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chayacat · 3 years

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Devil’s Sweet Star (40)

Fandom: Dead by Daylight

Ghostface x Female Reader

Rated M for Violence, Language and Smut

***

Aaaaaah.... what a beautiful night. A clear sky, stars dosing this beautiful black sky, A full moon, well round, very bright. If werewolves existed, it would be a perfect full moon for them, an ideal evening of blood and chaos for them. But even though he's not a werewolf, tonight is a perfect night for Danny. Finally.... FINALLY, he will be able to kill Hoggins. Finally, he will be able to finish what he started so long ago. Finally, he will be able to turn the page. What to do next? Keep killing of course. But here or elsewhere.... that is the question. He couldn't wait to see you too. But not tonight.

The question that everyone must ask themselves is: but how could he go out with all his equipment, and above all, what will he be able to tell you, given that you live together? well the answer is very simple, and luck is definitely on his side. For the answer, he will simply find a great excuse, out of his awesome and insane mind. And as for luck, you are not at the apartment tonight. No, you spend the evening at Melina's, the latter having invited you to come and watch horror movies at her house. Danny really has a very good star over his head, although he would have had no trouble finding an excuse to go out tonight: being a journalist can be a curse for sleep but also a blessing for murder.

Danny was posed against his van as usual, observing the home of his future victim and revenge: Richard Hoggins. Good god it burned his whole body to go there now and massacre him without any mercy, without any strategy, just... a good bloody murder. But he must remain calm, this is not the time to be spotted and suspected by the police. And amazingly, even Jed, who is only Danny's alter-ego, an identity he had created from scratch, even he wanted to kill him.

“A beautiful night to kill, isn't it? Well... only you can see it.” said Jed inside Danny’s mind.

“I expected you to give me yet another lesson in morality as you know how to do so well. What's going on Jed? Would I have ended up rubbing off on you?” responds Danny chuckling.

“Don't claim victory too quickly. I would never endorse what you do, but let's say I'm going to make an exception for this asshole. He has to pay for Carla.”

“You talk about Carla as if you were the one who lost her forever. Whereas you are just an invention. A simple name. You don't know anything and you don't feel anything.

“You created me the very second you needed me. I may not be real, but I am a part of you, your good side, your past innocence. And also, your psychologist in a way. And I will continue to exist, as long as you need another identity. Involuntarily, you let me access your life, and now we are two sides of the same coin. People would say that... I am your imaginary friend. That looks like you like two drops of water.”

“Oh, shut up...” replied Danny, sighing and looking away.

“... What will you do, when (y/n) learns the truth. Are you going to kill her or are you going to let her live?” said Jed looking at Hoggin’s house.

“It will depend on her reaction. If I could leave her alive.... that would suit me. But if she confronts me or tries to call the police... I will have no other choice.”

“Will you only be able to... that’s the question.”

Danny got up, looked at the house one last time before putting on his mask and taking his knife. It’s time. Let us not make Hoggins wait any longer. The house was just as guarded as McKellan's. But that's not what was going to stop Danny. Far from it. The harder the victory, the more delicious the reward will be. He walked to the side of the house where Hoggins' office was located. The window was closed at first glance but it is better to check.

As usual, he will use the equipment he finds on site. One of Danny's golden rules is never buying any equipment. Otherwise, the police will be able to trace him via his bank account. Beginner error. He climbed up to hoggins' office window and effectively it was closed. But the one in the next room, on the other hand, was not completely. It was an archive room, surely where he kept his contracts, press articles, and anything else that could interest him.

“Well... a real library... I am sure that even the police archives room is not as large and as full of documents as this room... Hoggins protects a real time bomb. If anyone stumbles upon all this... His entire family over thousands of generations will be dishonoured.” Said Danny looking inside the drawers.

And why not take a look? it won't hurt anyone. And with a little luck... Danny opened each drawer and looked at the different files until he found the one looking for: the file recounting the events of 4 years ago. The juicy little contract he had made with Dr. Pheels was to vomit. Certainly, he gave funds to the hospital for each death... but he recovered the double because he took 3/4 of the state aid that Pheels gave him. In the end everyone was a winner. And Hoggins even more.

“Motherf*cker. I hope you have taken advantage of this money, asshole. Because you're going to pay a lot tonight.”

Danny put the files away before passing the door that linked the archive room to the office. The office was empty, Hoggins was not there yet. Perfect. This gave him time to inspect the room. No camera. No alarm. Nothing. Good. The ropes of the curtains could be used to tie Hoggins. Or even more. Compared to McKellan, he did not exhibit artifacts or sharp objects in his office. Fortunately, he had taken his own knife. The office stinked of luxure, we saw that it was made to measure and at a price ... to fall to the ground.

Danny really wonders if he paid for it with "clean money". Rotten as he is, Hoggins may well have paid workers with dirty money, or not paid at all. It's possible with men like him. They are so stingy, so conceited, that they are able to do anything to keep a single penny. Noises were heard in the corridors. He’s coming. Danny got to the door and when Hoggins arrived, he did not see the latter hidden by the door.

“These cop bastards are seriously starting to hit me on the nerves to take care of my business! And that journalist... this Olsen.... if I could make him disappear... I thought I wouldn't fall back on him here. Maybe... maybe I could swing everything on him. After all,... I know who he really is.” said Hoggins before drinking.

Danny quietly advanced behind Hoggins ready to knock him out. The latter still drank a few sips of his glass of whiskey before turning around and falling face to face with Ghostface. The latter did not give him time to do or say anything that he punched him in the face, causing him to fall to the ground, knocking him out instantly. Danny sneered at the inert body before taking a chair and the ropes from the curtain, then lifted Hoggins up to tie him up on the chair. He locked the door of the office and then returned to the archives room where he found a closet in which there were boards, nails and an electric nailer.

He prepared the scene by nailing the boards together, took the remaining curtain ropes and installed all his work in such a place and arrangement that when the police enter, Hoggins' body will be the first thing they will see. And if it could be Willhelm first... the pleasure will be all the greater. Hoggins woke up after a few minutes without panicking, without trying to free himself. As if he knew what lay ahead.

“Well, well... McKellan had acted like you at the beginning... you want to play the big hard... but you are only little girls.” Said Danny chuckling.

“It's funny coming from a man who doesn't take responsibility for his crimes and hides under a Halloween ghost mask. But we have to believe that criminals are all bad guys who want to play the big tough.” responds Hoggins before taking a punch in the face.

“You have more mouth than the other idiot. But you will quickly regret it, it’s me who tells you. You forget who I am.”

“Oh no... I know exactly who you are... Jed Olsen ... or you'd rather I call you... Danny Johnson?”

“...I see that you have done some research... and you have learned your lessons well. After all, you've had plenty of time for 4 years. But you're going to pay for it. Up to the last litre of blood.”

“All this for a poor little girl who was going to die anyway? You're resentful Johnson. You could have simply turned the page and avoided poking your nose into my stuff. I was very saddened to learn of the tragic death of Pheels...”

Danny punched him again before pulling out his knife and planting it in Hoggins' leg. The latter groans in pain before falling with his chair to the ground. Danny put himself on top of him and chained the blows more and more loudly. He lifted Hoggins by the hair and dragged him for meters to place him in front of a wooden cross large enough to hang a man on it.

“You see my dear Richard... this "poor little girl" as you call her had a future. And she could have got away with a treatment. The problem is that Carla had the misfortune to stumble upon you and your dear partner, Pheels. And YOU have decided to let her die in the name of profit. What's stupid for both of you is that you're falling on me. Young journalist... and crazy to bind. She was the only thing that helped me stay upright and you killed her. Pheels paid his share. You're going to pay yours. But for you the bill is going to be heavier. You know why? Because you're also going after MY girlfriend. And that... you should never have.” said Danny, preparing the electric nailer.

“When she learns of it, your little café boss will swing you at the cop. Anyway, you're screwed. I have a whole file on you and when Wilhelm sees it and read it...” said Hoggins with a sneaky smile.

“Oh. Are you talking about that?” replied Danny by exiting the folder. “You've done some really good research tell me. I loved rereading all these things about myself. You could have made it a novel even. Too bad this file disappears with you. At least it's going to burn. You... I'm reserving you for something more... artistic. I hope you are ready to meet your creator. Because you're going to join him right now. And in the same way as him. Or rather in a bloody way than him.”

Danny took the electric nailer and equipped it. He began by shooting Hoggins in the legs, who groaned again in pain. Unfortunately for him no one could hear him. He shot again, but this time in the arms, then in the torso. Blood was dripping from everywhere and Hoggins was finding it increasingly difficult to breathe. Danny detached him and put him on the cross where he nailed him like Jesus.

“You are...completely twisted. You will burn... in hell.” Said Hoggins.

“Maybe. But for now, it's you who's going to rot in hell. Suck the devil’s d***, you son of b**ch.” responds Danny before killing him with a nail in the head.

A demonic smile stretched over his face. That's it... He's dead. But it's not over yet. Much remains to be done. Danny used the curtain ropes to tie Hoggins to the wooden cross. Then with the little one remaining, he created a kind of crown with nails, which he fixed to hoggins’ head. Then he bombarded the whole body with nails, causing it to bleed from all sides.

He then nailed Hoggins' hands and legs to make sure he did not fall and turned the cross over to make the symbol of the devil. This is a very successful work of art. However, one or two small details are missing. It's not bloody enough for his liking. He used his knife to eviscerate Hoggins, then slashed an angel's smile. Danny used Hoggins' blood to write a message on the wall and backed off to admire his work. There... there it’s better. There is only one thing left to do: to make this folder disappear. And the only way... it's to burn it.

But Danny is not stupid, he is not going to put the fire at home. He will burn it outside in the garden. He observed his work one last time, took a picture in order to have a proof to show you, then he left the place. Once away, halfway between the van and the house, he pulled out a lighter and set fire to the folder. He let go of the latter, watched him burn for a few minutes, then went to the van and left the place to go home.

“Finally... It's over. I will be able to turn the page...” said Danny, looking at the road.

“Yes. But you're going to keep killing. And that's not cool.” responds Jed sitting on the passenger seat.

“Did you honestly believe that I was going to change after that? Oh no, obviously I'll continue... but I would no longer be alone. I hope you enjoyed the show from my mind.”

“Make Hoggins the counterpart of God and crucify him? I must admit that I loved it.”

“This is normal... you are me.” replied Danny looking at the passenger seat before focusing on the road again.

Danny arrived in the parking lot of the building. He changed in the back of the van, put his suit in his bag and went up to the apartment. When he opened the door, he noticed that it looked empty. He walked to the bedroom which was also empty. You hadn't come back yet, it was perfect. He went to his office to put down his bag, take out his suit and put it in the washing machine. Once the latter was washed, he began to dry it in his office, which he locked. He took a shower, put on his pyjamas, and threw another washing machine. At the same time, you return, all smiling, exhausted but delighted from your evening. Danny took you in his arms, kissed you and guided you to the room so that you could both go to bed.

What you didn't know yet was that the job was done. Finally, Danny could turn the page on his past. And he shot it in the most beautiful way.

An inverted cross on the photo of a demon.

***

(My first injection of the vaccine is only next Tuesday! I'm a little stressed because I don't know how I'm going to react to this first injection of vaccine. So, I prefer to warn in advance that this could delay the release of the next chapter of DSS. But don't worry! I'm solid so everything should go well! As I told you, I will try to do a small teasing post for fanfic re8, but it is complicated to summarize something without telling too much. And I always struggle to find a title. I hope you’ll like this chapter like the others ones! Well, it's time for my brain to rest! Have a great weekend to you all! See ya!)

#dbd fanfic #dbd #dead by daylight #ghostface #danny johnson #jed olsen

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bottomcasbigbang · 4 years

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Here you can read all the stories of our second round and check out the artwork our participants have created! Thank you to everyone who was a part of this, be it as a writer, author, beta, reader, cheerleader or helping hand! Thank you so much everyone and we hope we’ll see you back for the next round! ♥

Without further ado, the BCBB 2019/2020 creations:

Wayward Sons by Substiel (Explicit, 29k)

Illustrated by bees0are0awesome

It's the year 1919 and the Wayward Sons are the most powerful criminal organization in the country. It's ruled by Dean Winchester who bares the Mark of Cain. A curse given to him when Mary Winchester made a deal with the Devil to save her dying son. Dean was always a cold blood killer who did everything for business, and he never let anyone into his heart. He didn't dare let himself get too close to someone. That was until the Roadhouse hired a new bartender.

Castiel always admired Dean from afar for helping the lower class have a voice. For some reason, the bartender knows how to get under Dean's skin. There was something different about him which led to the beginning of their newfound relationship. Two broken souls finding each other in the middle.

Archive Warning: Graphic Depiction of Violence

Art Masterpost / Fic Masterpost

My Bloody Luck by TaymeeLove (Mature, 16k)

Illustrated by Kamicom

Castiel was a struggling actor who never had luck on his side in life or his relationships. He met with an accident and his life was never the same after. Will his luck in relationships turn around this time?

Art Masterpost / Fic Masterpost

Metanoia by adestielable (Explicit, 24k)

Illustrated by Noavice

Castiel’s existence has been nothing but pain, humiliation, and degradation. He’s an omega in a world where omegas are objects for an alpha’s enjoyment.

After a brutal assault on his nineteenth birthday, Castiel began entering into beastie fights—matches where instead of people going head to head, bio and mechanically engineered beasts fight to the death. And in Castiel’s months of fights, he’s not lost once.

It’s after one of these fights where Castiel meets Dean, his supposed true mate. Castiel hates alphas, and has vowed never to let one into his life because all alphas do is inflict pain. Yet…Dean is different. And Castiel finds he can’t help being drawn to him.

Archive Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage

Art Masterpost / Fic Masterpost

Profound Kisses by BENKA79 (Explicit, 20k)

Illustrated by Gio (sketching-fox)

Dean knows he's screwed. He discovers he is in love with Castiel in Purgatory, and now he can't even have the angel in front of him, because he knows it's a one sided love. It’s Valentine's day and Dean tries very hard to hook up as always, but he can't get Cas out of his mind. So he drives back to the motel, drunk, and he finds Castiel trying to help him. Then, when Dean asks Castiel for some experimental kisses and the angel accepts, Dean starts a very dangerous game… finding in Castiel's kisses the most delicious experiences, but also, his own perdition. Will Castiel fall in love with him? Or will he stay emotionless as always?

Art Masterpost / Fic Masterpost

Sparks by DragonSgotenks (Explicit, 20k)

Illustrated by VampyRosa

Omega Cas meets Alpha Dean during one of the worst weeks of his life. Sparks fly when they realize they're truemates. But after a wild and intense night that ends with both of them sporting new mating bites, could a simple misunderstanding tear the new couple apart before they even have a chance to begin?

Art Masterpost / Fic Masterpost

Lesson Number 1: Monsters are Real by blueye22 (Explicit, 20k)

Illustrated by kuwlshadow

When Anael "Jo" Novak goes missing during a hike in the mountains with her boyfriend, worried brother, Castiel, goes in search of her. Castiel is surprised to receive the help of FBI agents, Dean and Sam. But what are they hiding?

