaler (that he left in the car in any case), the next... he is in the water.  Life vest dragging him towards the surface... or where the surface would be if the kayak wasn't in the way.  

He cracks his head on textured, blue plastic, and it doesn't even have time to hurt before Tim is hauling him out of the lake.  

He can't say it really hurts.  Just the surprise, and  the moment of timelessness and involuntary tears when something smacks a person from nowhere.  The brief moment of everything being a little too sharp and a little too blurry all at once.  

He coughs as he breaks the surface and Tim's strong arms lift him back into the kayak as if he weighs nothing (which... Martin would say is the case).  It's probably the firefighter training.  

Water is streaming off him, and there is some sort of weed tangled in his hair.  

"Boss, you alright, there?" Tim clapping him on the shoulder, almost knocking him out of the kayak again.  (Jon isn't sure if the fact that it is a two seater is better or worse).  "Whoa there!"

Tim is steading him again.  He's honestly feeling a little dizzy and a little distant.  But that's probably just the surprise, right?  Probably.  

"Not your boss," he grumbles, trying his best to scowl despite how Bright everything is, and how he really is very very damp and how maybe jeans weren't his smartest move today.  He lets that hang for a beat.  "...Thanks Tim."  

He offers a tiny smile, trying not to shrink in on himself, like he did... back then.  

"Fine, you alright, buddy?  What even happened?"

Jon shrugs.  "I'm in one piece, I think."  

Tim fishes in the water for Jon's dropped paddle.  "Maybe it's time we head back, wouldn't want that to happen again.  I need you in top form if you wanna come out again with me!"  

His head is starting to hurt.  

Jon flushes slightly.  "I'd... really like that, Tim."

Tim hands him back the paddle and they head back towards shore, and the car, and their respective domesticities.  

The headache isn't exactly gone by the evening, but it isn't bad.  Not worth telling Martin about, although he couldn't escape Tim telling Martin how he fell out of the kayak, and having Tim show Martin the pictures of one very damp and disgruntled Jonathan Sims dripping in the kayak, and Jon in Tim's spare workout clothes in the car.  And Jon looking faintly ill with ginger ale clutched tightly with eyes closed on the way back.  And of course the selfie with Tim giving him a sloppy cheek smooch while Jon wears a truly terrible hat that he has no idea why Tim owns.  

Tim stays for dinner.  

By the time that Jon wakes up, Martin has already left for work.  

His head hurts.  Not migraine bad, but he makes a mental note to tuck some excedrin into his bag just in case.  Best to be prepared for these things.  

He drags himself upright with a groan, trying to ignore the way that the room tilts for a few moments as he gets up.  

School.  

Right.  

He's got work today.  And as long as Martin isn't there to be disappointed in his decision making, a headache is not going to stop him.  

It's too bright outside, and Jon isn’t hungry for breakfast.  Tea counts as breakfast, right?  That's good enough.  There's milk and sugar in there... that has to have enough calories to count for something, right?  It's fine.  

Halfway through class, Jon has to sit down.  Abruptly.  His lecture trailing off into a dizzy silence.  

The headache has become too distracting, the tilting of the room around him making it hard to stay tethered to the Earth's gravity.  He presses the heels of his hands against his eyelids, trying to stop the listing of the room.  

He hears a student calling his name, but he can't make himself parse out who.  And the Eye doesn't seem inclined to tell him.  

Which is probably for the best, because he is beginning to wonder if he can take much more headache.  

He doesn't know how long he's been down, but Martin is there now.  

Fluttering hands, checking him for a temperature, coaxing him to look up, shielding him from the fluorescent lighting.  

Jon leans into the cool of his hand.  

Martin's hands in his hair, smoothing away the bedhead, Jon forgot about before leaving the house.  Jon making an embarrassing sound as he relaxes into the touch.  

Until Martin reaches the crown of his head, and Jon hisses in pain.  

Martin has been talking to him the whole time, but the ringing in his ears has been too distracting to make out words until now.  "Jon?  Love, did you hit your head?  Can you look at me?  Tim said you fell yesterday, did you hit your head?"

Jon struggles against the painful light to meet Martin's gaze.  

Martin is shining a pen light in his eyes.  

Jon tries not to feel betrayed.  But the light Hurts.  And he just wants to go back to bed, and be held, or maybe have Martin bring him an ice pack, and he's starting to feel sick as well as dizzy.  

"Jon-love, we should get you to a hospital.  I need to get you actually looked at."  

Jon whines in complaint, but doesn't have the energy to argue as Martin guides him up, folding against Martin's chest, when his legs try to give with the pins and needles of inactivity.  

He doesn't want to go to the hospital.  It's bright and he is very tired.  And he feels so guilty that someone... probably one of his students called Martin in when Martin had likely just gotten off his shift and should be at home and sleeping and not scraping Jon's ass off the floor again.  

It hadn't been this bad earlier!  He's fine!  Really!  

"Jon-love, why didn't you say something?"

And Jon tries not to cry.  "I was fine... didn't hurt then."  

Martin tuts over him and holds him close.  

The hospital is just as bad as he fears, and he's pretty sure he guilty cried on Martin at least once, and possibly also took a nap in the waiting room, but when it's over, Martin shoos Jon into a waiting cab, and trundles them both home.  

Jon is dozing on the couch, because Martin is making dinner and he can't bear the thought of being farther away than one room over, and Jon has never been comfortable about the idea of eating in bed.  Breakfast in bed (Or dinner in this case) sounds good in theory, it just sounds messy and awkward in practice.  His phone has been confiscated after he sent a brief email to his students.  Martin wasn't happy that he already was ignoring the don't look at screens and don't think too much instructions.  

That will be an argument for tomorrow, and the next day until they eventually reach a compromise.  One Jon knows Martin won't be happy about, and one Jon will feel the bite of guilt over, but his students need him, and it really isn't a bad concussion.  He might let Martin fuss over him a little more than normal, but only until the extra work catches up with Martin.  Then it will be Jon's turn to look after him.  

“Jon, Tim just texted.  He says he’s sorry he didn’t know you were hurt, and that you don’t have to go with him again.”

Jon wants to cry again.  He breathes as deeply as he can, trying to draw courage into his lungs.  “Could you… tell him I Want to go?  I promise this won’t happen again?  I… had fun… and I want to go kayaking with him.”  

Martin enters the room with his phone in one hand, and a spatula in the other.  He kisses Jon’s forehead softly, and starts to type one-handed.   

“And please tell him to not feel badly?  I didn’t really notice until …well until you got called.  It was just a headache until then.  Not even a bad one.”

“Of course love, just tell me if it gets worse, alright?”

Jon hmms in agreement.