#he didn’t remember anything about himself there were only some vague traces of Martin in him

[wwpbviiid]

I’m sooo insane about TMAGP, I dreamt the next episode came out, and when I woke up and couldn’t remember what day it was the main reason I cared was how long until Magnus Thursday, I am losing it over here

[revalise]

After the Sun [M] | 01

Pairing: Chrollo Lucilfer x Fem. OC

Genre: Romance and eventual smut

Rating: M

Words: 2500+

Notes: Huge thanks to Sky @pixiewombat for beta reading this chapter! 

All characters are humans unless otherwise stated in their description. Hence, Zazan is human in the story.

Masterlist | Prologue | 02

Chrollo Lucilfer gets everything he wants, when he wants-even if it means undergoing extreme measures. Nothing bothered him, until an aphrodite, Astra Gerber, appeared one night and stole from the infamous thief. In return that Chrollo doesn’t report her, he strikes a deal. But it could be more than what Astra bargained for. 

BOLD

“What do you mean your necklace was stolen?” Pakunoda eyed Chrollo carefully as he sat behind his desk at his penthouse, looking over the magnificent, illuminating lights of Yorknew City, while she stood in front of him.

“It just was stolen,” he deadpanned.

Pakunoda clicked her tongue. There was no way someone could steal from Chrollo—a bandit himself, and a good one at that.

She thought to herself for a moment. ‘Is he planning to steal the poor girl’s hatsu?’

Once, he had charmed the pants off of a girl who could write fortunes and stole her ability. Despite his obvious antics, he wasn’t found out, thanks to the girl’s inexperience. But when he managed to get a hold of how it should be done, he started doing it again and again. 

Pakunoda didn’t complain. Chrollo’s Bandit’s Secret was a trump card, not only for him, but for the rest of the group. When Chrollo noticed the drastic advantage the ‘strategy’ gave him, he started using it more often. To him, it felt like a shortcut.

And who would expect someone so sophisticated and pretty-boy looking?

She sighed and put the folder down on his desk.

Chrollo had asked Pakunoda to find the girl who had stolen his necklace. He remained vague about it, but knowing Chrollo, it might be something extremely important. 

He looked over the files, silently reading their contents, taking them in just as he consumed  knowledge from his ancient books. His fingers traced the letters of the name written in bold on one of the pages.

ASTRA BEATRIZ GERBER

Pakunoda gazed at him with suspicion. Meddling with this girl could endanger the nature of the group. She was nowhere near a simple girl, alright. The girl spelled trouble.

She was the illegitimate child of an acknowledged former lawyer, Martin Gerber, before he took over the Gerber family dynasty.  

This information wasn’t exactly kept a secret. It was silent gossip within the small circle of socialites and elites. Illegitimate children weren’t news to the circle. Three out of five families in the circle had a case of their own. But it so happened that the Gerber family was known to be conservative—faithful to their betrothed, or as painted by the media.

Nevertheless, it only took that mistake to have the head of the family, Rod Gerber,  wavering in his trust in Martin. To his dismay, this almost cost him the whole dynasty. Fortunately, Rod was a good man, unlike his son. To secure his position in becoming the next successor as the eldest, Martin had to keep the child and take her as his own.

It shamed Martin to do so, keeping an illegitimate of his own accord. Though his wife was noticeably against it, she had to agree if she wanted to be the wife of the very powerful man. Cleverly, she argued that it would bring discomfort to her family if the child were to live in the same house as them. Rod then agreed that Martin would just have to sustain the needs of the child in the mother’s care.

Chrollo took all of the information  in, almost feeling bad for the girl, if  it weren’t for his own experiences.  

The same thought as Pakunoda had crossed his mind. Her father had connections in law. If Chrollo, say for example, met the girl’s father and he decided to look deeper into Chrollo and his background, it wouldn’t really be a problem. The group knew how to cut their ties. They eliminated those who had seen them. But if worse came to worst, this could have blown the group’s cover. 

The Phantom Troupe weren’t regular thieves. They were thieves with intellect that calculated their every movement. Before they acted on anything, Chrollo, who had a personal philosophy of theological dualism - the balance between good and evil - that influenced his decisions, would first weigh his options. His actions were always calculated.

It was not that they feared the law or the man himself, but the Phantom Troupe managed to blend in with the crowd, no one knew of who they were. And the group loved being free despite the criminality they commit.

From the moment he first laid his eyes on her, he knew she was trouble.

But none of the information stopped him.

***

Zazan promised Astra dinner. But it was way past dinner, and the staff of the three-star Michelin restaurant she had booked kept going back and forth, assisting and asking for her order, which she refused to give until her aunt arrived.

Her aunt, Zazan, was her father, Martin’s, little sister. For all her life, she was her mother figure. Zazan always had her back whenever her father didn’t. Her aunt loved designer and luxury items, and was a designer herself. Hence, her love for luxury and designer.

To state it simply, Astra was given to her aunt after she lived with her dad for two years when her mother died. She was only six then.

She remembers how much scorn she received from Martin’s legitimate family, and how she was treated as less than a freeloader, being an illegitimate child. Not once did her father defend her from them.

After all, she was a nobody, aside from the Gerber blood running through her veins.

Astra, at four, never spoke with anyone, not even the maids that served the family in their mansion. She remained quiet, hiding inside her room, but doing everything she was told—even standing for hours, with no food and water, beside the silver knight decorations in the hallway of their house because her older half-sister told her to. She ignored the numbing sensation in her knees until a helper saw her.

That was, until Zazan returned to the city and took interest in the meek, little girl she once was. And for the first time in two years, she spoke and her voice sounded hoarse. Her words were: “Can I come with you?”

From then on, Zazan took her as her own. Martin had no objections, nor did his family. In fact, the situation was in their favor. In his father’s eyes, as long as Astra wasn’t disobedient or brought problems—more than she already had, being an illegitimate—upon the family, it’d be fine.  

However, it seemed Astra grew up to be a spitting image of Zazan’s personality. Astra grew bolder, braver, and stronger, all because she had Zazan to look up to. But Astra wasn’t nice on a daily basis. She was nowhere near a saint.

“May I take your order, miss?” a smiling boy, who looked a few years younger than Astra, came to assist her. But a girl, wearing the same uniform as him, came to them, gripping his arm.

“Sorry, miss.” The staff leaned in closer to the boy’s ear to whisper, “I’ve been trying to take her order. She’s waiting for someone, but I think she got stood up.”

“Oh...” the boy muttered “Too bad, she actually looks pretty.”

He turned his attention to Astra, about to apologize, when she interrupted him.

Astra laced her fingers together, her elbows on the table, and rested her head on her hands. With a sarcastic tone, she said, “If you’re going to talk shit about me, consider doing it somewhere else where I can’t hear you.”

“S-sorry, miss…” the staff muttered, afraid. All of their customers had power, because only the rich could afford the place. They feared they could lose their jobs. Most of all, they knew who Astra was. They knew of her influence.

“But thanks for complimenting my looks.” Astra flashed a grin that didn’t reach her eyes. “Get me some champagne.”

They scurried to give her what she wanted, too obvious in wanting to leave her sight.

Astra leaned on her chair, her arms crossed over her chest. She clicked her tongue in impatience. For once, she regretted asking for champagne. She felt the urge to leave. To elites like her, hunger didn’t come, anyway; she’d still have a lot of food at home. She could leave before they gave her champagne, and leave cash three times the bill, but her pride made her stay.

And she hated to admit it, but she really needed to see her aunt. She needed someone.

She needed someone to hold her at times she felt like slipping away.

As Astra waited impatiently, a man sat at the opposite end of the table. It happened so quickly, she didn’t have the time to process it. The man looked studly in his crisp suit. He wore a white shirt underneath, topped with a dark blazer and slacks.

“I’m sorry. Did I keep you waiting?” He asked in his most polite tone while he pulled at the opening of his blazer.

Her eyebrows shot up and she clicked her tongue, but she tried to maintain her composure. After all, it was a restaurant for the high-class. Manners above all.

“Sorry, you must have the wrong table.”

The man chuckled. “Oh, have you forgotten about me, miss? Allow me to reintroduce myself,” he grinned, “I’m the man you stole from a few nights ago.”

For a moment, perplexity was etched on her face, ‘Bitch, which one?’ 

Yes, the man looked a little familiar, but with the amount of people she was acquainted with, it was hard to keep track of the long list. 

“Oh, I see,” she said plainly. “I must’ve stolen from you when I was drunk.” 

Astra leaned forward and put her elbows on the table. She whispered, “You see, I have a habit of doing those when I’m drunk.” She flashed her sultry smile. 

Her hands reached for her fuchsia devotion bag made of python skin. It featured an exclusive bejeweled personalized heart closure, inspired by the techniques of fine jewelry, which etched her initials in it.