Archive Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence

Art Masterpost / Fic Masterpost

You At the End of the Rail by spnsmile (Explicit, 30k)

Illustrated by verobatto-angelxhunter

Dean receives a text message from a new human Cas telling him of his suspicion that angels have found him in Gas n Sip. Still filled with guilt for kicking the ex-angel out of the Bunker, Dean steps up to make it up to his friend. Worried, Dean concludes the ex-angel has to disappear for many days so he asks Cas where he wants to go.

Cas’ answer?

Trains.

Fucking trains.

Archive Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence

Art Masterpost / Fic Masterpost

On Your Knees by raths_kitten (Explicit, 14k)

Illustrated by angeltortured

When Dean gets the assignment to follow the Fallen Angels on tour and write a feature article on them, he isn‘t their biggest fan. But that quickly changes when he hears them play live - and meets their charismatic lead singer Castiel in person.

Art Masterpost / Fic Masterpost

Just Like in the Movies by noxsoulmate (Explicit, 46k)

Illustrated by lotrspnfangirl

In a world where a new mark appears whenever you fall in love, Hollywood sweetheart, Castiel James, is known for his unblemished skin. Oh, he has the faint shadows of old crushes and childish infatuations, but no mark is that of something deep and true. No mark has ever stuck, no mark has ever become more than a hazy outline. Because Cas, well... Cas has never been in love.

The skin of bookshop owner Dean Winchester, however, tells another tale entirely. Dean loves freely, quickly, and deeply. He loves his family, he loves his friends, he still cares for his exes. While the first two don’t show on his skin, the latter do. All brushed over his body in various shapes and forms and colors. Of varying clarity. But even Dean has yet to get that one mark. That mark that sticks. The mark that is so deep, and so sharp, and so clear, it can only be that of a profound bond.

These two men share a common hope; a common desire. That one day, they might have a mark that means they have found a love that is as deep and true as love can be - just like in the movies.

Art Masterpost / Fic Masterpost

Granted by Andromache_42 (Explicit, 20k)

Illustrated by agusvedder

At forty-one, Dr. Castiel Novak is the proud recipient of a generous grant to fund his project on sustainability and urban farming from the Campbell Foundation, a small investing firm based out of Chicago. The night before he meets the award committee, lonely and pushed by his friend Balthazar, Castiel has the best sex of his life during a casual Grindr hook-up with “just-visiting” forty-seven-year-old Dean. Castiel’s life appears to be coming together, until he discovers that Dean is the head of the grant award committee. For the sake of professionalism, Castiel is willing to ignore the intense attraction between the two of them, but Dean turns out to be too tempting to resist.

Art Masterpost / Fic Masterpost

Finding Bigfoot by Desirae (Explicit, 22k)

Illustrated by Tamapochi

“Don’t be such a worrywart. It’s vacation time. Campfires, fishing, beer. What’s better than that?”

“Apparently a sasquatch sighting?” Castiel snarked, with an arched brow.

“Well, yeah. I mean, Sam’s a good substitute, but it’d be nice to see the real thing,” Dean grinned.

Finding Bigfoot wasn't exactly on the itinerary when Dean, Cas, and Sam planned their annual boys-only camping trip, but with his brother in a noticeable funk, Dean was prepared to do what he had to do. Even if it meant keeping quiet about a long-waited love confession from his best friend.

Determined to stay focused on distracting Sam from his troubles, and not make him feel like a third wheel, Dean and Castiel decide to keep their new relationship status to themselves, until after vacation is over.

After years of mutual pining, that shouldn’t be too hard, right?

Art Masterpost / Fic Masterpost

Meet me at Sunset by Suus_Arido (Mature, 55k)

Illustrated by celstese

Ever since the Barrier of Melaina fell and plunged the worlds of men, monsters and magic together, the Republic Elohim has kept its citizens save with help from the hunter organization the Red Circle.

Dean Winchester has never known how the world looked before the fall of the barrier. He and his family have been part of the Red Circle for generations and he knew it was his faith to die in battle. All he is supposed to want is to protect the innocents from darkness. But how can he when his soul is dark and corrupt?

As the monsters start to adapt and become more intelligent, the rise of chaos is not far behind. It’s midst this chaos that Dean meets a human with the name of an angel. Not only does this man believe in the salvation of the world but he also seems to believe that Dean is redeemable as well.

A love story may perhaps develop but Dean knows better, for it is known that the faith of a hunter is tragedy. Will Dean be able to make the right call? Even when blue eyes turn unrecognizable?

Archive Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con

Art Masterpost / Fic Masterpost

Beyond Borders by xHaruka17x (Explicit, 53k)

Illustrated by Diminuel

Sometimes doing what is right, what feels right, doesn't mean you’ll escape the consequences of those actions. Dean Winchester is the Head Alpha of one of the largest packs of the Western Hemisphere. He is days away from being a married and mated Alpha, ready for the next chapter in his life to commence, only for a horrific accident to change everything. Adam, Dean and Sam's little brother, is killed in a car accident across the globe in Russia. Dean finds out his little brother's now widowed Omega is all alone and pregnant, left to the mercy of his horrible home pack. Dean makes a decision and he knows things will explode when he gets back home, but he knows in his heart it’s the right thing to do.

Art Masterpost / Fic Masterpost

The Cleric's Birthright by Scribo_Vivere (Explicit, 34k)

Illustrated by yoyo-deano

Castiel Novak lost his husband and the love of his life, Balthazar, three years ago in a slaying no one has been able to solve. Burying himself in his work at the university as a leading anthropology professor there, he attempts to put the past behind him. When vicious murders begin to plague him in an eerie replication of Balthazar’s death, Castiel decides to find out on his own what sort of evil has descended upon them all. But the answers he’s looking for may not be so easily found, and the revelation forced upon him could destroy everything he knows - about himself, his world, and the faith he once held so dear. Complicating things is his new relationship with Dean Winchester, who may or may not be what he appears. Why is Castiel inexplicably drawn to him like a moth to the flame?

Archive Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death

Art Masterpost / Fic Masterpost

To Soar Without Grace by QuillsAndInk (Explicit)

Castiel is an alpha and a cleric serving the gods of his kingdom and wielding their power in preparation to join a holy war. When he gets taken by the heretical high prince of a rival kingdom, Castiel knows his fate is sealed. That is, until prince Dean tries to persuade him to take on a mad quest to kill his father and end the holy war. With heretical magic Castiel can’t understand forcing him away from the gods he’s always served, Castiel joins Dean. But in the mountain wilderness in the dead of winter with only his sworn enemy for company, can Dean and Castiel get past their differences or will the war swallow them up.

Archive Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Art Masterpost / Fic Masterpost

Cow Bells and Snow Globes by Pimento (Explicit)

It really doesn't matter what the gossip columns say. Dean knows the International Ski Champion Castiel Novak, aka, Casanova of the Slopes is actually just Cas. Loyal, kind, caring Cas. The same Cas he's absolutely not had a crush on since they were teenagers on the competitive circuit.

He's had two plus decade's practice at hiding his feelings, how difficult can it be to suppress them a little longer.

They just so happen to be in the same ski resort, at the same time for an entire season, so Dean is damn well gonna enjoy having his friend back in his life for a while and not screw it up. The fact that he seems to have the magic touch with the grumpy teenage daughter that Cas is trying so desperately to reconnect with is just an opportunity to ease his friends' troubles while he finds his feet again.

Art Masterpost / Fic Masterpost

#supernatural #Destiel #bottom!cas #top!dean #masterpost: 2019/2020 #BCBB

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schmokschmok · 3 years

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witches are real, and you think this is just a funny fic title

Fandom: The Magnus Archives

Relationship: Martin K. Blackwood x Tim Stoker

Characters: Martin K. Blackwood, Tim Stoker, Sasha James, Danny Stoker

Wordcount: 12,166

Freeform:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence

No Fear Entities

Supernatural Elements

Witch & HOH Tim Stoker

Danny Stoker Lives

Halloween

Tim Stoker Deserves Nice Things And I’m Giving Them To Him

Summary:

Martin fakes his way into the Magnus Institute, a research and archiving facility for magical and supernatural (or as Elias Bouchard likes to call it paranormal) encounters. He expects the people working for the institute to be kind of weird but Tim Stoker takes his commitment for a spooky aesthetic to a whole new level.

Read on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27070366

The thing is: Martin knows what to do with crooked smiles and superficial, flattering words. He knows how to smile politely and stumble through a thank you when someone compliments the jumper he’s wearing, not knowing that he made it himself. He knows how to accept an absentminded nod as gratitude for the tea he’s making every day for the whole archival staff. He knows how to get through a wide array of flirty remarks that concern his appearance, dignity mostly intact. He knows how to smile through a detachedly welcoming nod of a co-worker for years that answers his greeting by name.

The thing he can’t handle, under any circumstances, however, is kindness. Never been good at it, not even as a kid.

He knows his mother had been kind when he had been a child, had brushed and braided his hair every single night and told him fairy tales and stories, she had stayed up with him after nightmares and during thunder storms, had told him she loved him even when he was angry with her. And she hadn’t expected him to love her back, is the thing, hadn’t wanted him to brush her hair or hold her hand or meet every of her stories with one of his own. Maybe that’s why he gives back now, loves her even if she doesn’t love him back, brushes and braids her hair even if she doesn’t want to look at him, tells her stories of his work and the friends he doesn’t have but fabricates just to maybe ease her mind. (And if she doesn’t want him coming back, then he will stop. Kindness, sometimes, is about the things you’re willing to give up for the ones that you love. – On some days she calls him cruel for coming back and coming back and coming back, but she doesn’t tell him to leave, doesn’t tell him to stay away. So, he returns like a record broken, jumping on the same syllable until she stops the needle digging into him.)

His father had been kind, too, he thinks. Had to be to be loved by a woman like his mother once had been. Martin doesn’t remember anymore.

Mostly, the kindness directed his way is about bargaining favours and weighing the things he does against sweet spoken words. Which is alright, he thinks, because giving his last shirt for a sincere thank you has been his modus operandi since his father left. He wants to give and give and if that leaves him curled up on his bed on a Wednesday evening at eight o’clock then it’s just because he’s not strong enough to carry the weight of his own thoughts.

It starts like this: Martin takes up work in the institute with no real credentials to support his curriculum vitae or his claim of knowledge about anything, really, but he’s tired of working minimal wage, of cooking mediocre food late at night for his mother who wants to move out desperately to stop being all on her own in their empty flat, of working three shifts in a row in two different jobs and still struggling to meet ends. Martin’s tired of burning on a borrowed flame, shovelling hollow coals on a dying candle.

So, he’s faking CVs, so many that he loses count of them. He sends them to every job listing he finds, twisting and tweaking the details, staying up late at night on his battered laptop that takes almost five minutes to boot. He shows up to as many interviews as he can manage but he never gets called back in. Until Elias Bouchard phones him on a cloudy day and tells him that he can start working in the library, if he’s able to move to London in the next month that is. He accepts, of course he does. His mother would never forgive him declining the only job offer that would get them to pay their bills on time and pave the way to a nice nursing home where his mother doesn’t have to be alone anymore.

Martin moves to London. His mother doesn’t.

He starts working in the Magnus Library which is a capital L kind of library as he gets told on his very first day. It’s a joke, he thinks, a library science master’s joke that he doesn’t get but laughs about anyway. (It’s a Magnus Institute’s joke, but Martin doesn’t know that yet. His hands are full juggling the Dewey Decimal and his customer service smile while looking at the impatient faces of half of the faculty members trying to loan basic material books he hasn’t ever heard the titles of.)

It’s not a secret that he’s incompetent, Martin thinks, they all know it, and no one says anything to his face which is probably meant as kindness but feels like cruelty. Because Martin isn’t daft, Martin isn’t incapable of learning, Martin isn’t unwilling to put every last ounce of himself into being better. But nobody seems to think that he’s important enough to be corrected. They see his misfiled loaning records and his misplaced books, and they say it’s not a problem, don’t worry and they take care of it without offering to teach him any better. And Martin, well, Martin is too embarrassed to ask them how to handle it in the future. He will figure it out, he thinks, in time.

(He’s right, but he doesn’t know that yet. It takes almost a year for him to memorise the layout of the library with its seemingly everchanging bookshelves and corridors. It takes almost one and a half for him to get to know every Library staff member and their preferred way to drink tea. It takes almost two years for him to remember the faces of the faculty members that don’t visit the library regularly. It takes almost three years for him to know that it’s Research and Archives and Library and Artefacts but human resources and accounting and information technology. It’s around the same time that he feels like maybe he’s part of the team now; the same time that his co-workers stop looking at him like he’s a bumbling fool without any skills; the same time that he stops calling his mother every three days or so even though she hasn’t picked up in a long time.)

The very first week that he works in the library is filled with many apologies, too many to keep record, a much and much of awkward apologeticness. A few conversations are held, he gets to know Rosie „the heart of the institute” Martinez and Lydia „from HR” Yılmaz. They are good people and talking to them makes the muscles in his back relax just the tiniest bit, although the panic never stops flaring up in his stomach that, somehow, they will know that he’s a fraud.

It’s the first day of his second week and he feels slightly more prepared because he used every minute of the weekend to pull up every article ever written about the institute and its library. He tried reading published papers, too, but without the institute’s access they’re securely locked behind a paywall he can’t get through without a credit card and loads and loads of money to spare. He snacked on canned peaches while reading about filing systems, but in the end he’s none the wiser.

So, he comes in an hour early and unlocks the front entrance of the institute with his key card. It’s eerily quiet in the dark lobby and hallways leading into the back of the building. The noisiness of the street and the embankment gets swallowed by the thick walls and the closing door behind him and the only thing he can hear is the tapping of his own shoes on the marble floor. It’s a mixture of unsettling and peaceful, but he’s not sure which takes precedence in his sleep addled mind. The unfamiliarity of the cream-coloured walls and the polished, almost black floor makes every shadow move in a way Martin can’t comprehend and he turns to look at them a few times only to realise they’re potted plants or laminated notes hung up next to different door frames. He passes a few glowing exit signs and the door to the stairwell that leads up to the second floor.

When he approaches the entrance to the library, a weight gets lifted from his stomach at the prospect of a light switch he can use to chase out the darkness that slowly gets more unnerving than comforting. Spinning the key card in his hand to keep busy and hold his anxiety at bay, he rounds the last corner and stops dead in his tracks. Because sitting right in front of the door is a person only illuminated by the harsh, cold light of their phone. Right the second Martin loses hold of his key card and it meets the floor with an echoing plasticky sound, their eyes snap up and fixate on Martin.

“Oh, lovely, you’re here,” they say, standing up from their hunched-up position without even touching the floor with their hands. (Martin takes a moment to envy that movement because every time he thinks about sitting down on the floor he has to either make sure something’s in close proximity to help him lift himself up or the ground’s not too dirty, so he doesn’t have to wash his hands right the second he stands upright again.) “I was starting to get worried I’d have to wait another hour for someone to open up.”

“Uh–,” is everything Martin gets out before the stranger picks up his key card and hands it over to him. They smile at him, slightly deranged but without a doubt handsome in a way that makes Martin’s breath catch in his chest. While Martin reaches out carefully to grab the offered card, they say: “Sorry for dropping in unexpectedly and unannounced but Veronica will have my arse if I don’t hand in this follow up today.”

Silence falls over them when Martin doesn’t react in any way and just continues staring at the stranger who keeps staring at him as if Martin should know who Veronica is and how important it is for them to do their follow up. (As if Martin should know what a follow up even is.)