ABG

Astra clicked her tongue when her eyes met her initials on her bag. She laughed inwardly at how she sent it back to Italy when her initials weren’t in bold.

“How much was it? I could pay for it right now.”

The way the man grinned at her assured her that it’s done for. Game over. She wins. Whatever she did, she got away with it. Not because of her pull and connections, but because of her charm. And she knew it. She grinned at this. 

“Actually,” the man began, “I have other things in mind.”

“Oh,” Astra had a knowing smirk. She knew of what the man could possibly ask. It was no different. He was no different from all the other men she’d met before. ‘A night, perhaps?’

“Let’s hear it,” she said sultrily. 

It was the man’s turn to lean closer and rest his elbows on the table. He laced his hands together and flashed a smile. “I was thinking of jail time.”

Her hypocritical smile dropped. She was rendered shaken. Just as quick as the change in her mood, the sourness and bitterness of being embarrassed in front of the mysterious man in front of her, she showed her true colors. 

‘Where the fuck is my champagne?’ she thought.

Her back rested on her chair and she crossed her arms. “Name?” her tone was as rude as it could get. 

“Now we’re talking,” the man chuckled, and he rested his back on his chair as well. “Chrollo Lucilfer. I believe I already told you that. I’m hurt you forgot about me so easily.”

Astra didn’t reciprocate the demeanor Chrollo was showing. While Chrollo looked composed and polite, Astra, on the other hand, was irking in anger. 

“What do you want?” she spat, so rudely you wouldn’t think that it was the same woman who had been flashing sultry and inviting smiles.

“Nothing much, actually,” he grinned but it didn’t reach his eyes. “If you’ll come with me, I’ll discuss the matter, and I promise you it’d be done with.”

If it were only a few minutes ago, she would have gone with him at that very moment. She would’ve taken him to some backroom and let them do their business. But it was different now. 

To her, it seemed like the man didn’t want any physical relationships. He was danger, nothing else. 

“And if I refuse?” 

“Your scandalous actions will not only be known by your father, Martin Gerber, but your little circle as well,” he replied.

“I’m impressed. You’ve done your research about me,” she scoffed. 

One of the staff who assisted her earlier appeared with champagne in her hands. She kept her head down, but kept a shy smile and gave continuous glances toward Chrollo as she poured the liquid into their respective glass.

“Thanks, miss,” Chrollo flashed the girl a sweet smile. 

Astra could have sworn she saw the girl almost curtsy at that. She rolled her eyes. 

When the girl left, Astra arched her brow. Chrollo on the other hand, ignored her demeanor. “Shall I order you some real food?” 

He was about to call the staff again, but Astra stopped him. “I’m not hungry.”

For a moment, Astra almost regretted her actions because Chrollo might be hungry. But if it’d be the same staff who keep annoying her with how they tried to get the man’s attention, forget it. 

‘What is with this restaurant anyway? Why are they always the same people?’

Once the foam settled on her champagne, she drank it quickly, picked up her bag, and stood up. When she looked over at Chrollo, who still sat on his seat gazing at her, she scoffed. “I’m coming with you. Wait for me outside in a moment.”

“You’ve said that before,” he replied, reminiscing to when she said the exact thing when they met the other night, and then she was gone with his St. Peter’s cross necklace.

“You seriously have something on me. Do you think I’ll run away from you?” Astra argued. “Besides, you’ve done your research on me. So I expect you to appear wherever I am.”

“I don’t believe you,” Chrollo stood up. “Wherever you’re going, I’ll come with you.”

Astra rolled her eyes. If she didn’t have something, it would obviously be his trust. And she had to get it no matter what, if she wanted to get out of the situation quickly.

She turned on her heel and Chrollo followed closely behind her. Suddenly, something rang from Chrollo’s pocket when they stepped out of the restaurant and into the lobby of the luxury hotel. Astra turned her attention to it and then to his eyes looking back at hers. 

“Go,” she nodded at him in a dismissive manner. “I promise I won’t leave.”

Chrollo eyed her carefully, weighing the sincerity of her words, to which she responded with widening her eyes at him. There was a faint smile in Chrollo’s face before he finally took his phone out and turned his back on her. 

Astra lightly shook her head. She didn’t notice, but there was a small smile on her face as well. And just as if the timing couldn’t be more perfect, someone she knew all too well appeared in front of her, looking down at her, mocking her.

“Dad…” she whispered.  

[fandomrewrites]

Season 3a; Episode 8: Visionary

Hello all! I hope you enjoy this chapter and as always constructive criticism is appreciated. Make sure to answer my pinned post and let me know if you want to be added to my taglist!

Season 3a; Episode 8: Visionary

Pairings: Scott McCall x Twin Sister, Lydia Martin x Best Friend, Isaac Lahey x Reader

Warnings: Mention of death

Word Count: 2,192

Season 3a masterlist

Stiles asked me to go to Derek's loft with him so we can find out when Derek would be back from hiding. Cora's response was to tell us a story about Peter and Derek hiding in a root cellar when hunters found them. 

"They stayed there for two days. Hiding and waiting." She finished the story. "It's what we were taught to do when hunters found us. Hide and heal."

She turned to look at Stiles and I as Stiles started talking again, "So is two days standard? Or are we thinking Derek's on an extended getaway?"

I lightly hit Stiles on the shoulder and glare at him, "He needs time."

"And why do you care anyway?" Cora asks.

"Because in the last few weeks, my best friend almost killed himself, his boss nearly got ritually sacrificed, a girl I've known since I was three was ritually sacrificed, Boyd was killed by Alphas- do you really need me to go on? Because I can. For like an hour." Stiles rants.

"You think Derek can do anything about it?"

"Since he's the one everyone seems to be after, it's more like he should do something about it."

"Stiles, it's not that easy and you know it. It never is. He's going to need help. He can't do anything without the rest of us." I say.

"I don't even know if he can do anything." Cora whispers, "There's something about him now. He wasn't like this when I knew him."

"Well, what was he like?" Stiles asks.

"A lot like Scott actually." Peter says as he walks down the stairs.

Stiles jumps as he turns to the werewolf who continues, "A lot like most teeangers. Unbearably romantic. Profoundly narcissistic. Tolerable really only to other teenagers."

"So what changed him?" 

"The same thing that changes a lot of young men. A girl."

"Some girl broke his little heart and that's why he's like that?"

"Stiles!" I scold. Stiles throws his hands up in mock surrender.

"The details are a bit more textured. You remember before Derek was an Alpha his eyes were blue? Do you know why some werewolves have blue eyes?" Peter quizzes.

"I thought it was a genetics thing." Stiles shrugs.

"Genetics? Come on, Stiles. Don't reduce our nature to something as boring and mechanical as DNA. You want to know what changed Derek? Then you need to know what changed the color of his eyes." Peter states.

We sit down as Peter starts telling us the story of Derek and his first love. A quiet girl named Paige. She was a musician who caught Derek's eye at school one day.

Rain was pounding down on the window as Peter was telling the story. "So if Derek was a sophomore back then how old was he?" Stiles asks.

"He was probably about 16. That's how old we were as sophomore's." I say, shrugging.

Stiles nods then looks at Peter, "How old were you? How old are you now?" Stiles asks.

"Not as young as we could have been, but not as old as you might think." Peter vaguely answers.

I narrow my eyes in confusion as Stiles says, "That was frustratingly vague." He turns to Cora, "How old are you?"

"Seventeen." She answers.

Stiles turns back to Peter, "See? That's an answer."

"Seventeen the way you would count it in your years." Cora continues.

"What?" I ask, even more confused by that response.

"Forget I asked." Stiles says, shaking his head. "What happened to Derek and Cello Girl?"

"Her name was Paige." Peter corrects. Cora, Stiles and I exchange looks at his odd tone.

It abruptly disappears as he continues, "What do you think happened? They were teenagers. One minute it was 'I hate you. Don't talk to me.' The next it was frantic groping in any dark corner they could manage to be alone for five minutes."

I scrunch my face up, not wanting to picture a young Derek being sexual. "Their favorite dark corner was an empty distillery outside of Beacon Hills."

"Alright, hold up." Stiles stops the older werewolf, "How do you know all this? You just said they were alone."

"And back then I wasn't just Derek's uncle. I was his closest friend. His most trusted confidante. That's how I knew."

"Your telling me Derek didn't have better friends?" I ask.

Stiles mouth twitches up to a smile as Peter glares at me, "Right sorry. I just assumed that you were always a sociopath. Please continue the story." I wave my hand gesturing for him to continue.

Peter closes his eyes for a brief moment and sighs. Once his eyes open back up he continues the story, telling us about the meeting of Alpha's and how the hunter's killed someone in Ennis's pack.

As he's telling the story, he traces a spiral on the window. "Our mark for vendetta. One that wouldn't end until Ennis was satisfied."

"You guys really take the revenge thing to a whole new level, don't you?" Stiles asks.

"It's not just revenge. Losing one of your pack isn't like a death in the family. It's like losing a limb." Cora states.

"For you, (Y/N), it will probably be worse." Peter adds.

"Because I'm a Zeta?" I question, raising an eyebrow. Peter nods, "Well let's hope no one in the pack dies then."

"Anyways, they wouldn't even let him see the body." Peter continues.

"I don't get it." Cora says. "Why are we hearing the Ennis revenge epic? What does any of that have to do with Derek?"

"Everything. Don't you know how these things happen? It's never one moment. It's a confluence of events. A tragedy of timing. Personally, I looked at Ennis's circumstance and saw a profound loss. Derek saw something different. He saw opportunity." Peter replies.

"To do what?" Stiles asks.

"To always be with her." 

"He wanted Paige to get the bite?" I question, a look of realization crossing my face.

Peter nods. "The thing is, though. He had this constant fear. He was obsessing over it. Thinking about it. All night. All day. It was always on his mind."

He pauses for a moment, "I kept telling him not to do it. But every day the more he thought about it, the more he was convinced. You know how teenagers are. I bet even he blames me now. He's probably convinced himself that it was all my idea."

I instantly roll my eyes, the only thought running through my head is that he probably did put it in Derek's head. As the story continues, pack Emissary gets brought up.

Cora starts to explain the role of the Emissary, "But they're mostly a secret in the pack. Sometimes only the Alpha knows who the Emissary is. Derek and I never knew anything about Deaton."

"Or his sister, Morrell." Peter adds.

"She's an Emissary too?" Stiles asks.

"For the Alpha pack."

"Our guidance counselor? Why the hell don't you people tell me this stuff? I said some very personal things to her."

I rest my hand on Stiles leg and lightly squeeze to provide him some comfort. "Did she give you good advice?" Cora asks.

"Actually, yeah."

"That's what they do. It's what Deaton used to do for Talia." Peter says. He then continues the story, telling us that Ennis was the Alpha asked to bite Paige.

"Ennis? You asked him to do it?" Cora asks.

"Why not? He needed a new pack member. Paige was young and strong. Doing a favor for Derek would mean Ennis would be in good with Talia. Back then, everyone wanted to be in good with her."

"So what happened? Did he turn her?" Stiles impatiently questions.

Peter explains that Ennis bit her at the school one night. Derek tried to fight him off after he changed his mind but it was too late. "He doesn't remember it was Ennis, does he?" Stiles asks.

"If he does, he keeps it to himself."

"Like everything else."

"So did she turn?" Cora asks.

"She should have. And most of the time it takes. It does. The bite heals. There's a change in reflexes. All the senses heighten. Most of the time." Peter replies.

"Wait. What do you mean most of the time? Derek said he’s never heard of anyone being immune" Stiles states.

"That’s because no one is." Peter nods. He then explains how Derek took her to the root cellar, the nemeton. When he realized that she was dying he tried to take away her pain but it was too much. He killed her to end her suffering.

"Poor Derek." I say, as the story finishes.

"I remember taking her body from his arms. I carried her out of the woods to a spot I knew she would be found. It was another in a long line of Beacon Hills animal attacks."

"What about Derek?" Cora questions her uncle.

"He wouldn't leave the root cellar. Taking an innocent life takes something from you as well. It takes a little bit of brightness from your soul. Darkening it. Dimming a brilliant, golden yellow to a cold, steel blue. Just like mine." He flashes his eyes as we look at him. 

*_*_*_*_*_*

After Peter leaves, Stiles and I sit on the steps of the loft. Cora stands in front of us, "What? You both have this look on your face."

"What look?" Stiles asks.

"The kind that makes me feel like punching you."

I bite my tongue, stopping myself from saying something rude, "You're definitely related Derek." Stiles says.

"What's with the look?" Cora asks once more.

"I don't believe him." Stiles states.

"I was thinking the same thing." I state.

"Why would he lie?" Cora asks us.

"Because he's Peter? A manipulative, compulsive, sociopathic, liar." I say.

"It's like... In Ms. Blake's class we're reading Heart of Darkness. It's in first person, right? Narrated by Marlowe." Stiles starts explaining.

"Really starting to want to punch you now, Stiles." Cora says. My mouth twitches up into a smile.

I tilt my head down to hide it as Stiles continues, "But he's an Unreliable Narrator. The story he's telling? There's details that you just know changed because of his perspective."

"So we got the story from Peter's perspective. So what?"

"So, I don't think we got the whole story."

"There's three sides to every story. The two people in it and the truth." I say shrugging as both turn their attention to me. “What? I read it somewhere.”

"What? Are you guys going to ask Derek about the girl he fell in love with and then killed?" Cora asks.

"If we have to... yeah." Stiles answers.

*_*_*_*_*_*

Once Stiles dropped me off back home I quickly went to my room to get ready for bed. I pushed my door open and jumped when I saw Isaac sitting on my bed. "Shit. Don't do that." I place my hand over my heart.

Isaac cracks a smile, "Sorry. I've been waiting for you."

"Stiles and I were at Derek's talking to Cora and Peter." I say as I sit beside him.

"About what?" 

"Peter was telling us a story about Derek when he was younger."

Isaac nods. I watch him carefully as he stares at my comforter, "What wrong?" I ask.

He turns his head to me, "I-" He pauses. I raise an eyebrow waiting for him to continue. "Sorry, I just don't know how to start."

"Take your time. But you know you can tell me anything." I smile at him.

He nods and licks his lips. He flickers his eyes down then looks back at him, turning his body so he is fully facing me. "I think we should stop having sex."

"Oh?" I blink in surprise. 

"It's just- I'm pretty sure you're not ready for a real relationship. And I want something more. I don't want to pressure you into anything that you aren't ready for but I can't keep doing this."

I nod, "I understand." I look down at my hands as I start playing with them, "I honestly haven't really thought much about if I'm ready for a relationship or not. I've been so busy thinking about the Darach and Alpha pack."

"Maybe someday we can try this again." 

I look back up and whisper, "I'm sorry."

"You don't need to apologize. I know that you loved Nate and he hurt you a lot. And I'm okay, really."

"I guess we just fell for each other at the wrong time." I sadly smile at him.

He lightly laughs, "Yeah, you can say that again."

"Just because we're stopping this though doesn't mean that you can't talk to me, okay? I still care about you."

"Same goes for you." I lean over and give him a tight hug. Once I let go he smiles one last time then walks out of my room, shutting the door behind him.