“Tim,” the stranger provides when Martin doesn’t show the slightest inclination to do anything other than, well, stare at them. “I’m working upstairs in Research in Veronica’s team.” They wait for an agonising moment for Martin to return the introduction – which he fails to do, still trying to process that he’s really in an actual conversation with another human being before seven a.m.

“As lovely as it is standing here with you, …” Tim continues, allowing Martin once again to submit his name. Which he fails to do, again, because his mouth feels so dry he’s afraid if he opens it now there won’t come out anything else than a pathetic cough. Tim doesn’t seem too stressed about it. „I really need to go in there,” Tim gestures over their shoulder to the library, “and cross-reference a few things and brush up a few of my foot-notes before it’s time to clock in again. Veronica is really adamant about this follow up laying on her desk at eight thirty sharp.” The manila folder in Tim’s hand gets lifted for emphasis and apparently that’s all Martin needed to get it together and finally move. Without him intending to do so, his lips form a customer service smile that’s been ingrained into his very being from years upon years of working in ice cream shops and pizza restaurants and a movie theatre that’s long gone now.

“Yeah, uh, yeah no problem!”

He steps around Tim and presses his key card against the sensor underneath the door handle. After the soft opening click of the lock, he steps aside to let Tim enter the room behind him and he searches for the light switch with his outstretched arm because he’s pretty sure that one has to be on the wall to his left.

“Thank you, really, you’re doing me a favour, mate,” Tim says and legitimately bows with the biggest grin before he’s off into the depth of the library, swallowed by a shelf Martin could swear hadn’t stood there on Friday when he left.

Finally, he lets go of the door and gets closer to the wall to search with both hands for the switch, until the little finger of his right hand bumps against the hard plastic shell of a set of light switches.

“Gonna be bright for a second,” he warns loudly, unsure if Tim’s even able to hear him or not. Then, after a few seconds, he presses the switch and the lights above his head sputter and blink to life with the solid snugness of old halogen lamps.

His eyes take a moment to adjust to the brightness, then he treads over to the counter, rounds it and closes his eyes for just a heartbeat or two. He’s got this. Tim wandering somewhere, hidden behind shelfs, is not going to change the fact that Martin’s got this. His brain, heart and stomach just need to be convinced, that’s okay, he can handle a wee bit anxiety and nervousness.

Without further ado, he pins his name tag to his monochrome button-down (because that’s what adults wear at work) and starts to open the various drawers underneath the counter to catalogue the innards.

There's probably a system, stapler and pen and pencils in one drawer, neatly arranged in a compartment next to sticky notes and paper squares in bright colours and an uncountable amount of paper clips. In the drawer underneath, he finds envelopes, more paper in various shapes and forms and sizes. Another drawer reveals the minute book in which Martin should document Tim’s presence. (Probably? He’s not entirely sure if the minute book is for every research assistant or students only.) Right next to the minute book, Martin can see the keys for every terminal in the library, and a few personal items of his co-workers which should not be in there as far as Martin’s been informed. The last two drawers contain RFID tags, barcodes and printed ID cards. The space reserved for lost and found is surprisingly empty. (Martin thinks he remembers Janette taking everything back into the small storage room in the back on Friday afternoon.)

It takes almost fifteen minutes for him to open and close every drawer (multiple times) and he's still not sure if he memorised the most important things. It's quarter past seven, however, and he couldn’t find a single position plan, which is why Martin steps around the counter and starts to make his way through the maze that is this library. Clipboard and pencil in hand, he outlines the approximate layout of the outer walls and tries to draw in the shelfs he passes, marking them with things like Local History A—V and Ghosts (general) J—Z, scribbling down letters and numbers of the signatures that seem important to him. (He's got a run down last week but the library uses the most arbitrary synthesis of Dewey Decimal and an intern system that the first library staff must have implemented before trying to shove the Dewey Decimal into the small space left.)

Martin's good at making maps, if he's allowed to say so. He can read a map, he can draw a map. (It wouldn't hold up against a professional map but his always worked fine enough.) So, he feels righteous indignation when someone steps into his space, throws a glance on his makeshift map and says: “This isn't accurate, sorry.”

Martin furrows his brow, but the customer service smile is on his lips again before he’s able to will it away.

“Why wouldn't it be?” Martin asks even though he doesn't want to know what Tim has to say. “I mean, yeah, you couldn't do an accurate projection, but it's not meant to be. It's about the order of the shelfs, the signatures.”

“As much as I hate to disappoint you,” Tim says and lets his finger hover half a centimetre above Martin's map, “but the ghost section is three shelfs down to the right next to Russian literature. I walked past it a few seconds ago.”

“Well, the only reason this map says ghost is because I walked past the ghost section,” Martin retorts (and feels very brave about it). The desire to snatch the map away from Tim's finger and hold it close to his chest so that Tim can't spare another look is strong but Martin also knows it's childish and he shouldn't indulge in such impulses.

“Well, Martin,” Tim must have seen Martin's name tag, which is nice because Tim says his name with an exasperated fondness that Martin shouldn't have earned yet and it spares Martin from the mortifying ordeal of introducing himself after his fauxpas this morning, “I don't know if nobody told you but this Library is like the rest of the institute: A big pile of magical bullshit.”

Tim grins and the skin next to their eyes crinkle with mischief as if they're sharing an inside joke with Martin, as if Martin should understand. (And like every other time someone implies or references something Martin doesn't understand or jokes about something Martin doesn't know, he gets this violent urge to scream into the knowingly smiling face in front of him. But he chokes it down, more or less successfully.) And he smiles.

“Don't beat yourself up,” Tim continues, unaware of the wee bit of hatred Martin feels in this very second, “a map won't help but soon enough you'll get the hang of it.” Tim winks. “When I first started using the Library, I swear to you, every single shelf I walked up to was sporting the cryptid selection. Every single one. I stood between two shelfs and it didn't matter in which direction I turned, there it was: The cryptid section.” Tim's eyes don't leave Martin's face for a second, which is kind of unnerving but at the same time strangely reassuring. As if Tim's more than just aware who they're talking to. “This Library is more a Feeling than an organised space.”

Tim laughs again and Martin tries to join in, but it gets caught in his throat. Tim's flittering fingers and Tim's sing-songed “spooky!” only elevate the closed up feeling in Martin's chest and the knuckles on his hand that still holds onto his clipboard turn white in their effort to not drop it.

A quick glance to the watch on Martin's wrist puts a stop to Tim's easy posture and they say: “Fuck, I should really get going. Veronica's still waiting.” Then Tim hesitates and smiles at Martin again. “It was nice to make acquaintance with you, Martin. This won't be the last you'll see of me, but if you every think about going for a drink after work, hit me up. Sam or Rosie should have given you access to the institute's instant messaging system. I think you would get along well with Sasha — she's also in Research — and me.”

Tim shoots Martin a finger gun (which is incidentally the most obnoxious thing Martin has ever had to witness) and strides past Martin towards the library's exit.

And then he's gone like the first soft layer of frost in November after the first rays of sun.

It's quarter to eight and there's not much time until one of his colleagues will try to open up the library, but Martin uses the remaining time to lean against a shelf and stare at the ticking clock on the wall above the counter, trying to will his heart into a slower rhythm not dictated by anxiety or the sudden realisation that Tim had been close and Tim had been beautiful.

And like everything else in Martin's life: He fails.

This could have been the end and Martin's been sure that it would be. When the clock above the counter strikes twelve however and Martin gets ready to leave the library to go down to the in-house cafeteria, the door to the library gets shoved open and Tim stumbles in, closely followed by a no less beautiful stranger who Martin assumes could be Sasha.

“Martin!” Tim exclaims right before they're fist crashes into their chest right above their heart. “Thank the Lord, you're still here!”

The-stranger-who-could-be-Sasha-but-might-not-be rolls their eyes but smiles, before shoving Tim out of their way.

“Ignore him,” they say and turn a smile on Martin, he can't help but answer with one of his own. “He can be a bit …” They make a circle shaped gesture with their rolling wrist in clear search of the right word. So, Martin tries to jump in: “Dramatic?”

“Yes,” maybe!Sasha says at the same time Tim declares: „Oh, please, I have flair that's something entirely else.“

“You're a theatre kid,” maybe!Sasha says, ignoring the dismissive hand Tim waves into their face.

“Martin, you should ignore her,” Tim presses on before maybe!Sasha gets a chance to say anything else. “When I got back to my desk, I realised we never exchanged surnames which are crucial for the instant messenger.” Martin nods, slightly dazed and not at all sure if he understands the importance of Tim’s surname. “So, Tim Stoker.” He bows outlandishly.

“And Sasha James,” maybe-or-rather-definitely-Sasha jumps in, curtsying with the same kind of derisiveness. “Glad to be of service.” She rests her elbow on Tim’s shoulder and leans forward, just the tiniest bit, but it makes Martin feel strangely included. “You want to get lunch with us?”

The smile spreading across Martin’s face feels real, digging into his cheeks and showing dimples he kind of forgot he had. He casts a look at the clock above his head and says: “Yeah, sounds lovely.”

The thing is: Martin is a dreamer, day and night and dusk ‘til dusk ‘til dawn. He likes to think about all the possibilities he will never ever take, the wonderous things he wishes to happen but knows will always remain a fantasy.

When he was a child, he used to dream about his father coming back and apologising to his mother and explaining that it was all just a big misunderstanding, innit, he never would have left willingly, especially not without further notice. Martin would dream up every reasoning in existence, if his father would have come back Martin would have already heard his excuse. He’d just have to wait and find out which one was true.

When he was a teenager, he used to dream about mending the relationship with his mother, of sharing a smile with her instead of directing it at her disapproving or distant face. And he dreamt of a boy without a face but with calloused hands and experienced lips that would come and sweep him off his feet – literally at first, and figuratively when he hit that growth spurt in tenth class.

When he became an adult, he started dreaming about working nine to five and a two-day weekend. He dreamt about working in a café or restaurant and earning enough to sustain his mother and himself. He dreamt that one day he would open up his own place, a small restaurant or a flower shop or a shop selling something with turquoise. And he dreamt that he would meet a man, a nice and good man who would make everything just the tiniest bit more bearable; who Martin would like to be around and who would like to be around Martin. A man not merely tolerating him but seeking his presence.

Martin is a dreamer, but he’s not delusional. Or at least not anymore. The older Martin grew the simpler his dreams became. Now that his income is secure, he dreams about the domesticity of a social network and a warm body next to him when he tries to fall asleep. (And it’s the first time his dreams seem to be within his grasp. As if he can reach for them and cup them in the hollow of his hands. He just has to believe.)

It goes like this: Martin slowly grows desperate because the Magnus library doesn’t make any sense at all. One day Local Myths is on the shelf next to the counter, the next the shelf is empty, and the one after that Martin sees Vampires and Werewolves neatly arrayed on it. It doesn’t make sense, and frankly it makes Martin angry. This is a library for crying out loud, and Martin’s a librarian who can’t even fetch a monograph without getting lost. (Or is he a library assistant? Is Yvonne the only librarian? Everyone in this institute always seems to be an assistant, maybe Elias Bouchard is the only person with an actual degree in here.)

“Is something bugging you?”

A voice comes out of nowhere, causing Martin’s head to snap towards the frowning face of Tim Stoker. It’s been three weeks since their first getting acquainted, and Tim and Sasha drop by at irregular intervals to chit-chat for a bit. At this point, it’s something Martin has come to accept and look forward to but not necessarily expect to happen. Usually, they tell him about their research (it’s creepy and Martin never ever wants to enter artefacts, thank you very much) or their co-workers (including one Jon who Martin is yet to meet but who’s apparently really close with both Sasha and Tim) or the things they did on the weekend (they’re both incredibly busy all the time). But it’s not like they’re self-centered by any means, they ask about him, too. On a normal day, he hates this part of the conversation because he can’t really tell them nice stories about meeting friends and going out of town to kayak or whatever because he spends his time with his mother or home alone with knitting needles either documentaries or heteronormative romcoms queued up. And, let’s be honest, that’s not a compelling story to tell.

Today however Martin’s almost glad someone’s asking him about his mood because he does have an answer: “You were right! My map isn’t accurate. And I don’t get why!”

The startled look on Tim’s face makes Martin realise that he’s a bit loud and his tone is maybe a little aggressive. He ducks his head, heat spreading over his face, and continues in a more dignified manner: “It’s really not that bad. I’m just trying to shelve the returned books. But I can’t find the shelfmarks. It’s a little frustrating, is all.”

He tries to smile through his outburst, but he feels bad almost immediately. It’s not Tim’s responsibility or amicable duty to listen to Martin’s displeased rant, and they don’t know each other well enough for Martin to burden him with unimportant stuff like this. (The thought that Tim seems to be genuinely interested in what Martin has to say and that Tim complains all the time about uncooperative clerks and impossible to keep deadlines which likely means that he would be alright with Martin complaining a teeny-tiny bit crosses Martin’s mind but he tries not to dwell on it. He wouldn’t forgive himself if he would be mistaken.)

“You’ve been here for, what,” Tim says, his index finger tapping against his chin, a questioning look on his face, “like, a month?” Martin nods. “It’s absolutely normal to get confused. Like I told you: This Library is more a Feeling than an organised space. You can’t go about it with logic.” At this, he shrugs dismissively. “After that Cryptid incident, I literally brought my pendulum to work just to locate the sections I was looking for. And guess what, the Library didn’t care. It sent me running around the shelves nonetheless.”

Martin can’t help himself, his face scrunches up in a grimace. He should have anticipated weird antics when he first started working here, the Magnus Institute is a research and archiving facility for magical and supernatural (or as Elias Bouchard calls it paranormal) encounters. But Tim had seemed like a normal guy.

Quickly, he schools his expression into a more neutral one, before he says: “No offence, really, I hope I’m not intruding but using a pendulum seems kind of, well, esoteric?” The moment the words leave his mouth, he feels awful. Who raised Martin to be this impolite? Certainly not his mother. So he tries to backtrack: “I– I mean, I don’t want to impose or, uh, ascribe something to you or, or invalidate you.”

“It’s okay,” Tim interrupts him with a smile. He doesn’t seem mad. “I’m a witch, so everything I do is kinda esoteric. Can’t hold that against you.”

The wolfishness of Tim’s grin makes Martin think that this is an inside joke, too. Or, oh no, maybe it’s Tim’s religion and Martin’s a real jackass about it. Is witch a religious term? He has heard about wicca and druidism, but he has no idea if they call themselves witches. He doesn’t want to disrespect Tim or his belief system, but he also wants to know. Is it disrespectful to ask Tim about his religion? Martin wouldn’t do it if they didn’t know each other, but their friends (somewhat, kind of) and asking as a friend is more considerate than intrusive, right? (Or is he just rationalising and justifying his own curiosity, while masking it as attentiveness? Is Martin overthinking this?)

“So,” Martin starts and it’s an out of body experience where he sees himself driving against a wall without the chance to stop himself, “does that mean you’re wiccan?” He bites his tongue, waiting for Tim to tell him he’s an insensitive twat.

“Oh, no. I’m agnostic,” Tim replies, still wearing the same expression of content and reassurance.

For a moment, they’re both quiet. Tim leans against the counter, his elbows on the surface and his face almost in Martin’s space. It could be unpleasant, but he rather likes Tim’s complete disregard of personal space. (In part because he has seen Tim interact with Rosie who dislikes physical touch to a stark extreme in a respectful way, always keeping his distance. He knows if he ever were uncomfortable Tim would back off. And that’s reassuring in its own way.)