Once the door is closed, I flop back on my bed to stare up at my ceiling. Thoughts of what went wrong and why I couldn’t be committed running through my mind.

~~~~~~~~~~

Taglist:  @crazy-fan-101 @rogershoe @judayyyw

[constantlytiredghost]

Apparently I kinda blacked out yesterday night wrote 1k+ words that I only have a vague recolection off and am now owner of a new AU that I have no plot for :’D Now I just gotta figure out where I want to go with this :’))

Martin couldn’t remember how he got here. He had been in the woods and then….. nothing. 

To be fair. 

He still was in the woods. Sort of. 

But he didn't think that there was a library in the woods. 

Libraries didn't belong in the woods, did they? 

But there clearly were bookshelves right in front of him. 

Tall bookshelves that reached high towards the sky that was barely visible between thick branches. 

There weren't any actual walls or a ceiling. No, that was wrong. There used to be walls and a ceiling, at least Martin thought so. There are still some ruins indicating that it was a building once. Half crumbled walls with broken windows and wooden beams that might have supported an actual roof once. But all of it had clearly crumbled long ago leaving only bookshelves that had been overgrown by vines.

Dry leaves crunched under Martin’s feet as he walked through the row of shelves. Most of them were still whole and in surprisingly good condition, just like the books that filled them. 

Some seemed like they had been victims of smaller rodents or rain with gnawed on corners and stains on them and there even was a bird's nest in one of the higher shelves but most seemed like your typical well kept books, that one could find a regular library. A library that wasn’t in the middle of the woods. 

Martin traced his fingers along a few of them before he grabbed one and pulled it out. He still somehow expected it, to simply crumble into dust between his fingers, but it didn’t so he carefully opened it. 

The paper felt dry and brittle between his fingers, but it didn’t break. It felt old. Not a normal old, not a -you could find this in an antique store- old, but an old that had a tangible weight behind it. The words that filled the pages inside of it seemed handwritten and were in a language that Martin didn’t know or recognise.

It made him question even more how he ended up here, but he just couldn’t remember.

He sighed and closed the book, gingerly putting back into the empty space where he had taken it from. 

Staying here and staring at books certainly wouldn’t help him get home, so he started walking again. Brushing his fingertips along shelf boards as he made his way deeper into the strange forest library. He came by a few seating arrangements consisting of moth-eaten seats and slightly rotten tables. One even had a cup standing on it, filled with what Martin assumed was rainwater and a small frog that seemed very content with his little pool.

“Don’t think you can tell me how I got here, huh?” Martin wondered out loud. The frog didn’t reply. Martin wasn’t even sure if it was aware of his presence, but that also wouldn’t be anything new.

“Thought so.” he said with a sigh. “Would’ve been too easy, right?”

For a moment he thought about taking both, cup and frog, with him, but he decided against it. He didn’t want to startle the animal even if it didn’t seem to care about him so far. In general, it felt wrong to change anything about this place as if it would interrupt something bigger if he did so.

So he kept on going, following the paths between the shelves. In the beginning, he tried to keep in mind the course he was taking but with more and more crossings to add to the mix and soon gave up.

If he was lost, then he was lost. It wasn’t like he hadn’t been lost from the beginning. 

The deeper he walked into the labyrinth of shelves, the more he could see of the stone floor as the leaves under his feet grew less and less. The branches and leftover beams above him slowly got replaced by a wooden roof. It was still patchy and had holes in it. Some bigger some smaller but it was an actual roof instead of a forest canopy. Maybe he was getting closer to the centre or something similar. Or just a part of the building that was less of a ruin.

Just as he had finished that thought, he stepped out of the path between the shelves into an opening. It was circular with various passages between more shelves leading to and from it and filled with long tables with chairs around them. It looked a bit like a study hall or something similar. At the opposite end of it was a stone wall—a stone wall with a door in it.

Martin didn’t know where the door led, but it certainly was a change scenery. He hesitated a bit before he stepped further into the area and made his way through the tables. He stopped in front of the door. It was wooden and seemed old, just like the rest of the library. It even had some mushrooms growing out of it. Spindly little things with white stems and purple hats. They didn’t look like any mushrooms Martin had seen before, and he had to resist the irrational urge to touch them just to see if something interesting would happen.

Maybe all of this was a dream? It certainly seemed strange enough to be one, but at the same time, it lacked the dream-like quality. 

Martin pinched himself just to be sure, but he didn’t wake up, so it seemed real enough. Probably. With a sigh, he pushed against the door. 

It opened without any resistance. There wasn’t even so much as a creak of unoiled hinges like one would assume from such an old door. Martin stood in the doorway starring into the dimly lit interior until his eyes got at least slightly used to it. 

It was an office...used to be an office? The room behind the door held a big desk filled with stacks of more or less ordered papers mixed with dried leaves and other plant matter. Martin stepped closer, looking around as the door fell shut behind him without a sound. 

Besides the desk, there were also more shelves filled with books and scrolls and loose papers. A crash from Martin’s right startled him and made him whirl around.

There was another doorway leading to another room. A doorway which was currently occupied by another man who looked at him just as shocked as Martin himself felt. He was small, at least smaller than Martin with dark hair that was lined with grey streaks. And the crash seemed to have come from the books that now laid at his feet.

“Who are you?” the man asked. He sounded gruff, but not necessarily unfriendly. He mostly seemed surprised and unsure.

“Oh..uh... I’m Martin. Martin Blackwood.”, Martin introduced himself. “And I think I might be lost?”

“Lost? Well, that might explain some things.” the man muttered, more to himself than to Martin and moved to pick up the books he had dropped earlier.

“Does it?” Martin asked, watching as the man placed the books on another book stack that was already on the large desk. The man only hummed in response.

“Maybe.”, he said then, which did nothing to clear up Martin’s general confusion.

“And you are…?” he asked then hesitatingly. Unsure what to make of the man that seemed just as strange as the library.

The man looked up from the desk, fixating Martin with dark eyes.

“Me? Oh, yes, sorry, I forgot. I am the Archivist. You can call me Jon, I suppose.”  the Archivist, no Jon offered with a crooked smile.

“Archivist? So this is your library?” Martin asked, pushing further. Jon shrugged.

“No. Well, yes. Maybe. Might as well be. I’m the only one here most of the time.”

“Most of the time?” 

“I mean there’s the beast.”

Slowly Martin started to think that he had ended up in a fairytale. A library in the woods, a strange Archivist and now a beast. He wondered what that would make him.

“A beast?” he pushed on.

“You didn’t meet him?”

Martin shook his head. He was pretty sure that he would remember a beast if he had met one.

“Huh. That’s weird. Well, I mean he’s not really a beast. I mean he is, sort of, sometimes, but he’s not a monster or anything. He guards the archive. How did you say you get here again?” Something seemed to have picked Jon’s interest because the look in his eyes had changed.

Now it was Martin’s turn to shrug.

“I was in the woods, I think? And then I got lost? I mean I think I got lost I can’t remember, but next thing I remember is standing between bookshelves.” Martin shrugged again. “I had hoped you could help me find a way back, maybe.” he added then.

Jon tilted his head slightly. 

“Maybe.” he agreed then. “I’m not sure myself, but I can try. I might have to check a few things though and read some things up. That might take a while.” He looked at Martin as if trying to read him for a second. “You’re welcome to stay here during that time, wouldn’t want to get you any more lost, right?”

“I, uh...thank you?” 

Martin wondered what Jon had to look up and why he couldn’t just point him back in the right direction. Still, something told him that this probably wasn’t all that easy and that ending up in libraries that shouldn’t exist in the first place took a slightly more creative solution than a few vague directions and a pat on the shoulder.

“No problem. Shouldn’t take more than a few days hopefully. I can show you your rooms? If you want?” Jon looked at Martin questioningly.

“That would be nice.” 

“Well, then. Follow me.” Jon waved him along and vanished back through the doorway in which Martin had seen him the first time.

After wavering for a second Martin followed. If Jon wanted to harm him in any way, there was nothing much that would stop him no matter where Martin stayed. And there was still a beast that apparently lurked outside of the ruins of this very strange archive. He would take his chances and simply hope that this wasn’t a fairytale where Jon turned out to be the witch that was planning to eat him.

[littleladymab]

tiny cracks of light - chapter eleven

(master post)

Prelude- Basira doesn't fidget beneath his gaze. She remains seated, calmly returning it, face impassive. 

Jon doesn't realize how much he has missed being regarded without fear or trepidation or anger until that moment. He takes a breath and considers his next words carefully, unwilling to force her to tell him what she doesn't want to. He doesn't want her to be the next to flinch. 

"You've worked here for almost three years," he says, and she nods. "You're only just coming to me now with this suspicion?" 

"There are so many other things at play here," Basira replies. "I have not been in a place so heavily observed by the Eye, that it was honestly disorienting in and of itself until I realized that that was part of the problem." 

He leans back in his chair and runs a hand over his face, exhausted. "The Watcher doesn't seem too worried about your presence here. You're certain he's aware you're one of the…" Jon makes a vague gesture in her direction. 