“Give yourself some time,” Tim says eventually. “Let the Library get to know you.”

“You talk about the library as if it were conscious.” It’s a statement, not a question.

“Yeah,” Tim chuckles. “Yeah, I do.” He sighs and straightens his back. “It’s not, though, so don’t worry.” The way Tim says it, though, makes Martin think that this is not the whole truth. That there is something Tim’s not telling him. But it’s not Martin’s place to inquire further, he thinks. There’s definitely a plausible explanation for all this, Tim just likes to pull his pigtails.

“Shouldn’t you be out today?” Martin asks to change the topic and feels incredibly rude at the same time. “Not that I’m not happy to see you, but it’s still quarter an hour to lunch.”

“Came back earlier than expected and thought I could mob you ‘til twelve and kidnap you for a lunch date,” Tim replies so nonchalantly, warmth spreads across Martin’s face and he attempts to swallow down the laugh that wants to escape – but he fails. (He has never been mobbed, and even though Tim doesn’t think of this as a date date, Martin wants to indulge in that thought. At least for a moment.)

“I think,” he says slowly, and a little bit mischievously, “I could take my break early today.”

The thing is: Even though Martin thought Sasha and Tim would grow bored of him sooner or later, they don’t. They stop at his desk when they use the library for their research, they pick him up sometimes for lunch or ask him to meet them outside if they’re doing field work. Martin gets roped into pub nights and trivia quizzes, Sasha takes him to her pottery class and Tim invites him to a poetry slam where his brother performs. (This is remarkable because of two things: First and foremost, because Martin has never been invited to meet family members of anyone except for the parents of a few classmates when he stayed for lunch. And secondly, because Tim and Danny are as close as brothers can be, and it feels like a seal of approval – or as if Tim needed Danny to approve of Martin before he could spend more time with him. Martin’s not sure which way round it is.)

It goes like this: Despite the cool September night air, Martin is way too warm in his thick knitted jumper. He runs hot, always has been, but today is not the day he wants to be soaked in sweat just by existing. (Truth be told, he never really wants to be this warm, but there are at least times where he doesn’t mind as much. Meeting Danny Stoker for the first time is not one of those times. But he’s also pretty sure that he can’t take off his jumper because he’s been too hot for too long at this point. Tonight’s going to be fun and he just needs to power through.)

Martin tries not to shift his weight from one foot to the other too often, instead he’s focusing on the way the soles of his shoes line up with the asphalt of the pavement and ground him. He counts his breaths, his hands burrowed deep inside the pockets of his trousers. He can absolutely do this, he has known Tim for a few weeks now and he doesn’t think Tim would introduce Danny and him if he’d think they wouldn’t get along. (This may be more of wishful thinking though.)

A small part of him wishes, Sasha would come too, to ease the tension in his shoulders and uncoil the knots in his stomach. But she's with her family, celebrating the birthday of one of her cousins, and the text she sent him a few hours ago sits in their chat, mourning her absence and telling him to enjoy Danny's performance, it will likely be one of a kind.

Right when he seriously starts contemplating to go home again and fake a stomach bug, Tim rounds the corner with a man just a few years younger than him who looks like a referenceless, free-hand drawing of Tim. Which isn't a bad thing, by any means, just noticeable in how alike they look, just different enough to not be mistaken for each other.

When Tim's gaze falls upon Martin, his face splits into a wide grin and he waves enthusiastically, almost smacking Danny in his face in the process. This causes Danny to look directly at him, too, and his eyebrows shoot up while grinning almost half as wide as Tim. (If there had been any kind of doubt about them being brothers, now there weren’t.) Danny turns his head slightly and nudges Tim with his elbow. When Tim turns to look at him, Danny says something to him, moving his hands in unison, that makes Tim stop grinning for a second and start furrowing his brow. It doesn't last long, only three or four steps, then he looks at Martin again and his face softens. (Martin desperately wants to know what Danny said because people looking at Martin and whispering usually means something bad. And if Danny already wants to make fun of him, then Martin needs to go. Immediately.)

“You came!”

While Martin was still weighing his options, measuring staying, but anxiously against going, but anxiously, Tim and Danny have come into earshot. And Tim sounds pleasantly surprised as if he had been unsure if Martin would come.

They come to a halt in front of Martin and Tim pulls Martin in for a quick hug, which isn't a surprise per se but still unexpected. Subsequently, he turns towards Danny and introduces them. (He says this is my friend Martin, I told you about him. He says friend, not co-worker. Which, yes. They're friends but it's still new and nice and positively overwhelming to hear him say it out loud.)

“Hey,” Danny says, his smile unwavering. He's either a good actor or doesn't hate Martin on sight; at this point, Martin gladly takes both over open hostility. "Tim told me so much about you. I'm really pleased to make your acquaintance." He pauses to make room for Martin returning the sentiment. (Which he does, thank you very much, just because he's a useless gay around beautiful men and can't handle surprise small talk at arse o'clock, doesn't mean he can't hold a conversation.) “I gotta be honest with you, mate, I need your help tonight. This is my first slam and Tim’s a shit critic. I need some real feedback.”

A reassuring smile takes over Martin's features because, of course, Danny is nervous. Martin would be, too, he supposes. The thing Danny had said had probably nothing to do with Martin per se and everything with meeting someone for the first time at his first performance. (And maybe his only if Sasha is right.) However, before he can retort in any way, Tim jumps in: “Danny, bro, Martin is probably the last person you should ask to tell you how awful your skid is. You didn't practice it once and he’s a nice guy.”

“Well,” Danny replies, mischief in his eyes and a mocking tilt in his voice, “I'm just gonna wing it.”

“You're lucky, you're a Stoker.”

“You're just jealous because you didn't inherit that gen,” Danny shoots back before turning to Martin and stage-whispering: “Everyone always thinks that Tim is naturally gifted and everything comes to him easily. But in reality, he has to learn things and work for them. Embarrassing, right?”

Getting roped into friendly, brotherly banter. That's good! That's involvement in a good and workmanlike manner! And, actually, way out of Martin's comfort zone right now. (Is this a test? Is Danny teasing Tim in front of Martin to see if Martin jumps in and practically stabs Tim right in the back? Or does he want Martin to disagree with him and stand in solidarity with Tim? Or is Martin’s brain just overreacting like, well, always?)

“You’re embarrassing him,” Tim accuses Danny, before shoving at him and laughing. It’s obvious he doesn’t mind Danny teasing him or Martin, because it’s good natured. (Or at least Martin wants it to be. He desperately wants it to be.)

“No, I’m honest with him,” Danny retorts, before shoving Tim back which causes him to almost crash into Martin. “Someone needs to take you down a peg or two. Once in a while at least.” He grins and it’s more on the boyish side.

“I think Sasha’s doing a good job keeping Tim in check,” Martin interjects bravely. With every second in their presence, the fists in his pockets lose a speck of tension and Martin can feel his nails easing out of the heel of his hand. He feels weird being the only one neither knowing nor using sign language while talking but he’s thankful that they’re including him, talking loud enough for him to hear. (It’s a whole new side of Tim Martin has never seen before, it’s nice. Very nice, actually.)

“I love Sasha,” Danny sighs wistfully, batting his eyes. Before Tim slings his arm around Danny’s neck and pulls him in, he says: “We’ve been through this, Sasha’s way out of your league.” (And probably aro, Martin thinks, if the small pride flag pin Martin spotted on Sasha’s satchel bag is any indication.)

“Yeah,” Danny says. “True.” Then his eyes fall on the clock inside the display window of a chemist on the other side of the street. “We should head in.”

They make their way into the pub, through a small crowd consisting mostly of people in their twenties and thirties, milling and chatting in wait for the poetry slam to begin. Danny makes a beeline for a bar table, even though multiple tables with chairs and benches are empty. Martin wants to point out that he doesn’t think standing for multiple hours is something he wants to do, but right when he decides that he can at least try, Tim grabs Danny’s arm and steers him toward a round table with four chairs at the back of the room.

“You won’t make me stand through your performance,” Tim proclaims loudly, then he sits down and pats the seat of the chair next to his. Demonstratively, Danny sits down on Tim’s other side – closest to the stage – and Martin rounds the table to sit next to Tim. While Tim and Danny shrug off their coats, Martin once again regrets his choice of clothing. (Maybe a beer or two into the evening will ease his nerves enough to pull off his jumper. Now he takes a deep breath and focuses on the soft chattering of the crowd.)

Underneath their coats, matching shirts come to light. An Aegean blue with white lettering, a loopy script proclaiming bestoked with the tiny caricature of a witch with a pointy hat on a broomstick. Below that, Martin recognises small print that reads: Witches are real, and you think this is just a funny t-shirt slogan. He chuckles.

Tim makes a questioning hmm-sound and Martin points at their shirts, saying: “It’s funny.”

“Yeah,” Danny replies, exchanging looks with Tim. “Sasha made them for us.”

“Why witches?” Martin asks. Opposed to standing outside having to face both of them, sitting next to Tim puts Martin at ease. (It feels more organic sitting alongside Tim. Most of the time when they head out together, they sit on one bench with Sasha on the other side of the table. This is almost the same, Martin tries to reason, Danny is just another Sasha. A person Tim loves and wants him to like, too. No big deal.) “Isn’t Bram Stoker known for Dracula?”

“Yeah, he is,” Danny says with a shrug and Tim adds: “Our name’s Stoker and we’re witches. It’s pretty niche but most people think it’s funny.”

Martin tilts his head in confusion, he opens his mouth through an irritated smile. Before he can actually speak though, someone on the makeshift stage steps up to the microphone and welcomes the crowd to the pub’s bi-monthly poetry slam.

“First up: Gerry with their poem osedax!”

The crowd claps and their conversation is completely forgotten. They listen to Gerry describing a life under water and a life dependent on death. It’s a bit early for spooky Halloween vibes but Martin thinks it’s probably a metaphor for Gerry’s life that’s beyond Martin to understand. (He loves poetry, writes his own in his spare time, but he’s not big on interpreting poems outside of his own limited world view. He likes reading poetry, imagining the lives inspiring the words, and applying them to his own situation. Seeing someone putting their innards on display for dozens of strangers to see, is something entirely different. It feels like trespassing, somehow, trespassing into the soul of another human being. Martin decides that he hates it here.)

Gerry concludes their poem with ragged breathing and closed eyes. For a moment, the pub is silent. Then applause rings out and Tim leans toward Martin and whispers loudly: “Gerry is the one who put the bee into Danny’s bonnet that performing here would be a good idea.”

Danny shushes Tim, swatting at him without looking. Absentmindedly, he says: “It is a good idea, though.”

Martin doesn’t say anything, while watching Gerry retreat from the stage and head back to a group at the long side of the room. They congratulate Gerry, and Martin thinks (for just one measly second) how it would feel to perform one of his own poems. One about his mother or the alienation he felt his whole life. But he’s not a word magician like Gerry, he doesn’t have plausible deniability for the things he talks about. His poetry is descriptive and more of an endeavour to capture a feeling than an analogy in form of a convoluted metaphor.

Next up is someone talking about a hamster. Martin senses a theme.

Tim and Danny stare intensely at the stage, absorbing each and every word being said. And Martin’s torn between getting up and buying drinks, and waiting quietly until the poem is over. He’s unsure about the custom. If it would be impolite to talk during the performance.

In the end, however, it doesn’t matter. They end their poem and thank the audience before they leave the stage. Martin leans into Tim’s space (a bit like Tim would do with him in this situation), his shoulder lining up with Tim’s and when Tim turns around he whispers: “I’m gonna get drinks. Can I get you something?”

“We can just get a pitcher,” Tim whispers back, before checking in with Danny: “You’re not up next, right?” Danny shakes his head and Martin gets up to get them a pitcher and three glasses. (He takes the opportunity to breathe in and out a few times. He thought they would talk more. That Danny and he would have to interact more. But, apparently, Tim and Danny are really into poetry slam and don’t want to disrespect the artists. Which is, well, nice. Considerate. And, yes, he shouldn’t be surprised about that.)

Martin orders a pitcher and pays right up, then he tries to balance the three glasses and the pitcher through the crowd back to their table. He puts everything down and almost misses the staff member announcing Danny’s performance. Lost Johns’ Cave.

With a spring in his step, Danny stands up, makes his way to the stage and takes his place behind the microphone. A small smile on his lips, he clears his throat and starts speaking: “So, John was lost and so was I.”

He pauses.

“It’s a fact and everybody knows that John got lost in this cave. It’s a deep cave, a dark cave, a cave that swallowed us up like a ravenous, soft-teethed beast. It starts with a slope, grainy and wet, and there’s only one way, so it’s impossible to get lost, even though John did.”

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

“John was lost and so was I. I don’t know where he went, and I didn’t come to look, but one moment Kadir and Aylin where there and the next they were not. I didn’t reach the chockstone, I didn’t reach the climb. Three hundred and seventy-five feet and I was lost as John in his cave.”

He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. While he spoke, Martin’s sure he could recognise the spelling of John, but Danny doesn’t spell Kadir or Aylin or at least Martin’s not able to spot it.

“John was lost and so was I. Seconds after minutes after hours after years, no climb in sight, just the steady flow of the stream and my hitching breath. It should stop sometime, I thought, it should give way down to his cave and I will not be a John. Because John was lost and I won’t be.”

He pauses again, a heartbeat or two longer than before.

“John was lost and so was I. No measuring of my position with a pendulum, no signal for my phone, no chance to be heard through the thick walls of the cave. The rush of the stream died down albeit the map depicting the stream and the slope correspondent.”

The air of the pub is filled with suspense and eerily quiet for a crowd as large as this one.

“John was lost and so was I. Limestone encased me and silence took over.”

Danny stops speaking, one and a half minutes gone. If Martin’s right, Danny has three minutes and fifteen seconds left. Every other contestant spoke for about five minutes, so Danny has plenty of time left. But he doesn’t say a thing. Seconds tick by and Martin gets squeamish in his seat. He glances towards Tim, but Tim seems unwound and relaxed. As if it were to be expected of Danny to pull something like this.

Danny remains silent, and Martin uses the tense atmosphere and the quiet audience to take an unnoticed look at Tim and Danny. They really do look alike. They share the same thick, expressive eyebrows, same dark brown hair and eyes, the same sharp jawlines. But Tim is soft around the edges, he doesn’t look as muscular as he is, his tummy rolling underneath his Aegean blue shirt. Up close like this, Martin can see the hearing aid Tim is wearing, and the moles that scatter across the slope of his neck. Especially the two moles that rest approximately half a centimetre wide of his tragus.

So preoccupied with Tim’s, well, beauty, Martin almost misses Danny moving on stage. He extends his right fist, before he opens it, while dropping it a few centimetres. At the same time, he mouths something that could be the word drop but Martin’s not sure because he can’t read lips. Then Danny spreads the fingers of his left hand, holding it flat and vertically aligned in a hundred-twenty-degree angle to his upper body. His right hand is spread in the same way and he moves it towards his left hand. When the pads of his fingers connect to the palm of his left hand, he lets his hand bounce back. The movements of his right hand two sides of an equilateral triangle. Again, he mouths something and if Martin would have to guess he’d say it was echo.

By minute three, Danny has been silent for one and a half minutes and has been through two repeats of the two words. (In all honesty, Martin is surprised that the crowd still watches Danny. That they hang onto his lips like a drop of water at the rim of a cup.)

Then he starts speaking again: “John was lost and so was I. I entered his cave and I got off the right path, I fell into darkness and somehow I came back. I’m not one of the Johns, I’m a Joey deep down. Because John was lost but I am found.”

A smile tugs at Danny’s lips, then, after a moment, he bows outlandishly (in an unbelievably tim-ish way) and says: “Thank you.” Then he leaves the stage in a beeline towards their table, while the audience starts to clap hesitantly.

When Danny sits down at their table again, Tim and he exchange a few quiet sentences. (In most circumstances this would make Martin’s anxiety spike up again, but to his own surprise it doesn’t. It’s just nice to see Tim interacting with his brother. Martin doesn’t have to be included to feel like he’s part of this.)

Martin takes a sip from his drink and throws a glance at the stage. After Danny there are still four people left. The performances are about existential fatigue, about childhood fears and dreams, and (in one memorable instant) about an imaginary soap opera the poetry slammer claims to watch in their head.

When the poetry slam is finally over, Danny grins at Martin and asks: “So, comments or questions?”

“Impromptu interpretation is not my strong suit,” Martin tries to escape the discussion of Danny’s depression? Outing? He’s not lying, he can’t interpret something like this in a few minutes. Especially not while looking right into Danny’s face. “I’m not sure what the cave is a metaphor for.” His tone is apologetic, but Danny laughs startled and says: “It’s not a metaphor. I literally got lost in a cave.”

“Oh,” Martin blurts out. “Well, then … I’m not an expert by any means. But I think it was pretty good, very compelling.” His ears are burning and the coldness of his drink seeps into the palms of his hands, contrasting the warmness in every fibre of his body.

Danny grins and says: “I like him.”

“Yeah, I do, too,” Tim affirms. His smile, however, is more delicate than Danny’s. (And Martin doesn’t want to think about the possibility that Tim likes him, too. Likes likes him. He’s still trying to wrap his head around the fact that he didn’t only acquire a job three months ago but friends, too. It shouldn’t matter that Tim is nice to him, because Tim is nice to everyone. Martin isn’t special.)

The thing is: Tim is so very nice. Nice in a way no one has ever been nice to Martin. He’s nice unconditionally, doesn’t wink suggestively at Martin when he hands him a cup of tea exactly the way Martin likes, doesn’t expect Martin to do anything in turn when he lays his hand on Martin’s shoulder in a silent display of support or affection, doesn’t want him to say thank you and how much do I owe you whenever he brings lunch in that he cooked himself, enough to share it with Martin and Sasha and even Jon, if he would ever want to. Tim’s nice and considerate and most people don’t seem to see it. They take Tim’s jokes and pop-culture references as a demonstration of his whole personality, take in the beauty of his face and simmer it down to the essence of his existence.

Tim is beautiful and he is funny, Martin’s the last to argue with that. But Tim is more, Tim is beyond, Tim is the soft are you alright when Martin must step out for a second after a reprimand from an assistant, Tim is the curious no, I want to know what you think about it, Tim is the reassuring you’ve got this and the understanding and if you don’t, I’m still here. Tim is every post-it note on Martin’s desk that says delighted to see you here and you look nice today and take time for yourself.

Tim is so very nice without even trying that Martin can’t help himself but fall in love with him. Embarrassing, right?

It ends like this: Martin doesn’t argue with Tim about his insistence that he’s a witch, because: Who’s Martin to deny Tim anything at all. Yes, he would like to know more about Tim as a person and about the things he does on weekends and, yes, getting cryptic answers like hanging out with the coven is a bit frustrating, but Martin also must confess that he admires Tim dedication.

It’s almost Halloween and since the start of October, Tim has been wearing a pointy hat to work. Which is kind of ridiculous but endearing at the same time because Sasha assures Martin that Danny does it too and that they do it every year in October. (It’s not one of his finer moments, it’s true, but he couldn’t help himself asking Sasha is this is some kind of meme. A Stoker inside gag that everyone is in on, but Sasha just smiles at him and says: “Oh, Martin, love, no. It’s not a meme.”)

When Martin asks him about the hat, Tim tilts his head in mild confusion and replies: “I’m a witch, Martin. Witches wear pointy hats.”

And Martin who’s got enough practice now dealing with Tim’s antics, retorts: “No, I mean, yes, I know, I mean: You didn’t wear it in the summer, why?”

“Usually, I wear my hat to rituals and stuff because channelling energy is way easier with a hat. But in October my coven wears it to let the spirits and the fair folk know they shouldn’t fuck around with us,” Tim explains. And Martin looks him dead into his eyes and says: “Makes sense.”

Three days before Halloween (or Mischief Night as Tim likes to call it), Tim drops off a bottle of essential oil at Martin’s desk. Before Martin can ask about it, Tim says: “I brought you essential oils for your headache.”

“Because,” Martin starts and stops hesitantly, wondering when he mentioned his headaches in front of Tim, without coming up with an answer, “you’re a witch.”

Tim nods, adding however: “But, you know, essential oils don’t need magic to work.”

“Makes sense,” Martin says, for the simple reason that he doesn’t know what else to say. This is getting ridiculous, but he doesn’t want to be the buzzkill. He wants to be Tim’s friend (or date, despite the whole witch-thing) and friends are supportive of each other! Friends don’t judge you for your oddities.

Tim changes the topic: “Do you have anything planned for Mischief Night?” Martin shakes his head. “Then I would like to formally invite you to celebrate Mischief Night with me.”

“Wouldn’t a formal invite require an invitation card?” Martin asks back, propping his chin up on his hand, a curious tilt in his voice.

“I’ll get to that,” Tim replies, while he suppresses a smile that threatens to take over his face. “So, it’s a date?”

Martin closes his eyes, short enough to be mistaken with a blink, and says: “Yeah, it’s a date.” The aching in his chest makes him wish Tim would be a little less nice and a little more without ambiguity. Even though he wants it to be a romantic date, this is just a friendly outing with a guy claiming to be a witch.

Fortunately, Mischief Night (or Halloween as everyone else seems to call it) is a Saturday, which means that Tim can pick Martin up at his flat in Stockwell. Neither Tim nor Martin own a car, but Tim borrowed Danny’s well-loved VW Beetle and it’s only about thirty-seven kilometres until they reach Bocketts Farm.

Martin’s glad the midday fog has eased up, and the sun warms the skin on his forearms, since he rolled up the sleeves of his jumper. Tim is right beside him, his pointy hat decorated with probably fake cobwebs.

“I’m a bit disappointed you didn’t pick me up on your broomstick,” Martin says when they walk through the entrance of the farm. Despite the slight fear that Tim will take offence and abandon him on this farm, he feels comfortable enough to make a joke like this. He thinks he knows Tim well enough to know that Tim would tell him if he were overstepping any boundaries.

Tim’s answer is a little more defensive than Martin anticipated: “Flying is hard, okay. Usually, I ride shotgun.”

Martin gapes, for lack of a better word, and almost walks into a fencepost if it weren’t for Tim pulling him aside. Instead of letting go of Martin’s arm, Tim threads his own through and links them in the most casual way Martin has ever seen. This is nice. (Tim is nice.)

“What do you want to do first?” Tim inquires when Martin doesn’t say anything else. “I personally am inclined to start with apple-bobbing.” He points to a small group of people around a water filled barrel. Martin makes a noncommittal sound, shrugging his shoulders at the same time, and Tim steers him softly towards the event.

“Supposedly, the barrel symbolises the cauldron of rebirth,” Tim says while they walk the remaining distance. Martin casts a look in his direction. He’s a bit preoccupied with the thought that Tim wants him to stick his head into ice cold water to fish for an apple with his teeth, so he only says: “Makes sense.” Even though he’s not sure in what way rebirth is connected to divining the first letter of your future spouse’s name.

When they come to a halt in front of the barrel, it doesn’t take long until they have their turn. Tim yields to Martin and he sighs before he steps up the barrel, takes a deep breath and dives in. The water is freezing, tiny pinpricks on Martin’s skin, and it’s really, really hard to actually get his teeth on an apple because every time he touches on, it submerges and sideslips. (It’s frustrating. Like shelving books in the Magnus library is frustrating. He knows he got it right but in reality he doesn’t.)

It takes forever or at least it feels like forever, his face in cold water and his fingers in Tim’s hand. (Wait, when did Tim grab his hand? Did he grab Tim’s hand? Oh, he must have sometime between their arrival at the barrel and his endeavour to bob for an apple.) But then he catches a small one between his teeth and gets out of the water as fast as possible. Tim lets out a loud whistle and his free hand pats Martin’s shoulder in congratulation. Whereas Martin’s free hand gets rid of the water in his face and pulls the apple out of his mouth.

“This is terrible,” he says through a chuckle because he can’t be mad with the sun shining into his face like it’s late summer and not autumn. “It’s your turn.”

Martin has to let go of Tim’s hand because a member of staff hands a knife to him and he starts peeling the apple in one unbroken strip.

Apparently, Tim’s either more practiced in apple-bobbing or he’s really a witch and helped himself along with magic, because it takes him not nearly as long as Martin to catch an apple. He waits for Martin to finish peeling his apple and relieves Martin of the knife.

“You have to throw it over your left shoulder,” Tim explains earnestly. “It’s the side of the heart. It won’t work otherwise.”

“Makes sense,” Martin says, and it kind of does. Still he waits for Tim to finish peeling his own apple. Then they hand back the knife and stand side by side, throwing the peel on the count of three over their left shoulders.

“It looks like a T,” Tim says, when he catches sight of Martin’s apple peel, tapping the tip of his index finger against his chin.

Martin laughs, he's not entirely sure why but he can't stop himself. He replies: “It looks like a C, all of them look like Cs. And if they don’t, then they look like Os.” He points at Tim’s apple peel. “Look, yours looks like a C, too.”

“It’s just a tad short,” Tim retorts. “See, it started to form a small M but only came around to curve into a small N.” He laughs, too. “The apples have spoken, Martin. We’re destined for each other.”

“Well,” Martin says and he can’t shake the soft warmth that curls underneath his solar plexus, “if the apples say that, it must be right.”

They spend a good few hours on the farm, carving pumpkins and turnips, wandering through the maze and passing by goats and sheep and pigs, before they get to a bon fire Tim wants to sit down at to warm up a bit. The afternoon had been warm, but now that the sun has set cold creeps into their clothes and Tim complains about his between-season jacket. Martin who’s still warm despite the cold breeze gently extends his hand for Tim to hold.

For a few moments they fall quiet, only listening to the cracking of the fire.

But it doesn’t take long for Tim to reach into his pockets to fish for something and bring four conkers to light. He presents them to Martin and says: “Do you want to?” And Martin nods, only in part because Tim could ask anything of him and Martin would gladly do it.

They place their conkers in the flames respectively and when Martin’s first one cracks, Tim questions: “Did you name them?”

Martin shakes his head. Only a moment passes by, then:

“Did you name them?” Martin asks, and he doesn't look at Tim. His eyes are transfixed on the two conkers resting side by side. The left is already cracked. Tim doesn't look at Martin either, but he answers nevertheless: “I named both of them Martin. Didn't want to take the risk.”

And this, precisely, is the instant, Martin realises this could indeed be a date. A date date. A rendezvous Tim has asked him on, waiting for Martin to make a clear step towards him or not.

“Is this a date?” Martin blurts out, finally looking at Tim who ducks his head and blushes. He doesn’t want to sound incredulously, but the sheer ridiculousness of the situation sends his head spinning. A laugh bubbles out of his chest before he can stop it. “Tim, is this a date?”

“Well,” Tim starts and has the audacity to sound something akin to shy, “I thought it was a date. It was implied, I thought I explicitly said it was a date.” His gaze falls onto their joined hands. “I thought you knew we were dating.” Then he pales. “Oh, this is really awkward. I’m sorry.”

Tim attempts to let go of Martin’s hand, but Martin holds onto him.

“No, no, no, it’s okay,” Martin says, the laugh still on his tongue. His chest feels lighter than ever and he can’t keep the bright smile off his face. “I wanted this to be a date, honestly. I just didn’t think it could actually be one.”

“Oh, that’s,” Tim clears his throat, finally looking back at Martin’s face, “that’s good. Nice. Toit.”

“Does this have deeper cultural meaning, too?” Martin asks after sitting between stacks of hay on top of a wagon. He’s not sure if he’s a tiny bit sarcastic or if he finally accepted Tim’s commitment for his aesthetic.

“No,” Tim replies, while he sits down cross-legged next to Martin. “I just think hayrides are neat.”

“I’ve never been on a hayride before,” Martin says, before he moves closer to Tim, so that his thigh slots underneath Tim’s knee. “It’s kind of romantic.”

“Is it?” Tim teases, leaning into Martin’s space with ease. “I didn’t notice.” Then he pauses for a second, his eyes flicking down to Martin’s lips. “As soon as the tractor starts it won’t be anymore, so if you want to use the magic of hayride romanticism to kiss me, you should do it now.”

Martin moves in closer, too, now he can feel Tim’s breath on his skin. He says: “So, hayrides are magical.” But Tim doesn’t answer him. Instead he closes the remaining distance between them and kisses Martin. (And maybe, only maybe, hayrides are magic.)

Their kiss only lasts for a few seconds before the engine of the tractor starts and the hayride begins. (They’re extremely lucky or magic is involved because they’re alone. The only other option is that hayrides are typically for children and their parents and it’s too late for them to participate. At this point, Martin doesn’t care. He’s surrounded by hay and Tim kissed him.)

Martin laughs breathlessly when they break apart because he catches sight of Tim almost losing his pointy hat due to the jolt of the wagon and says: “You’re right. Romance is dead.”

“My greatest virtue and my greatest curse is always being right,” Tim replies, readjusting the hat on his head. “I’m kind of glad tomorrow is the last day and I can take this thing off afterwards.”

For a second, Martin contemplates saying that Tim doesn’t have to wear it now. That if his aesthetic gets in the way of his everyday life, it’s alright to break out. But he doesn’t. Because this is nice, and he won’t tell Tim what to do. If Tim wants to wear a pointy hat, Tim gets to wear a pointy hat.

In search of changing the topic, Martin looks around the wagon and his gaze falls onto a small lantern at the back of the wagon. It’s supposed to be lit so that crossing folks can see the wagon; like the backlights of a bicycle or car. The lid isn’t fully shut, though, and the steady breeze of the moving wagon has extinguished the flame.

Martin pats his pockets from the outside, before he turns to Tim: “Do you have a lighter?”

Unfortunately, Tim shakes his head. More unfortunately, he says: “Doesn’t matter.” Then he leans forward, opening the lid fully and reaching into the lantern. The tip of his finger connects with the wick of the candle and by the time he pulls it back, the wick ignites and a small flame flickers to life.

Martin, once again, gapes. This is magic, Tim is a witch, Tim is a witch, o my fucking god.

“What?” Tim asks as he sits back down next to Martin.

“You’re a witch,” Martin says, and to his own surprise without the exact amount of disbelief he feels. “This is magic and you’re a witch.”

Tim smiles through his irritation and ripostes: “Martin, dear, I told you I’m a witch.”

“Yeah,” Martin responds and maybe he sounds as hysterical as he is, but this is ridiculous, “I didn’t think you were serious.”