She lifts an eyebrow. "One of the what, Jon?" 

He doesn't want to say it. There's a danger in being known and named, and he doesn't want to put that weight behind Basira's presence. Not when he feels like she is the only person still on his side — Sasha's betrayal, Tim's self-destruction, Martin's withdrawal, Daisy's volatility. How many of them are because of what he's done, or more importantly, hasn't done? 

She waits, patiently, for him to answer. 

Jon forces himself to speak. "One of the Order of the Divine Host. One of the Blind." 

"I am," she confirms simply. 

Why are you really in my Archives? he wants to ask, but he doesn't. 

Instead, Basira continues without his prompting, and he wonders if she still feels compelled to give the details. "Despite what you might think of us, whatever you have learned from these books or heard from your Watcher, we are not so inclined as to destroy the sun, or send the world into a never-ending night." She hesitates, clearly debating what information she wants to give him. "There is a difference between all-knowing, and knowing enough." 

He surprises himself by laughing. "I'm well aware." 

She has the decency to wince at that. "On a grand scale, especially. There are things that seek to know and order the world to their whims, and we are the ones who wish to keep those futures… in the dark, so to speak." 

Jon considers this. In this head, the Eye yells at him in warning. The fear seeps into his own limbs, and this, too, he considers. "It's my job to know and understand," he begins slowly. "More than that, it is what I want to do, even if given a choice." 

"I'm not giving you a choice, I'm stating the facts as I know them—" 

"I understand that, but if you think that I'll just stop because some people think I should… I'm sorry to say that it's not possible." He pauses, and studies the wood grain of his desk, the whorls that almost look like eyes if one has more of a fanciful imagination. "I am, at this point, I think, quite unable to stop." 

Basira exhales through her nose, but still manages to keep her expression under control. "Do not think that the Blind are the only ones who are working against you, Archivist." 

"I think far too highly of myself to believe that only one group would be afraid," he says with words that aren't his own and the taste of iron in his mouth. "And you, Basira? Where do you fall on that scale?" 

She tries to resist. He can see it in the lines of her jaw, in the pulse of anger in the tether that binds her to the Eye, faint as it is. "I don't think you want this," she says, and he wonders what she would have called him if she had been weaker. 

Jon, or Archivist? 

He wonders where the line between them even is. 

Sasha wakes up first, with the sun at her back and Tim's arm slung over her waist. She frees one arm from between them and traces the slope of his nose. The uneven bump from a break that didn't heal correctly. Freckles and scars, both new and familiar. 

She can feel him slowly come to wake beneath her hand. He tilts his head to press a tired, off-center kiss to her bandaged wrist, then gazes up at her with sleep-bleary eyes and a lazy smile. "Good morning," she says, and he gives a content sigh. 

"I've missed this," he murmurs. "I've missed you." 

Her fingers continue their study, discovering the changes she couldn't see in the dark before. "What did you mean by 'as beautiful as a sunrise'? I don't think I've known you to ever be awake that early." 

Tim's laugh is accompanied by an embarrassed groan. He flops over onto his back, rubbing his hand over his face. "Heavens, Sasha, don't make me explain myself now." 

She follows after, grinning. "I want to know!" 

"Of course you do, you want to know everything," he teases. 

"I'll keep it a secret." 

He drapes his arm over his eyes. "It's so corny to explain it now." 

Even though he can't see it, she pouts. 

"Fine!" he concedes eventually. His arm lifts enough for one eye to glare up at her, and he sports a pout of his own. "I mean that when you're the first thing I see in the morning, you're this brilliant golden glow that I just want to bask in. Or something." 

She can feel herself flush all over, and he reaches up to let his fingers tangle in her mess of hair. "Oh," she says, for lack of anything more coherent. 

"I told you it was stupid." He applies the slightest bit of pressure to the back of her head, and she bends beneath his touch with ease. 

"It's not," she says, laughing, before she kisses him. "It's really not."

She had meant to get up to go do work, but his is an easy rhythm to fall into, and eventually she forgets what she even meant to do beyond this moment. 

When she wakes up a second time, Tim is gone and there is a haphazardly folded paper on the pillow beside her. She flops over onto her stomach and flips it open. 

Got called to do some work with Daisy. I'll see you for lunch.  - Tim  (As in we'll have lunch together like old times but honestly, I'm not complaining about the implication of having you for lunch)

She fails at stifling her laugh, reveling in how light she feels at that moment. She knows that this is not everything going back to normal. There is still a monster inside of her that wants out, and an inferno inside of Tim that wants to destroy. The Archivist is missing, and she carries marks that were never meant for her. 

But at least she can have this. 

Sasha folds the paper back up and searches for a pen. 

Find me in the Archives, I'll decide then. - S 

She leaves it on his pillow and goes to wash up. 

She could go back to her room to clean up properly, but she doesn't want to lose any more time. So she pulls her skirts back on, uses one of Tim's shirts, and makes her way to the Archives while braiding her hair. 

The stacks are bathed in bright light from the high windows, heavy with a mid-morning silence that welcomes her in. 

A pleased sigh escapes her lips as she walks through them. Last time, she was still a barely remembered variable. But now she is more Archivist than two days ago, and the Archives recognize her as their own. 

They will never be hers, like they had once been, but she can feel at peace here once again. The jagged lines of the past have been smoothed over, forgiven. 

She wants to return Jon to this place as much as it wants him back. 

Sasha collects several sheets of paper and a pen, then begins to make a list of what she knows. She has to lean into the connection with the Eye, despite the way it makes the thing inside of her squirm in anticipation. 

"You're not going to get another chance," she tells it. 

Seeing the future has never been your strong suit, it mocks. 

She has no comeback to that. 

The list is an incredibly short one, because even with the Eye's assistance, she still doesn't know much. The connection to the others is important — the marks that they share with Jon, as much as they rely on his presence. 

One way or another, he's saved each of them, that much she is certain of. Which implies that she still has to figure out Basira, and even Melanie. They both bear evidence of the Eye, though in different ways. 

Her pen pauses as she thinks about Melanie — who left the Archives of her own accord. Sasha wonders if she could find any remaining tether between her and this place, or if there had been a re-acclimation process for her. 

Did she hesitate before crossing the barrier, the same way Sasha did? Did she trace her paths through these halls to try and remember what they meant to her? 

Did she leave because she wanted to, or because she was forced to? 

Sasha realizes that she's been doodling while lost in thought, and when she looks, she finds the paper (list and all) covered in dozens of eyes. 

"Hard at work I see, Miss James." 

Sasha jumps, the pen flying from her already weak grasp. "Watcher," she gasps, forcing out a shaky laugh as she shuffles loose papers over her ruined page. "I rarely see you out of your office." 

Elias offers a benign smile and gestures to one of the chairs at her table. 

She hesitates, then nods. 

He takes a seat with a soft huff of breath and looks at the shelves surrounding them. "I wanted to talk with you, Watcher to… temporary Archivist." Again, that smile. "I see that you're making yourself right back at home." 

"I… I suppose?" 

"Are your hands alright? I heard about what happened with Miss Perry." He gives a mournful shake of his head, and Sasha half expects him to say 'such a shame'. "I'm glad to see that you have Tim back under control." 

Sasha immediately goes red, then cold dread fills her chest. "I'm not certain I know what you're talking about," she says, suddenly very aware of the way Tim's shirt fits on her frame. "He is perfectly in control of himself." 

Elias turns up his hands in a placating gesture and pretends not to notice as Sasha adjusts the collar of the shirt to hide marks that aren't even there. "It's been a long three years." It's neither an agreement nor a statement to the contrary, but Sasha knows that he's not saying it to be nice to either herself or Tim. 

"I'm certain you're busy, Watcher, and I don't wish to keep you with idle conversation." Sasha forces her hands to keep still on the table, unwilling to fidget in his presence. "What can I help you with?" 

"Oh, I just wanted to check on your progress. See how the search for my Archivist is going." 

She looks at the corner of the paper, covered in eyes, the list more questions than answers. "I would think you knew better than I do." 

He waves a hand airily. "I can only see that he will be returned to me, but the details, Miss James, are the job of the Head Archivist." His smile feels like a knife between her ribs, a reminder of what she was unable to achieve and is still only borrowing through his assistance. 

She doesn't know how to respond. She doesn't know what she expected. 

It all feels wrong, but it has felt like this for so long that she never noticed until she came back to this place. 

There's a footstep from several rows over, and Elias' gaze swivels away. "Basira," he says cheerfully. "Come join us." 

Basira doesn't quite sulk out of the stacks, but she certainly doesn't look happy at being called over. "Elias," she says by way of greeting. "Surprised to see you out of your office." 

"Yes, well, I wanted to see how Miss James was getting on in her search for our missing Archivist. So far it seems she's just made herself a more competent replacement." His tone implies that he's teasing, but the thing inside Sasha rages at his words. 

It takes every bit of energy she has to not get up and leave. Running away would be admitting something she doesn't want to face.

Still, Basira's presence helps relieve the pressure of Elias' attention. Sasha reaches out with her senses, and lets that calm wash over her. 