“What did you think I meant every time I told you I was out with my coven?” Tim inquires bewildered, and everything about his demeanour suggests that he’s going to burst into laughter at any given moment.

“Honest?” Martin doesn’t wait for Tim to answer. “With all the essential oils I kinda thought it was a MLM.”

Tim furrows his eyebrows, the laughter dying on his tongue. They stare at each other and Tim says slowly: “My coven is not a group of Marxists who Love Marketing.” He stops dead in his tracks. “Men Loving Marketing?” Tim screws up his eyes. “I don’t know if you’re insinuating that I love men, that I’m a comrade or part of a pyramid scheme.” Before Martin can interject something, Tim says: “I’m working for the Magnus Institute, so where’s the lie?”

He pauses, then he says: “Witches are real, and you thought this is just a funny multilevel marketing meme.”

This breaks something lose in Martin and he honest to God starts giggling: “You’re terrible. Do you know that?”

“I’m doing my best,” Tim retorts, laughing as well.

After their laughter dies away, Martin says: “Is this why you said the institute is one pile of magical bullshit?” He thinks better of it. “Is this why you said the library isn’t conscious? Is it a witch who’s rearranging the shelves?”

It takes a moment for Tim to answer: “No, it’s a ghost.”

“A ghost is rearranging the shelves,” Martin repeats. “Okay, alright, sure. A ghost. Is there something else I should know about?”

“I don’t think so. His name is Jürgen, he died in the tunnels underneath the Institute and thinks it’s really funny to fuck with us.” Tim grabs Martin’s hand again. “You can talk to him and tell him to fuck off, though. Sometimes it works.”

Martin makes a noncommittal sound and lays his head on Tim’s shoulder even though their shoulders line up and it’s incredibly uncomfortable. This is weird and this is nice and they will have to talk about this, but their ride is almost over and Martin wants to bask for a few precious minutes in Tim’s silent company before they have to get off and head back.

Tim draws nonsensical shapes on the back of Martin’s hand with his thumb, and Martin feels content and warm and perhaps a little bewitched.

Before the ride ends, Martin asks: “Do you have any plans for tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” Tim says hesitantly, “we’re going to celebrate All Hallow’s Day. My coven’s going to light a fire to ward off evil spirits and ghosts. The ashes of All Hallow’s fire keep calamity at bay and we use it for augury.” He sounds apologetic. “But I could come by afterwards.”

And it’s the first time, Martin doesn’t hesitate or feels that his words are tinged with an exasperated confusion when he says: “Makes sense.” So he adds after a moment: “That would be lovely.”

#the magnus archives #martim #martin k. blackwood #tim stoker #tim stoker x martin blackwood #alternate universe #witch tim stoker #schmok writes #fanfiction #hhhh martim rights

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spikelovesjulia · 3 years

Link

Title: Julia Calls Me

Rating: Explicit

Fandom: Cowboy Bebop

Pairing: Julia/Spike Spiegel

Language: English

Chapters: 1/?

Words: 5419

Tags: Romance, True Love, One True Pairing, Getting Back Together, Established Relationship, Obsession, Trust Issues, Abandonment Issues, Codependency, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Healing, Explicit Sexual Content, Oral Sex, Making Love, Cohabitation, Domestic Fluff, Domestic Bliss, Bounty Hunters, IN SPACE!, Slice of Life, Family Dynamics, Cooking, Shopping, Hanging Out, Roommates, Friendship, Female Friendship, Male Friendship, Male-Female Friendship, Developing Friendships, Financial Issues, Relationship Advice, Character Study, Character Development, Personal Growth, Fix-It, Post-Canon Fix-It

Summary: Having rid themselves and the world of Vicious, Spike and Julia return to the Bebop to start their new life together. Jet welcomes them with open arms. Faye has to adjust to the situation but she's trying. Basically, Spike Spiegel gets everything he ever wanted.

Notes: This is the story of Spike and Julia reconnecting as lovers and partners. But also having to wade through the deep emotional pain of having been apart for so long. I’m warning you now, this will be an EXTREMELY sexual fic. They will be going at it quite often. There will be a lot of needy desperate sex of all kinds. And a lot of Spike Spiegel being Spike Spiegel except now he has a girlfriend. 0.o

Chapter 1: I Got a Woman

“It’s really, really not much.” He told her with a self-deprecating laugh. Kicking himself for not bothering to get a decent bedspread or fucking sheets at any point in the past three years.

She smiled at him, her hand coming to caress his arm. “Whatever it is, it will be just fine.”

He opened the door to his room. There it was. Dingy, poorly lit, windowless. The drab bare walls of the Bebop not helping one bit. The one table he did have was cluttered with his belongings. The one chair in his possession draped messily with clothes. The small chest of drawers by his bed held a lamp atop it, among a collection of this and that. Then there was his bed. Big enough to fit two comfortably yet lumpy, worn, with a puke green bedspread flung on top, and bunched up sheets underneath. He had not been expecting company. Least of all that he would have her back in his life. In his room. In his bed.

“It’s cozy.” She told him politely, then smiled. “Maybe it just needs a woman’s touch?”

“Oh, it certainly needs that.” He agreed, returning her smile and nodding his head.

“I’ll be very happy here.” Her eyes sparkled. “As long as I’m with you.”

Are you? Are you finally with me? After I waited for so long?

“Make yourself at home.” He offered casually as he closed the door and followed her.

She began removing her coat, he was quick to help. It joined whatever was strewn over the chair. He’d almost lost her. Lost her for good. Everything inside him roared back in fierce desperation when he thought of it. He couldn’t afford to waste his chance. Their chance. He could never lose her again. Never.

A quiet moment lingered. It was electric... what hung in the air between them. They both could feel it. Then he was pulling her into his arms before he had so much as given his body permission to move. “Julia.” Her name escaped his lips. It was a prayer. A plea.

Smoothly he drew her in, as if he did this sort of thing all the time. And yet once their lips met, his need destroyed whatever sense he had left to him, as he claimed her mouth. Claiming was the only way to describe it. How he kissed her. He took. And he took. And he took. His tongue thrust deep and dancing with her own.

That he had been deprived this. That he had endured it for so long. That she had finally returned to put an end to his suffering. All of it transformed him into a man he could hardly recognize.

She moaned into their kiss and it was like a balm to his torn and tattered soul.

Love me again. Like before. I want it like before.

He just kept kissing her. No pretense of restraint. The sweetness of her lips calling to him. Maddening him until all he knew was lust and desire. All he wanted was to be lost in the bliss of her love. The bliss of her body.

Be with me. Complete me.

“Like that.” She encouraged, panting, almost crying out. “Just like that. Spike, please.” He started kissing down her elegant neck.

It was surreal. He had the woman of his dreams in his arms, saying please because she wanted to be fucked by him. How had his luck turned so drastically? Not two days prior he would have sworn he was cursed. Targeted by syndicate assassins. A liability to the few friends he had. The woman he loved lost to him for years.

His hands adroitly undid the buttons of her dark burgundy blouse. It was almost comical, how quickly his fingers moved. But honestly, the thing would have been ripped off her body if it hadn’t been one of the only articles of clothing she currently possessed.

The maroon lace of her bra clung prettily to her gorgeous breasts. Luscious and delectable in their beauty. His breath caught in his throat. Fuck he had missed them. Yet for this he slowed down. Because she deserved to be enjoyed. She was made to be enjoyed. She was so beautiful. Her golden curls shining in the dim light of his room. Her blue eyes bright and filled with need. His mouth so hungry for her. He had to taste everywhere.

He went for it. Burying his face between her breasts and nuzzling. Inhaling as deeply as he could. Her scent was like a drug to him. His hands coming to play with her pretty nipples. He could see them through the lace. He loved them. Love to suck on them. Taste them. To tease them gently with his teeth. He kissed across the swell of one breast and then the other. Adoring them. Such pretty tits. They were perfect. Round. So perky. Just what he liked. He heard himself moan. It was a sound he hadn’t made since he’d had her last. Nearly four years ago.

“You haven't changed at all.” He said burning the image of her in his mind.

“You’re too kind.” She told him in that sultry voice that beckoned to him. Then gave him an inviting smile.

This is real. He told himself. She is real. She is here. But it still didn't seem possible. He felt the creep of an irrational terror. What if he woke to find it all a dream? But the fear left his mind as soon as it came. She was in the process of removing the pants she wore.

Those legs. That body. The only reason he hadn’t gotten that bra off her yet was because he needed to see her in the bra and panty set. So, the panties did match then. They were the same maroon lace. Classy. Sexy. Not something she wore with the intention to provoke necessarily, but the lady provoked. The dark brown-red color contrasting so beautifully against the glow of her pale skin.

There had always been something dreamlike about her. He remembered that. Remembered the moments where he could not believe that she was real. How was it fair someone so beautiful should exist? And how was he to bear it? Was he to go mad because of her? Had he? Why else would such a beautiful creature exist, if not to drive men to ruin with her beauty?

Yet if that was the truth of it, he couldn’t bring himself to care. He just wanted and wanted.

The bra had long overstayed its welcome by then. He needed to see her body. It took him half a second to unclasp the thing with one hand. He pulled it off her and flung it to the floor. Her clothes belonged strewn on his floor mixed with his. Quickly discarded in the heat of passion.

She laughed. “Still good at that, I see.” Did she think he’d had practice in their time apart?

The question didn’t slow him down as he gazed at the most beautiful pair of tits he’d ever seen. Fuck. They really were perfect. Delicate and yet so proud. Right in that sweet spot. Not too big, not too small. Just exquisite. Taking a nipple into his mouth he began to suck greedily. She tasted so damn good. The sweet bud pebbling evermore against his needy tongue.

What about her? Had she been with anyone? No. He wouldn’t think of that. Yet jealousy was already blooming in the pit of his stomach. If she had, he didn't want to know. It didn't matter anyways, he reminded himself.

He suckled harder. That made her cry out. Baby, that is but a taste of what I have in store for you. He used to be able to get her all riled up and then have her mewling like a sweet little sex kitten. He needed that again. Needed it like he needed oxygen.

His hands went to her panties. “Not so fast.” She warned. He could feel himself pout. She laughed, but fondly. “I’m down to my panties and you have yet to remove a single article of clothing. How is that fair?”

“Well, if you want me that badly.” He said to her cockily, loosening his tie before pulling it off and discarding it with swagger.

“That’s a start. Keep going.” She ordered. He grinned at her, tossing his blazer off and then undoing the buttons of his shirt.

It was a rush, discarding his shirt and being naked from the waist up before her. She liked his body. At least she had. She’d kissed nearly every inch of him and murmured sweet nothings about how handsome he was. It had genuinely made him blush at the time. He knew he had. She’d teased him about it plenty.

And now? What about now, Julia?

As if right on cue she moaned for him. Coming to him. Putting her hands on his chest. Touch me, Julia. Touch me. His mind begged, even as she was. The caress of her finger tips a delight to him.

“You’re so beautiful.” She told him.

“Nah, that’s my line.”

“What is?”

“You’re so beautiful.” He repeated looking straight into her pretty eyes. She gave him one of her special smiles. The windy smile. No longer teasing, but genuine and touched. He loved that smile. It was treasure to him. He needed that smile. “I never stopped loving you.” He told her. Pulling her in for another hungry kiss. Holding her in his arms. Loving the feel of her against his skin.

There. He’d confessed. Say it back. Say it.

She took his face in her hands tenderly, looking up at him. “I never stopped loving you.”

Then he kissed her. Just kissed her and kissed her, because god knows what he would have said if he hadn’t.

His hands slip lovingly down her body, until he was caressing her beautiful buttocks. Sneaking both hands under her panties, he lovingly kneaded those gorgeous cheeks. He did it slowly. Sensually. Taking his time and enjoying the smoothness of her ass. He was going to kiss all over it.

“Pants.” She instructed him. “And don’t think I haven’t noticed this.” She said before caressing his raging erection. He groaned a little. It just felt too good. He’d been rock hard and twitching for ages now. Hell, he’d already been stirring since before they made it to his room.

“Oh that.” He chuckled. “I’m just happy to see you.”

“I’m happy to see you too.” She said as she undid his belt. He loved it when she did that. When she needed him so badly, she had to strip him herself.

But he was quick to remove the remainder of his clothing on his own. His orange striped boxers weren’t exactly the kind of thing he wanted Julia to see him in. He added new briefs to the ever-growing list of things he had to upgrade as soon as possible.

Yet he felt no shame in being completely naked in front of her. Naked and deeply, deeply aroused. His hard cock jetting out and straining at her desperately. This was natural. How they were meant to be. Just a man and a woman in love. About to make love.

“It’s even bigger than I remember.” She said to him. Heat and arousal in her voice.

“Trying to stroke my ego?” If she was, she’d been successful. He was all too pleased by that last comment.

“I thought you’d enjoy being stroked.”

He chuckled again. “Well, yes. Now, about those panties.”

He was already advancing on her. Forcing her to back onto his bed.

Once he had her where he wanted her. He went in for the kill. Pinning her to the mattress.

His heart ached wonderfully. As if it were beating for the first time in years. And yet the sorrow and longing of the long empty span of their time apart still resided deep within his chest. The sting of it lingering.

He kissed her. Kissed her like his life depended on it. Because it did.

What did anything else matter now? She was with him. Finally.

Then he was kissing down her body. Running his tongue down her neck, down her throat. Her head hung back giving him all the access he could want. Her body arching into him. Begging him to take her. He kissed along her clavicle and down further still. He took a nipple into his mouth. Couldn’t resist. Kept suckling while his fingers played with its twin. Then switched. He lavished them with his ardent and undivided attention. His hands coming to cup both of them at once. He was so greedy, and she was so beautiful.

“So. Fucking. Sexy.” He whispered before his mouth was hungrily at her breasts again. She whined, already panting heavy. Then he kissed the underside of her tits, kissed down, down, down her flat tummy. Stopping to lick her cute belly button. Then it was time.

He moaned loudly. They were soaked. They were soaked through.

He buried his face between her legs, only a strip of wet lace keeping him from what he most desired. “You smell so fucking good.” He said nuzzling his nose against the trembling pussy just underneath the gossamer barrier. Her scent was intoxicating to him. Just when he thought he couldn’t get any more desperate for her, he did.

He kissed her heated sex through the lace, darting his tongue out and running it long her crease and up to her clit. He sucked at her there. Through the lace. Fuck, he needed this.

He never forgotten the taste of her. Every time he’d come in the years they’d been apart, he’d had the memory of that taste in his mouth. Every single fucking time.

“Spike.” She pleaded. But he wasn’t letting up.

He raised his eyes to see her tits bouncing as her body thrashed about. He loved that. Loved everything about her.

Did she remember? Did she remember how he used to eat her pussy? How much he’d loved doing it? How he’d do it all the time? That he loved it when she was coming against his tongue, against his mouth, against his face?

He was pulling the panties off before he knew it.

Goddamn. Undressing her had always been like unwrapping a present.

And there was Julia in all her beauty. He gave himself a moment just to look at her. To drink her in. To feast upon the mouthwatering sight of his lover.

Julia had the most perfect pussy. The fucking prettiest, the tightest. The lovely pinkness of her so alluring to him. She was a literal goddess. The idealized embodiment of feminine perfection.

As if she could hear his thoughts, she opened her legs wider for him. Bending her knees and planting her pretty feet firmly upon the mattress. It was like being granted entrance into Eden.

So pink, so womanly.

He was the one panting now. His arousal near unbearable. His cock twitching wildly in anticipation. It must have been written all over his face how much he enjoyed this. She was blushing. Rose dusting across her cheeks. It pulled at his heart how lovable she was. How lovely.

He smiled at her before he began kissing down her inner thigh. Kissing adoringly. Making each kiss a promise. To love her eternally. To love her faithfully. To be good to her in every way.

Being like this with her again made him feel joy.

And she was enjoying herself too. That he could tell. But there was an eager nervousness about her. She wanted him! And yet… Are you worried, my love? About pleasing me? No woman has ever pleased a man the way you please me. You think that could ever change? All the planets and all the stars could crumble into nothingness before it did. And even then, it wouldn’t.

He locked eyes with her and licked his lips deliberately.

Then he spread her folds apart with his fingers, so he could see inside of her. I could come just from looking at you, Julia.

“You’re the most beautiful.” He told her. Then went in to kiss what was his.

He licked her. Moaned against her wet folds. It was just as good as he remembered. Fuck. It was. Or better. It was even better. He kept licking. Losing himself in it almost immediately. It’d always been like this. He’d always had an animal reaction to the scent and taste of his woman. It made him wild. He loved this pussy. Lived for it. Would die for it.

“Spike…” She cried. Her hands going straight into his hair. That’s it. Keep saying my name. Pull my hair if you want to. Just keep your hands on me and my name on your tongue.

“You like being licked like that?” He asked but didn’t wait for a response. The answer was quite obvious. He just did it again. And again. And again. Making her cry out from the pleasure of it every time. He really couldn’t give less of a fuck if Jet or Faye heard. “So sweet. You always taste so fucking sweet.” He told her between mad licks and swirls of his tongue.

“Spike.” She was chanting. “Spike. I want you.” He smiled into her pretty pussy as he kept going at her. Just going at her.

You have me. You’ve always had me. From the first. I was yours from the first.

He changed his tactic suddenly. On impulse. Maybe he wanted to draw it out a little bit more. Spreading her wide he licked inside her as deep as he could. He swirled his tongue again very deliberately and got exactly the response he wanted.

She screamed in pleasure. One hand immediately coming to clamp over her mouth, to keep herself quiet. The other still in his hair. Holding him in place. As if she had to.

Deftly he brought his index and middle finger into her opening and slid them in. He felt the overwhelming tightness almost immediately. Fuck. Maybe he should have started with just the index. It was like she’d never been with a man before. That both excited and offended him deeply.

She was fucking wet too. He’d licked up as much of that honey as he could get, savoring it on his tongue before swallowing.

He began retreating when she let out a protest. “Don’t.” He stopped pulling out. Stayed still as he listened to her labored breaths. His cock aching for her as he imagined what it was going to be like. “Keep going. Please, baby.” She’d called him “baby”. They really were together again. He didn’t know why, but that somehow made it official. He was her boyfriend. Her lover. Her man. It was real. Maybe because he’d always loved it when she called him sweet things. He loved to be dear to her.

“This pussy is just too tight, love.” He informed her. Two fingers still inside her, filling her. His thumb coming to work on her clit. “I’m going to have to do something about that.”

He missed the dirty talk. They used to say all kinds of deliciously filthy things to each other when they were in the mood.

“Are you trying to stroke my ego?” She asked seductively between pants.

“Not your ego.” He said curving his fingers up inside her just right

She gasped very sharply. He began pumping into her.

“That good?” He asked, his thumb still playing with her clit.

“Yeaahh.” She let out in the sexiest sob-moan he’d ever heard. Oh, Fuck. You’re going to be making that sound over and over again tonight. “I’m just adjusting.” She added breathily afterwards, as if embarrassed. “It’s… been a while.” Has it? How long, my love? Months? Years? He told himself to fuck off.

Nothing was going to ruin this for him. Nothing.

He watched hungrily as his fingers played with her. Fucking her. Stretching her. He could do this for hours. He had. So many times. Desperately, he went back to licking at her clit as his fingers fucked into her.

Come for me, Julia. Let that beautiful pussy come for me. Just let go and be mine.

It wouldn’t be long. She was already squeezing him with her thighs and bucking into him. Yes, baby. Like that. I wanna feel it. He switched from licking to sucking on her clit.

And there it was! There it was! Multiples! Right out of the gate. He took it all in, triumphantly. Wanting it so badly. Going back to eating her out like a mad man. Come all over my fucking face, baby. I need it. I’ve wanted you like this, exactly like this, the whole time.

Each climax had quite the exuberant release. Pouring from her scrumptiously in the most erotic way imaginable.

His left hand quickly slipped down to grip the base of his cock, otherwise he would have been shooting his load on the bedspread. You can make me come just by letting me lick you, Julia. If I let myself, I would.

He should have rubbed one out quickly beforehand. It was going to take effort not to blow it immediately. But he wasn’t a boy. He was going to fuck that delicious pussy like a man, no matter how fucking tight she was. She wasn’t anywhere near done coming for the night.

Fuck. Her gorgeous body was still writhing wildly. Her desperate sobs bringing him so much pleasure. What number are you on now, baby? Was that the third or the fourth?

When she started jolting, he knew it was time to stop. He needed to give her a moment.

He sat up so he could watch her. She was so fucking sexy. She’d just pulled her knees up to her chest as she rode out the last of her orgasms, her feet pointed, and toes curled. Her head flung back in ecstasy. Her sensual moans resounding through his room. They don’t make porn this hot, Julia. Just look at you. And he was looking. He saw a devastatingly beautiful woman laid out on his bed. Her gorgeous long blonde hair tussled about. Her spectacular body in an extremely erotic position. Her sex on full display and trembling. Her thighs glistening with her own desire.

I just licked every inch of that pussy. I want to do it all over again. I want to taste that pretty little rosebud just a bit further south too. He wanted to, so badly. But he could only grip the base of his cock for so long. He NEEDED to be inside her.

Grabbing at his bed spread he used it to clean up. When they were together last, she didn’t seem to realize how special it made her, how desirable. That her body would respond that way to him was so arousing, so gratifying. She’d been shocked when it happened the first time, and he’d lost his mind at the pure eroticism of it. So sexy. It had become an addiction, making her body do that for him.

“You good, beautiful?” He asked softly. His hands coming to pull her legs apart.

Blue eyes opened to look at him. She was stunning.

“Only you could make a woman come like that.” She told him. It was both a compliment and a rebuke.

I’ve only ever done that with you. Would only ever want to do it to you.

He grinned. “Only me? Why I’m just a humble bounty-hunter, ma’am.”

“Come here, Space Cowboy.”

He did so eagerly. Loving how playful she was being with him now. With the stress of having their lives threatened at every turn no longer hanging over their heads, they could pick up right where they had left off. Like you never left me at all.

“Julia.” He moaned as he came to settle between her legs.

Suddenly, her arms were around his neck and she was pulling him into a kiss. So far, he’d been the one to initiate, this time it was she who led. His arms were around her instantly as he returned her kisses passionately. So passionately. Matching her pace yet letting her guide him. She flavored their kisses. Taste yourself on my lips, my love. On my tongue. Know how sweet you are.

He loved that her hands were on him again. She ran them down his biceps appreciatively before bringing them to caress his back.

“Spike.” She called for him so desperately, though he was right there. His face millimeters from her own. “Make love to me.” It wasn’t the sultry seductress that was urging him to take her. It was the woman laid bare. The need thick in her voice, yet something more vulnerable shown in her eyes.”

“Like this?” He asked, lining up his cock with her entrance. She gasped. So, did he.

“I need you inside.” Oh, that’s all I want. All I’ve wanted for years and years. He started sliding in the tip. Just that felt like heaven. Fuck. The way that pussy sucked him in was beyond ecstasy. Now that she’d been properly prepared, he fit inside her so perfectly. Like they were made for each other. I was made for you, my love. My body was made just for you.

He groaned loudly. Too, loudly.

“Tight.” Was all he could say for himself. She smiled. There was the windy smile again. He smiled back at her. Loving her. Losing himself in her eyes. “You really are as gorgeous as I remembered.” He whispered as his hand stroked her cheek. Her smile deepened so beautifully that his heart melted in his chest even as his body struggled against the bliss of their union. The stretch of her over his cock giving him a pleasure he could scarcely handle. His body nearly overwhelmed by the sheer delight of it. But he held on. Fought manfully against the urge to succumb to it. Nothing else could ever feel this good.

He gave them time, caressing her with hands that had craved to touch her for years. With fingers that had longed desperately to stroke her golden hair. Kissed her with lips that had prayed for her return each and every moment they had been apart.

In turn, she clung to him. Moaning softly into his ear. Kissing him there. She’d told him once that she loved how he filled her. How full he made her. Do you love it still? Having me inside? I’ll make you love it.

Kissing her hungerly he began to thrust. They moaned together. There was a desperate need within him to just devour her. To take her, and take her again after that, because he wanted her so much. Like simmering water coming to a full boil, the passion of it became overwhelming. Too much steam. Too much heat. Too much need. He was at her breasts, kissing and suckling them madly, as he picked up the paste. Thrusting into the excruciatingly delicious tightness of her. Again, and again, until he had her at the peak of her desire. Until he was in great danger of reaching his own.

He wasn’t sure when he’d done it exactly. But at some point, he’d pinned Julia’s hands above her head. He held her down like that as he fucked her. Really fucked her. Thrusting hard and precise. Hitting the right spot over and over again. You think I forgot how to fuck you, my love? You think I’d ever forget something like that?

She was just moaning, sobbing. Chanting “yes” desperately. Then needily calling out his name.

“I know, my baby.” He’d whispered in her ear as he kept up the unrelenting pace. “It’s so good. It’s so fucking good.”

Then her hips began to jerk as her body was hit with wave after wave of pleasure. She let out a string of cries that sounded like he was doing something quite alarming to her. A thrill of masculine pride ran through him at that. Is it that good, love? Can it be anywhere near as good as what you're doing to me right now?

Holy fucking shit. He was truly the most blessed man to have ever lived. His cock getting milked by the tightest, wettest, hottest pussy. With one last thrust the scorching, blinding pleasure of it took him. Took him completely. His body shaking with the full force of his orgasm. He spilled his seed deep inside her. Coming like his body was trying to make up for lost time. Fuck, it was intense. To the point of being more than he could take. Only she could make him come like that.

Of the two, he was the louder, the most desperate. There was no helping it. He was only a man, and there was only so much he could take.

Minutes later, still panting and near delirious from the pleasure of it, he laughed a little. Out of joy. Because he was so happy. In a way that he had not been in forever. There had been a part of him that had long given up hope that this would ever happen again. He could not stop from smiling as he kissed her. Kissed her so soft. Kissed down her neck. Snuggled so close to her. Holding her. He saw that Julia had tears in her eyes. But they were a response to the physical exertion. Julia was like him. She never cried.

Guiding his head to rest on the crook of her neck, she hugged him tightly to herself. Wrapping her legs around him to prevent him from pulling out. I would stay like this forever, Julia. If I could. Tenderly she caressed him. His hair, his neck, his back. Soothing him so gently.

My love, you truly have returned to me at last, haven’t you?

Julia began to sing to him then. The way she had before. The way she had that very first time. He remembered waking up sore, battered and bandaged to the voice of an angel. A beautiful angel that nursed him and tended to him with such care.

He'd already been in love with her then. Sick with love for her. Had stumbled desperately to her door in hopes that he would see her face one last time before he died. But he hadn't died. She'd saved him. And when he was with her, had the privilege of spending time with her, got the taste of having some of her attention just for himself… he'd never recovered from that.

I can't do anything but be in love with you, Julia.

Her voice was so beautiful. He felt whole. If only for a moment he was. Cradled in her arms. In her warmth. In her love. How had he ever survived without this? How?

***

Were they finally done?! Some people were trying to sleep around here! She kept her pillow over her head. Who knew when they’d start up again?

Of course, this would happen, she told herself bitterly. She’d known that. She’d known it from the start. Of course, he would go to her. And of course, he would want to be with her.

She’d liked her too. At first. Now she didn’t know what to think about her. That Julia.

She supposed that’s what he liked. A dangerous, beautiful blonde that was refined and didn’t show much skin. You’d think she’d be chased with how conservatively she dressed, but she was clearly anything but. Julia was a woman that went to bed with her lover when it suited her. Let him fuck her wildly with no concern of who heard. She was the kind of woman that had her lover wrapped around her finger, and with very little effort on her part. As if it were the natural state of things, and maybe it was... for that type of woman.

One thing was obvious though, Spike was utterly seduced by her. Had been since the time he had seen her last. Years ago. How was she so powerful?! In a perverse way, she was honestly impressed.

Maybe she just loved sex and was really good at it? She certainly enjoyed it. Her moans had been loud enough. What had that idiot been doing to her anyways?

But his were the worst. Whatever he’d been doing, he was having a great time.

That bastard.

#cowboy bebop #spike spiegel #julia (cowboy bebop)#spike x julia #fanfiction #fanfic

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northcarolinanative · 4 years

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𝙲𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 / 𝙲𝚑 𝟷 𝟻

Description: John B’s Sister comes home from staying with their mom, only to find out that her brother is missing and her dad was murdered. JJ may have just lost his best friend. Her and JJ have to figure out what to do and how to pick up the pieces.

A/N: Hi!! I love this chapter because I think that the relationship between Kie and the Reader needed to be mended and I really wanted the Pogues to be more involved in the hunt for JB and Sarah. I’m hoping that things will pick up soon:) As always my asks/requests/messages are open and let me know ANY feedback that you have for the series or anything that you would like to see:)

Need to Catch Up? Collision MasterList

I pushed open the back door to The Wreck where I saw the rest of the pogues sitting at the wooden picnic table. JJ has his back to me sitting on the picnic table while Kie was looking down at Pope, his face in her hand making him look at her. Their position confused me, but as I got closer I noticed the towel that she had pulled away from Pope’s face was now covered in red. I sped up, jogging the rest of the way trying to assess the situation.

When I walked up to My eyes scanned over both boys who looked to have been beaten and was bloodied. I looked over at Pope seeing his eye beginning to swell and the blood Kie was wiping from his mouth. Then I turned to JJ, who spit to the side of the table before smiling at me. My stomach dropped when I saw the red that clung to his teeth. “What the hell happened?” I asked the group before handing JJ a bottle of water from my bag.

Kie looked between the two boys before handing me an extra damp towel and nodding to JJ. He rolled his eyes as I grabbed his face, making him look at me. I pressed the towel across his bottom lip, where the source of the blood seemed to be coming from. I was standing between his legs as he looked straight at me, his hands resting on his own knees but letting his fingers trace the outside of my thighs. There it was again, the constant reassuring touches. After our fight last night we had both missed them. I swear when it came to JJ I was hypersensitive to how close we were, how we spoke to each other, or even now, how his fingers were tracing mindless patterns into the back of my legs as I stood in between his. The moment felt way too intimate to have our two best friends just to the side of us. Us both apologizing without really saying it. I could feel Kie and Pope’s eyes on the two of us.

Kie was the first to break the silence and push the two for answers. “So y’all just gonna keep secrets now? Rember no secrets between Pogues, what the hell happened?”

I continued to wipe off the blood from JJ’s face till he pushed my hand down so he could speak. “Ward Cameron.” He said, looking at Pope, who just continued to look down, staying quiet. “They had to be working with him, just like the other two groupers were.” He shook his head.