"We have our theories." Basira puts her hand on the back of Sasha's chair. “But it has barely been three days." 

"Since Miss James has arrived, but longer since Jonathan has been missing." 

There is a moment where the two of them stare at each other. Elias' smile widens slightly, the expression shifting into thinly veiled amusement as the seconds drag on. 

Finally, there is a grunt of frustration from Basira. "It would go faster if you didn't seek to interrupt us." 

Elias holds up his hands to defer to her. "Of course, my apologies. Like I said, I was just checking on Miss James, especially after Tim's breakdown just outside the Archives."

Sasha goes cold again. "As you can see, I am fine." 

"Indeed," he says, not sounding entirely convinced. "Well, I'll leave you two to it then." 

"Much obliged," Basira intones dryly and Elias gives her a thin smile before leaving. 

Sasha remains frozen for several painful seconds until she finally moves to once again adjust the collar of the shirt. 

Basira moves to sit in the recently vacated chair and does not comment. "I had hoped to catch you before he did." 

A high, strained laugh works its way out of Sasha's mouth. "I appreciate the sentiment."

"I actually wanted to speak to you about something, if you have the time." 

Sasha looks at her in surprise, then pushes aside the papers. "I can use all the assistance I can get, if that is what you mean." 

Basira shrugs. "Sort of. It does have to do with a suspicion I brought to Jon a few months ago. And… a concern I have, regarding what has happened to you." 

"How so?" 

"My order, the Divine Host — the Blind, as you call us." Basira touches a hand to her breastbone, and Sasha wonders if she wears a pendant beneath her brocade robes. Then she reaches out and pulls the paper covered in eyes from the disorderly stack. With the charcoal stick from the pouch at her side, Basira begins to steadily and patiently blind every single one of them. "The legend is that we once captured a powerful entity that wanted to command the world." 

Sasha watches as the eyes become awash with X's and jagged lines. It feels like a spell in its own way, and so she lets it happen without interruption. 

"That entity was once a man named Jonah Magnus, who began to see the future, and sought to control it." Basira sets aside the stick and, just as methodically, she begins to tear the page. "I think you recognize that name." 

"Jonah Magnus, the founder of the Institute," Sasha says despite how dry her mouth feels.

She nods. She sets aside two halves of an eye and begins on the next. "Given enough Watchers under his control, he sought to spread the power of the Eye and not only see the future, but arrange it to his whims." 

"That obviously hasn't happened." It feels more like a question, begging for confirmation.

"Not yet." 

"You have some reason to think that it will?" 

Basira sets aside another jagged half of an eye. "I think it is in the process of happening, and that Elias needs Jon for that." 

Sasha reaches out and covers Basira's hand with her own, pulling it away from the paper. "Speak clearly," she says, and she swallows back the taste of iron. "I do not have time for vaguery." 

"Magnus has escaped from our captivity. Likely a weakening of any restraints and wards we had after all that time. The Order has sent members to Archives across the country in order to see if they can find any trace of where he has gone." 

"And you think he is here?" Sasha asks, looking down at the mangled paper between them. 

"I think that he is here." Basira crumbles the paper in one hand before offering it to Sasha. "I tried to bring my concerns to Jon, but I think he was too far gone by that point." 

She takes the paper ball and focuses on it. It is a mass of strings, jumbled together. A few of them float off, severed by Basira's destruction. But the rest tangle into a cord that ties back to the Eye. Sasha listens, and the pieces inside of her clamor against the scrutiny. 

The Eye remains silent, watching her back. 

"Do you believe Jon to be Jonah Magnus?" she asks, trying to decide if she finds it ridiculous or not. "Jon. Jonah. You don't think that's a little too on the nose?" She had never seen Gertrude wield the level of power he had in that one moment against the Stranger. 

She had never seen Gertrude do what she has done in the last two days. 

"Not Jon, no." 

"What, Elias?" Even as she says it, though, it doesn't seem too much of a stretch.

Basira shrugs. "It is only a theory. And I think that the Eye had its grip too far into Jon for him to be of any assistance. It aligns with what Georgie said, about the ritual in the lake." 

"And you think that I am the better choice." It's not a question. It doesn't have to be. Elias does not want her to be the Archivist, despite the fact that she seems to be rapidly following in Jon's footsteps.

"I think you understand better than most what is at stake here." Basira rises to her feet and points at the crumbled paper. "I just ask that you consider it before your next move to recover the Archivist." 

"I thought you wanted me to find him," Sasha says as Basira turns to leave. 

She pauses, then slowly turns back to face Sasha. "You know as well as I do that there is a line between them," she says softly, almost in a confidential whisper. "I want you to find Jon, but I do not care what happens to the Archivist." 

Sasha thinks about it as she listens to Basira's retreating footsteps. 

She holds the paper in her palm, and tugs the strings together. One by one, she feeds them into the mark of the Desolation, and eventually, the paper turns to ash.

[wormtitty]

Epiphany, part 2

tim/martin, 3.2k words, E-rating

read on AO3!

Something about Tim’s visit the other day bothered him. It was nagging at the back of his mind, squirming around like the worms that he keeps seeing out of the corner of his eye. Living in the archives was bad enough, Martin didn’t need the extra confusion, the added frustration that Tim’s impromptu drop-in had brought up.

So he had a crush on Jon. It wasn’t going to actually go anywhere; Jon was his boss. That’d be a huge HR violation. Probably. Either way, it wasn’t fair of Tim to just barge in and start interrogating him about who he liked, as if they were still in primary school. Especially not when he opened up a whole can of worms about his insecurities, even though it was kind of nice to affirm that at least one of his colleagues was still his friend.

Still though, he absolutely didn’t need to start throwing out names like he did. And from what he managed to infer from the conversation, Tim and Sasha had some sort of bet on his romantic life. And then he said - that.

“Dance card’s open.”

With a wink.

What was Martin supposed to do with that, exactly? Of course he’d noticed Tim’s flirting. But he flirted with everyone; Sasha, Jon, Kevin, even Rosie! Martin even saw him wink at Elias once, though he received such an intense glare in return that Tim had never tried again. So what were a couple of dirty jokes and glances every now and then between friends?

Oh god. Was Tim actually into him? Martin fretted over this for an admittedly considerable period of time before finally deciding to ask Tim himself. After all, didn’t he do the exact same thing to Martin not even a week ago? He drafted, the redrafted, text after text before finally just asking if Tim wanted to get drinks together that night, since it was Friday and neither of them had to actually work the next day. Although, he supposed, Martin did have to come back to the Institute. Because he lived there now.

Honestly, he wasn’t expecting the near-immediate confirmation text Tim sent. He’d expected the text to go unread until Monday, or for him to politely decline because he had company that evening. And why wouldn’t he? He’s Tim, the man with a body to die for and a personality that immediately drew one in. Okay, so maybe he was a little bit attracted to his friend. It was no big deal, because you’d be hard-pressed to find anyone in the greater London area that wasn’t at least a little in love with Timothy Stoker.

But Tim had responded, with an enthusiastic “Yes please!” that had Martin’s heart racing for totally normal reasons. With only a minimal amount of fumbling, they’d agreed to a time and place to meet. Martin resolutely did not spend the hours leading up to that fussing over his appearance. Tim knew his living situation, and hopefully wouldn’t be too put off by the outfit Martin put together from his measly selection of clothes he rescued from his flat. Surprisingly, he didn’t think to grab eveningwear in his rush to pack the essentials and get the hell out of there. Besides, it’s not like this was a date .

***

“Martin!” Tim exclaimed from the booth he’d claimed in the bar they’d chosen. He stood to give Martin a one-armed hug in greeting. If that sent him blushing, Tim thankfully didn’t comment on it. “Didn’t think you’d be the one to initiate this little meetup! These days, it’s usually me or Sasha that have to drag you out of the Institute for some fresh air. Or just to see other people that aren’t staff.” Tim said with a pointed look.

“Yeah, I mean, it’s not the easiest thing to not freak out in public every time I see a worm. Sometimes they’re real, but most of the time I’m afraid I’m imagining them.” Martin felt relieved at being able to admit that, if a little embarrassed. But Tim wore an expression that conveyed his understanding and blessedly changed the subject by ordering both of them a stiff pint.

“All work talk aside, what prompted you to call on me?” Tim inquired. “Not that I’m complaining, of course.”

“I actually wanted to, ah - I wanted to talk to you about something you said the other day.” Martin admitted to the table, suddenly fascinated in the grain of the wood. He began tracing a line with a finger.

“Oh, I hope I didn’t make you uncomfortable, Martin. I was just having a bit of fun, a little curious about what had you so distracted, but that’s all. I’m sorry if it was out of line. I know we work together but you’re still my friend and I’d hate-”

“It’s not that!” Martin cut in. Looking up from his table when their drinks were delivered, he took a breath in attempt to calm his racing heart. “No, Tim, it wasn’t that. Well, it was, but about the other thing.” Tim seemed confused. “After. The second time.”

A look of realization crossed over his face. Martin’s own face seemed to be made of fire, so he busied himself by taking a deep drink from his pint. A slow grin started to unfurl from Tim’s lips.

“Martin, don’t tell me you texted me for a booty call ?” He beamed at Martin with a shit-eating grin.

“No! Tim, god, no!” Oh, he actually seemed a bit disappointed in that. “I mean, not that there’s no interest! Oh, would you please say something else before I embarrass myself even further? I didn’t ask to see you for a booty call, Tim. I just wanted to know what you meant?”

“What I meant by…” Trailing off, Tim took some time to remember what exactly it was that had confused Martin. Across the table, Martin was steadily draining his beer in an attempt to keep his mouth occupied and not talking. “Oh! The dance card thing?” He nodded. “That’s basically what it says on the tin, right? Dance card’s open, I’m open, get it?”

“Uhm,” Martin started again, “So you were, you were being serious?” Before Tim could answer, the waiter stopped by to collect their glasses and Martin mumbled his way through asking for a refill. When he looked back across the table, Tim looked utterly dumbfounded.

“Martin, I thought you knew! Christ, I’ve been dropping hints for what feels like forever. You really weren’t aware I was sincerely hitting on you?”

If it was possible, Martin’s cheeks coloured even deeper. “No? I thought you flirted with everyone! You’re always making eyes at our other colleagues, and two weeks ago you kissed Sasha’s cheek! Also, like, I’m me and you’re you .” He decided it was best to stop talking when Tim’s expression went from amused to vaguely pissed off the longer Martin tried to explain.

“Okay, one: I ‘make eyes’ at people I find attractive. In case you weren’t aware, that includes you too.” Martin tried to shrink into himself. “And two: I kissed Sasha’s cheek because she agreed to take one of my more frustrating cases and couldn’t give her a hug due to the files I was currently carrying. But that doesn’t mean anything.” Tim shrugged, “I just wanted you to know that if it was me you were acting all dreamy about, I’d really like you to act on that because I fancy you , as hard as that is for you to believe.”

Fixing his posture, as well as the no doubt dumbstruck look on his face, Martin cleared his throat. “Well. I, uh, thank you? I guess, same? I mean, ditto. I think I’d like to accept your dance card invitation, if you still have an opening?”

“Of course I do.” After that, they finished their drinks in companionable silence. The air was a little bit charged, a little heavy, and neither quite wanted to break the tension yet. Eventually, Tim called the waiter over and paid their tab. “So, what now?” he asked with a warm smile. “I think we’ve spent what time we want to here, but I don’t think I’m ready to let you go just yet. We could grab a late night bite to eat, or we could actually go dancing at one of the clubs around here? And there’s always my flat. I’m sure I can scrounge up something for a nightcap, if you’d like. Promise to be a perfect gentleman.”

With a groan, Martin politely declined both options of staying out later. Unfortunately, his body just isn’t quite as young as it used to be, and he’d never been much of a clubbing kind of guy.

Which is how the two of them ended up on opposite ends of Tim’s couch, each nursing a cup of tea that Tim insisted on making. Even they both knew Martin’s tea would have been far superior. They’d chatted idly about their childhoods (Tim’s was objectively happier), families, and other idle topics on the walk to the flat, but Martin was still mulling over the conversation that led them here.

“About your advice back in the archives, just out of curiosity, where do you think I stand firm, Tim? Not - not things that I can give people, right?” Tim set his empty mug on the coffee table while he mulled the question over in his head.

“Of course. I mean firstly, I think you’re incredibly brave. I would’ve quit the second that freaky worm lady let me go. But you’re still here, Martin. You’ve not thrown in the towel and found somewhere else to work, instead you stayed and kept researching even when I know you’re scared.” Martin looked as if he was about to interrupt. “I’m not done!” Tim said, shushing him with a finger to his lips.

“You’re also very kind. Now I know that making people tea is technically giving something, but you’re probably the only person I know that can make the perfect cup every time. And we never have to ask! You’ve always been great at conversation, ever since you started working at the institute. It can get pretty dreary in the archives, and I know all of us appreciate you being there to brighten it up a bit.”

By now, Martin was incredibly red-faced. He batted Tim’s hand away. “Are you done?” he asked, with a hint of trepidation in his voice.

“Nah, I also think you’re hot as hell.” Tim declared, smirking. Martin made a noise that was half squeak, half groan and put his head in his hands.

“I’d really like it if you’d shut up now, Tim,” he said, the words slightly muffled by his palms.

“Well, I’d really like it if you came over here and made me.”

Half scandalized and half intrigued, Martin carefully shuffled closer to Tim. They were almost knee to knee. Ever so slowly, Tim reached over and pried the mug from his hands. The gentle clink of ceramic on glass broke whatever spell that’d entranced them, and Martin lurched forward.

The kiss was slightly off center with the force of Martin’s body pressing Tim back against the arm of the couch. He angled his head more and, oh, that was so much better. Every sense of his was heightened with the slick slide of their lips. Tim was kissing back with just enough fervour, if not more. There was a hand in his hair and a fist curled in the front of his shirt, hauling Martin closer, closer, ever closer.

Tim let his legs fall further apart and Martin greedily scooted into the space left for him between his thighs. Tim was one hot line of heat plastered to his front, and he couldn’t get enough. He placed a hand on Tim’s jaw and deepened the kiss. With the first sweep of tongue across his lips, he desperately reined in the moan that threatened to spill out. It’s a good thing that they were already sitting down, because the things Tim did with his tongue made his legs feel like trembling jelly. He felt like a trembling mess, and they were only making out . He hoped Tim didn’t think he was too easy.

Trying to regain his composure and actively participate, Martin slid one hand down Tim’s chest. With a surprised noise, Tim’s hips stuttered upwards and his hand tightened almost painfully in Martin’s curls. This time, Martin couldn’t hold back a moan at the dual sensations. At least now he knew that Tim was just as affected as he was.

Martin leaned down to lave at Tim’s jawline, working his way down his throat and cataloging which spots caused a reaction. After that first bridge was crossed, neither of them could quite stop the slow grinding of their hips against each one another. One particularly sharp circle of his hips had Martin’s head hanging forward, lips brushing an earlobe as he let out a soft “Oh, Tim.”

Tim abruptly stopped his movements and gently pulled Martin up to meet his gaze. “Not that I’m not having an incredible time right now, but would you like to move somewhere a little more comfortable than this couch?” Martin gave an enthusiastic nod and climbed off his lap, gesturing at Tim to lead the way.

They eventually made it across the flat into Tim’s bedroom, making only one short detour so Tim could press Martin up against the wall and kiss him senseless. He wasn’t afraid to beg a little when Tim slid a thigh between his own and pressed up. “Tim, please, if you keep that up..” he trailed off and Tim relented, taking his hand until they made it to the bed and Martin was gently pushed backwards.

Tim took a moment to pull his shirt over his head before climbing after Martin, settling with his knees at either side of his waist, asking, “I’d like to take yours off too, if you’d like?” And God, he should not be allowed to look so debauched and sexy while asking something so politely. With a mumbled “yes, please,” Tim rucked up his shirt, sliding his hands up his chest as he went. Being pressed chest to chest sent a jolt of electricity down his spine, and he returned to Tim’s slightly swollen and shiny red lips.

After a few minutes of messy, heated kissing and aborted thrusts of hips, it became clear to Martin that Tim wasn’t going to be the one to escalate things any further. Reluctantly, Martin pulled away from the heat of his mouth. “I know I said that tonight wasn’t a booty call, but what would happen if I said I might like that?”

Tim smiled wickedly. “I would say something along the lines of ‘finally!’ and then do this.” With that, he slithered down Martin’s torso, stopping at his belt, where he was achingly hard in his pants. “That looks uncomfortable,” he mused, with a devious glint in his eyes. In no time at all Martins trousers were tossed off the side of the bed, and Tim was breathing hotly at the front of his pants. He wasn’t moving.

Martin tried to keep the whine out of his voice as he said “Feel free to continue any time.”

“Hmm. You’ll have to ask politely, Martin.” And oh, Tim was just pushing all the right buttons tonight. When Martin didn’t say anything in response, Tim’s mouth made contact with his briefs, wetting the fabric around his cock and applying a hint of friction.

“Okay, please, Tim, please!” Martin begged.

“Good boy,” Tim murmured as he pulled the pants all the way down and off. Martin tried his very best not to whimper at the praise. “God, look at you,” he breathed, gazing down at the now fully naked Martin in his bed. He squirmed uncomfortably on the sheets before Tim acquiesced and finally took the head of his cock into the wet heat of his mouth. Martin had always been sensitive, and this was no exception. He brought a fist up to his mouth to keep the choked-off sounds of pleasure in, but Tim pulled off with an admonishing look and tugged the hand away. “Come on, I want to hear you. Can’t you see how hot that is, how hard it makes me?”

Glancing down, Martin could see Tim shallowly thrusting his hips into the mattress, as if he was getting off on sucking him off. He let his head fall back and groaned, but kept his hands fisted in the sheets instead of covering his mouth. Satisfied, Tim returned to laving at Martins cock. He ran his lips and tongue all over, getting him wet before sucking his cock into the back of his mouth.

He kept at it, changing up the pressure and speed, all the while Martin was letting an almost constant stream of pleasured noises slip from his throat. He tentatively unfurled one hand from the sheets and placed it on Tim’s head, pulling gently. Tim moaned around his cock, and that was it, it was too much- “Tim, Tim I’m going to come if you don’t stop,” he panted.

With an obscene pop Tim pulled off and crawled back up to kiss Martin after sparing a second to wipe at his mouth. “Yeah, come on, come for me,” he slipped a hand around Martins wet cock and managed only a couple of strokes before he bit down on Tim’s lower lip with a grunt and came harder than he had in months . Tim kept kissing him and stroking him through it before slowing to a stop when his hips twitched away, oversensitive.

He came back to himself and kissed Tim back with renewed vigor. “Fuck, Tim, you’re incredible. Here, let me -” but before he could get his hand around Tim’s cock, he was groaning through his own orgasm and thrusting weakly against Martin’s hip. “Oh, okay. Hah, that works too, I guess.”

Looking not even the tiniest bit bashful, Tim smiled up at him. “Sorry, you were just really hot. Didn’t quite want to wait when I was so close .” He kissed Martin’s cheek, his nose, and finally his lips. “But the night is still young. You could always get me off during round two?” Martin groaned and buried his face in Tim’s messy hair.

“You’re severely underestimating how thoroughly you’ve worn me out.” Tim pulled back and stuck his tongue out at him before settling into a smirk. Martin pulled him down to kiss the smug look off his face. “However, after getting cleaned up a bit and a quick nap, I could be convinced to go again.” Tim hummed softly before pushing off the bed to grab a wet cloth. Martin couldn’t not watch him as he left.

***

Later, when they both were cleaned up and half-spooning on Tim’s large bed, Tim interrupted the sleepy silence by voicing something that had clearly been on his mind all night. “So it was me you were mooning over while we were heroically exterminating worms, then?

“Tim!” Martin slapped his arm. “Go to sleep please.” Muffling his laughter into Martin’s chest, Tim closed his eyes and did just that.

[taiyang-too-long]

For Old Times Sake

[ This is my first attempt at an Noir AU fic.This could end up being a one shot but I may keep it going if folks seem interested. A big thank you to @ozcarpin @ask-raven-branwen and @firebluevixen who helped me come up with this idea and workshop it]

Remnant City police department

1947

9:22 pm

“Fourteen murders” I said slamming the thick folder on his desk. “Fourteen. In just five months”

Captain Ironwood pressed his fingers to his temples and rubbed them. He spoke with that same no nonsense, matter of fact tone that always kinda chafed me.

“Its a big city, Tai” he said. “We get a lot of crime. Further more, there isn’t anything in these cases linking the deaths together. It’s just as likely that these are all separate unconnected crimes.”

“That what I thought too” I said “but Qrow was sure there was something here and now...c’mon Jim...he’s been missing for weeks..”

Ironwood leaned forward, interlocking his hands as he spoke. “Qrow could have just skipped town, it wouldn’t be unlike him.”

“Jim-“

“Captain” he corrected. “Now I know you’re concerned but you’ve got your own cases. Now I suggest you get to them. You’re dismissed.”

I opened my mouth to object but his stern look told me I was wasting my time. With a curt nod I gathered the files and plopped back into the chair at my desk.

Ironwood was good man. He could make the tough calls when others couldn’t or wouldn’t. He ran a tight ship and was the only bastard tough enough to keep all these boys in line...but dammit he could be a real heartless son of a bitch sometimes.

I’d known Qrow most of my life and sure he was a bit of a wild card but he wouldn’t just drop off the map like that. I wondered if Jim was just still sour over the big blow out they’d had.

I looked over the case files for the dozenth time. There had to be something. None of the victims knew each other. None of the deaths were similar. The victims themselves had seemingly nothing in common. So what? What was it that Qrow latched onto? ....and who thought he was looking to closely..

I heard the muffled whispers from some beat cops not too far from where I sat.

“Old bad luck Branwen eh?”

“Yeah, still no sign of em’ probably owed the wrong guy money”

“Who cares? I heard that guy was crooked anyway-“

I don’t remember getting up. Next thing I knew I had the punk up against the wall, slamming my fist against his jaw.

“Say it again” I shouted “SAY IT!”

I felt several arms pulling me back, I struggled against them as the loud mouth cop was being held back by his friend.

“What the hells the matter with you?” he cried.

“You say another word about Qrow Branwen, you’ll spend the rest of your life eating through a straw!” I spat back

Ironwood charged out of his office, positioning himself inbetween us.

“What the hell is going on in here?” He snapped. “You. Edwards. My office. Tai? Take a walk.”

“Captain-“

“I said take a walk!” He yelled “and if you got a problem with that, you can leave your badge at the door.”

We held glares for a few seconds, but I shrugged off the arms that held me and grabbed my jacket, marching my way out. As I left I heard a few murmured conversations before the Captains voice raised again.

“Oh I’m sorry? Is this a sowing circle?” he said “No? Then cut the gossip and get your asses back to work!”

Outside the precinct I stood in the rain. The light drizzle was steadily picking up into what was sure to be one hell of a storm as I tried to collect my thoughts. I had only been out there a few minutes when an expensive looking black car pulled up in front of me. It’s rear window rolled down slightly, revealing a pair of jade green eyes.

“Detective Xiao Long?” A woman’s voice asked.

“Whose asking?”

“My name is Glynda Goodwitch. My employer would like to have a word with you.”

“And who would that be..?”

The woman didn’t answer. She simply looked forward as the window rolled back up.

I looked around at the empty street. Not a soul around to witness but something told me this was an opportunity I shouldn’t pass up.

With a sigh I walked around to the other side of the vehicle and climbed in. The car drove off into the night and towards the strangest case of my life.

*****************************************

Mount Glenn estate.

10: 49 pm

After a quiet and lengthy drive we arrived at Mount Glenn estate. A large castle like mansion that bordered the edge of town.No one knew who owned it just that it had been around for as long as anyone could remember.

Walking through the halls of the darkened manor, I couldn’t help but feel incredibly small. It’s high ceilings and wide hallways filled to the brim with paintings and baubles of all shapes and sizes perhaps was suppose it give an air of openness. Instead it felt more empty, like a long abandoned museum.

From deeper within the estate I could hear the quiet sounds of music, getting louder with each step that drew us closer.

“My employer is something of a collector” Said Ms. Goodwitch. “Some of the rarest treasures can be found within these walls”

“Well I certainly can respect a man that appreciates beauty enough to surround himself with it” I said, my gaze lingering briefly on her.

If I didn’t know any better I’d say she’d almost smiled.

We stopped at a large set of double doors, the music was at its loudest. She opened the door and ushered me inside. Before exiting herself and quietly shutting the door.

Across the room, his back to me, only partially visible from the light of the roaring fire place, stood a man playing the violin.

He faced the enormous windows on the far wall, staring out into the vast expanses of ocean being rocked by the storm.

The melody he played was solemn and slow. It’s haunting notes seemed to reverberate off the walls, coming at me from all directions.

I wasn’t sure how long I’d been standing there enraptured but eventually something snapped me to my senses. I cleared my throat.

The music stopped instantly. The man held his position for a moment as if he wasn’t sure that the noise hadn’t simply been a figment of his imagination.

The pause in the music seemed to embolden the storm. Thunder rumbling loudly and the rain finding new ferver amidst the silence. The man lowered his instrument, placing it into its case beside him with almost lover like gentleness.

“Detective..” he said still looking out the window, his hands folded behind him. “I’m so pleased you could join me this evening.”

“Well, a beautiful woman asks me to go somewhere. I tend to listen”

“So I’ve heard” he said.

Before I could ask what he meant he continued, still facing the darkness of the sea. “Please. Have a seat”

Next to the fire place where to high back black leather chairs. I made my way to one, almost immediately sinking into the seat. The man could afford the best it seemed.

There was another long stretch of silence. After a moment or two the man moved from his scenic view and took the seat opposite of mine, crossing his legs and resting both hands over his knee.

His soft honey eyes betrayed the youthful features of his face, stained with sights of things far beyond his years. Despite his polite demeanor I could feel his gaze picking me apart bit by bit.

“My name is Arthur Ozpin” he said finally finding his voice once more.

“Why am I here” I said, becoming alittle unnerved by this whole situation.

“Because you chose to be”

“I beg your pardon?”

He didn’t stop to clarify. Instead he adjusted the small green spectacles he wore and moved right along.

“Does the name Jonathan Katch mean anything to you?” He asked

The first victim. I could feel him trying to gauge my reaction but you don’t spend as long as I have on the force without a mean poker face to keep the civilians content.

“Mr. Katch, was found dead in his home five months ago” I said using what Qrow used to call my ‘cop voice’.

“How dreadful” Ozpin said calmly. “What was the cause of death?”

“That’s under investigation”

“Savanna Martin?”

Another victim. One of the more recent ones. I started to become incredibly aware of the pistol holster against my side. What was this all about?

“....also under investigation.” I said eyeing the man.

From beside his chair he retrieved a cane. It was simple in design. Flat black with the odd ring of silver here and there and atop serving as the handle, a green gemstone smoothed into a vaguely ovate shape.

His pale fingers traced over the stone, which almost seemed to glow in the fire light.

“And what of.....Qrow Branwen?” he asked quietly.

I jumped to my feet, gun in hand. asking about the murders. Asking about Qrow. The whole thing had just set my nerves to max.

Who was this man? Was he responsible for Qrow disappearance? Was I next for looking to closely into the matter?

Despite the barrel in his face, Ozpin made no noticeable change in expression.

“Now, now” he said “there’s no need for all that.”

“Who are you?” I demanded

“I am, I suspect the only person in this world who is as interested in finding Qrow Branwen as you are” he said

“What do these deaths have to do with Qrow?”

“That, Detective” he said rising from his seat, a burning intensity sharpening his stare. “Is precisely what I intend to discover”