“Ward Cameron?” I exclaimed. I saw JJ wince slightly at my volume. “He should be rotting in a jail cell along with his son,” I mumbled under my breath.

“What were they looking for? Did they say anything?” Kie questioned as she looked between the two boys. JJ looked down at the ground, his jaw was clenched and tight.

“You’re gonna be mad” was all he said. I directed my eyes to Pope, raising my eyebrows at him.

“They took the maps and stuff that Kie and I saw when we came to the Chateau.” This caused Kie to snap her head in my direction, looking at me with confusion on her face. “The guys had masks on but they didn’t look too old, they definitely weren’t adults. They said something about avenging Peterkin, getting John B for what he did.” This caused my breath to hitch in my throat. I tried to breathe normally as to not alert JJ. “Like I said, probably just a scare tactic from Ward.”

“Why would they be looking for that?” She said moving to take the cloth from my hand. I let her take it looking to move at JJ. His words ringing in my ears louder than what either of the other two had said.

I lowered my voice, hoping to give us the slightest bit of privacy in front of our friends. Kie continued to pack up the first aid kit. I knew that they both could hear us, but I did not really care. “JJ look at me, please?” I whispered softly. I put my hand under his chin. I felt my face soften as I ghosted my fingers over the bruising skin of his jaw. Part of me wondered if there would ever be a time that would see him without bruises or scabs littering his body. “I’m not angry with you. I could never be angry with you over something like this, okay?”

JJ nodded his head. I could see the faraway look in his eyes telling me that he was still worried about it. “They didn’t take anything helpful though.” I smiled at him backing away from the group. JJ looked at me, his eyebrows scrunched together in confusion as he watched me grab my backpack. I sat at the table, facing the water. I patted the seat next to me, signaling him to sit down. He rounded the table, Kie and Pope taking their seats on the other side of the wooden picnic table, as I pulled out my notebook and laptop. I sorted through, flipping the pages until I found the page with all my research questions. While I didn’t want to involve Kie and Pope or get their hopes up like JJ and I’s, Pope had just got jumped because of this, he had a right to know.

I pulled the group of papers that I had taken from the Chateau that morning. I handed them to JJ, a smile plastering both of our faces. “You think I needed to use the internet to check my Instagram?” I laughed at him.

JJ wrapped his arms around me in a tight hug. He squeezed me so tight that I felt the air leave my body. I just giggled, “J, I can’t breathe.”

Pulling back he had his hand on my shoulder, “I stand by my statement, you are a genius.”

I started to open the computer and typed in my password. JJ began to answer Pope and Kie’s questions about the maps and what we had found so far. Kie was obviously shocked at how far we had made it into finding them. Pope was in deep thought though. I should have known that he would have answers to most of our problems, being the brains of the group.

The group was invested in different endeavors as we worked for a good amount of time. JJ helped me sift through our notes and codes, when he wasn’t messing around and goofing off with Kie. Kie kept us supplied with baskets of fries and a pitcher of sweet tea, and Pope was working on a scholarship essay. He was upset that he lost the big one, but he was determined to rack up as many smaller one as he could. I was looking up the cargo ships complete path. I typed the number into the freight liners public record archive. I looked at it, seeing that it went to Nassau. I tapped JJ’s shoulder. “It says here that the ship did in fact make it to Nassau. This is the port number.” I said pointing to the screen as JJ. He wrote down the number as fry came flying across the table, no doubt from Kie as we both laughed.

JJ was in the middle of his story about the night we figured out which ship was which. He had left out the part about our kiss, but his hand on my thigh under the table let me know that he remembered. I had spent the last hour scouring the internet for news articles of the past week on the island that the ship docked at. Looking for any sign of “Two runaway teens” or “Two Americans found onboard cargo ships”. I knew that it wasn’t super feasible, but it was something right? I let my frustration take over me. I unintentionally cut JJ off, putting my hands over my face, letting out a groan. “I’m not finding anything.” I let my head fall to hit the table beside my computer.

JJ wrapped an arm around me pulling me up. “Don’t do that, you’ll give yourself a concussion.” He laughed, causing me to roll my eyes.

“You’ve been at it for hours.” Kie started standing up. “Why don’t you take a break and walk with me down to the water? Let JJ actually do some work on it.” She held her hand out to me. I took it as JJ scoffed, fainting offense, but turned the computer towards himself and began reading the screen.

Kie and I walked in silence away from the two boys, enjoying the walk to the water. The water had always been a calming place for me, something about it helped me to clear my head. I slipped my sandals off as we reached the end of the boardwalk.

“So,” Kie began. I looked in her direction. The wind whipping our hair around with its harshness. “You and JJ?” She stated, her tone questioning me.

I shrugged my shoulder. “I have no idea,” I stated. I really didn’t.

“He’s different around you.” She said as we reached the edge of the surf. The cold water reached us, covering only the tops of our feet before it was pulled back into the ocean.

“What do you mean?” I asked. I watched her face as she looked out over the horizon of the water.

“He’s softer with you, more gentle.” She said with a small laugh. “Don’t think I didn’t see you getting all soft either when you got here. Has something happened between you?”

She smiled at me, causing me to blush. “It’s like we know how we feel about each other, but we haven’t exactly said it. We’ve kissed like twice, but every time-”

Kie cut me off playfully hitting me in the shoulder. “You’re kidding me!” She laughed causing me to laugh with her. “If we find John B he’s gonna flip his shit.” She said. I felt my smile falter.

“See that’s it Kie.” She took a step back as my tone changed. “There’s so much going on with him right now between Barry, his restitution, he hasn’t even mentioned his dad, and then us on our hunt for JB, it’s a lot you know?” I let out a deep breath.”What if it isn’t real, and we’re distracting each other or something?” I paused. “I want it to be real though.” It felt nice to get it all off the chest.

Kie hesitated before answering. “You know, if it counts for anything, I think the two of you are good for each other. JJ hasn’t done anything utterly stupid since you got back into to town. And you seem happier when he’s around.” I smiled and nodded at her, silently saying thank you. There was a small pause before she started talking again. “Where’d you go after your shift this morning?”

I took in a deep breath, what Topper had told me earlier was weighing heavy on my conscience after what JJ and Pope told me about the ‘groupers’. “Topper asked to talk to me after my shift. I went out to the parking lot and he was waiting for me. After everything JJ told me about how he helped John B, I figured I’d give him a shot.”

She turned to look at me and her eyes were wide. “You are full of surprises today, aren't you?”

“I guess so.” I laughed reaching down to pick up a shell that was rolling across the sand under the surf. “He said that Rafe has lost it. He’s so far in a drug haze that he’s hallucinating Peterkin, saying that he has to get justice for her. He said he believes us and that we need to watch out for Rafe.”

“Do you believe him?” She asks. We both silently agree to start heading back up the beach toward the restaurant.

“Partially yes. I don’t think that he has a reason to lie about Rafe, I definitely think we need to have our eyes out for him, but we knew that already.” We both let out a sarcastic chuckle. “He said that he wants to help us find John B and Sarah, but I’m not gonna tell him shit. I think he just wants to find Sarah because he’s still obsessed with her. I think he wants her back and will throw John B under the bus if he needs to.” I sighed as we washed our feet off and slipped our shoes back on. I let my hand slide along the sadly wooden railing as we walked. “I just wanted to keep him close in case we did need something.”

“See that’s why you and Pope are the brains of this whole thing because I probably would have told him to go to hell and never come back.” She laughed.

We approached the table to see both JJ and Pope, hunched over the laptop on the table, very focused on the screen. “What’s going on here? You two couldn’t have possibly managed to find something.” Kie laughed as I walked around to look over JJ’s shoulder. I wrapped my arms around his shoulders pulling him close to me, relieved when he leaned back into my touch.

“Actually, we might have,” Pope said looking over his shoulder at me and JJ, smiling.

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kazoo5480 · 3 years

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Emma wakes with Killian’s alarm, she rolls over, and kisses the underside of his jaw, he twitches, still deeply asleep. “Babe, wake up” she says smiling kissing up his neck. He groans, and rolls into her. “What time is it?” he asks yawning, 7, I have to go, work. See you for lunch?” He opens his eyes finally and takes her in, all sleep rumpled and gorgeous. Sighing “Aye, I’ll be by around 12” and she kisses him too quickly and stands to put on her clothes. “Love you” and runs out his door, and he lays there a minute, still waking up.

He sees the boxes stacked still in the corner and sighs. He pushes himself up, and into the shower, leaving Liam a note on the table, focusing on getting through the day. He grabs his skateboard and his backpack and heads out towards the gashouse and just focuses on moving and Emma, what he said to her last night and her so willingly accepting his words. It made him grin like an idiot, Liam might be leaving and starting his own adventure, but so was he. He still had his own adventure to seek, and school ahead, the fact that he was lucky enough to have Emma by his side was just the best kind of added bonus.

Emma rushes inside and up to her room showering quickly and throwing her uniform on. Her mom stood on the precipice of her bedroom watching the whirlwind of her daughter as she raced around. “Is Killian alright Sunshine?” and Emma stopped and looked at her mom and nodded. “I’m sorry I didn’t expect to need to stay but I took one look at their life being boxed up, and he was so broken up mom. I can see his point of view, this was their first home after leaving their home, losing their mom, and with Liam leaving it is just a lot and he is processing, last night was just a bad night for him is all.” Ruth noticed the ring on her daughters right hand but didn’t say anything, if it were important, she would tell her, she always did.

Emma sat down her head in her hands and her mom sat next to her rubbing over her back, and Emma leaned into her mom. “He is lucky he has you Ems, and he has us, and we will all get through this all together. Maybe you could do something nice, rally the troops to help get his stuff moved, and I’ll even throw in for Pizza. I have Saturday off so I could help in the morning, unpack stuff while the guys do the heavy lofting and all that, see if Liam needs help too” and Emma smiled at her mom “that would be awesome, good idea” and she got up rolling her socks on and threw everything in her work duffle. “I gotta go, but I will see you later Mom” and she kissed her mom as Ruth called out to have a good day behind her.

Ruth sat there, and smiled, she raised really good kids, and though she missed her husband like mad sometimes, but she would wait a little longer to tell them, it was going to change a lot in their lives, and she didn’t want to add more on to their plates. Ruth had been seeing her oncologist weekly for months, treatment options were approaching, and Ruth sighed. Speaking aloud, “I’m not ready to leave them yet honey” she said to no one, and she quickly wiped the tears that began running down her cheeks. What she wasn’t aware of was her son standing in the doorway.

“Planning on going somewhere Ma?” and he looked at her taking in her sadness. Ruth was startled, and she looked at her son and the tears began falling quicker. “Come sit” she patted the spot next to her on Emma’s bed and David sat down, his hurt arm on the opposite side and he wrapped an arm around her waist. “Ma what is it?” he asked gently, and she sighed. “Breast Cancer” and David burst into tears tucking his face into his mother’s neck, hugging her as best as he could, and she held her boy, crying in her arms. “I just told your dad, I am not ready to leave yet, so that’s that” and David laughed a little as he sniffled, his tears still flowing. “How bad is it?” and she sighed, “I have options, chemotherapy, surgery. I chose to start Chemo next week, see how it goes” and David nodded.

“We will do everything mom, just tell me how to keep the family running” and she patted his cheek. “Well, I will need some help around the house, and the therapy makes you really sick, so I have been slowly building an arsenal of stuff I’m going to need, speaking with people in the treatment rooms while they go through it. I wanted to be prepared.” He nodded, “How long have you known?” “Six months. I found a lump and scheduled an appointment right away; we think we caught it early… but I am probably going to lose my hair” she said with a grim smile. David looked at her touching her soft blonde curls, so similar to Emma’s.

“Hair grows back, or we will find you some really amazing wigs, or you can totally rock a bald head” and she laughed and nodded. “The house will be fine, I have our savings, my pension with the hospital, we should be ok” and he nodded once. “Em and I will contribute everything we make to the savings; we should make a plan to tell her, and be ready with a plan, she always wants to see the long picture” and Ruth nodded. “We should make sure you both are on the bank account and the house deed.” David cut her off. “You aren’t going anywhere Ma” and she smiled, “Let’s just have a plan B, it would make me feel better” and he nodded.

“When do we tell Em?” he asked grimly, and she sighed, “I don’t know, but I think we should let Killian and her both get through the weekend, and then we will tell everyone. I have a feeling I am going to need each and every one of my kids to get us through this” and Dave nodded. “I’ll call a Sunday dinner, spread the word through Ruby, we never needed a reason before, so we should do it soon” and Ruth agreed. “I’ll make lasagna, and maybe a cake” and Dave looked at his mom, “It’s going to be ok Mom. I am not going anywhere, and me and Em, we can handle this, helping you. Our friends, they will be here too, you’re just going to have to be ok with people taking over to help you for a while, see how the treatment works, without fighting all of us” and she smiled. “How did I get so lucky to have two great kids?” and he smiled, “Because we have a great mom.” He held his mom a little longer until she got up and said she was going to get ready for work, and he nodded.

He sat there for a while, staring out the window, and begged his dad to leave their mom with them, to not take her too. His heart was shattered, and he couldn’t tell a soul, that was his mom’s personal choice to tell people, and even though it killed him, he wouldn’t tell Emma, they would tell her together. He knew the police academy was the right choice, it would pay good, he could live here with his mom, make sure she was taken care of, Emma had another year of school so she would be around, and lord knows all their friends would band together to keep their matriarch in one piece. He just had to have hope that it would all be ok. He walked to the phone and dialed Red, she picked up immediately. “Hey Rubes, Ma is calling Sunday dinner, everyone, 5 o clock” and she agreed and said she would track everyone down, not even asking why.

He could do this, he could handle this, and Emma was strong like Ruth, they could handle it. As much as he hated to agree, they needed a Plan B, Breast Cancer wasn’t exactly new but when it was your own mother, he decided he should start reading. Since he was off today, he went downstairs, and his mom kissed him goodbye before her shift, and he headed toward the library, asking for every single book, journal, and article they had on Breast Cancer, Astrid the librarian looked at him and nodded with a curious expression but said she would grab what she had, and begin collecting everything over the next few days for him. He thanked her and began reading.

Emma and M were both on the same shift today, and they weren’t crazy busy, so they had some downtime to talk. Emma asked about swapping shifts so that she could be helping Killian Saturday and M agreed of course and said she would help him Sunday too. Zelena came out and tacked up the schedule, waving good morning, and it turns out both Saturday and Sunday Emma had the morning shifts, and would be off by 3, so M didn’t mind at all that she took her Saturday shift if Emma took her following Sunday afternoon shift for her, Emma agreed right away. They chitchatted, and a few cars came in, but by lunch they were starting to get packed. Emma was zipping around on her skates doling out orders for two hours straight, and Killian still hadn’t shown up. Maybe he was busy too she thought.

Ruby called a while later to Rae’s telling M that Ruth was calling for Sunday Dinner, and Dave had called Ruby to round them all up, Emma laughed, eating her grilled cheese as M talked to Ruby, she could have done that, but he was right, Ruby was like a one-woman telephone tree. Emma just assumed her mom wanted Killian to have support since Liam was leaving Friday, and now Elsa too. Emma told M to eat, and she was about to skate out as Killian walked in closer to 1. “Sorry, we were packed, and without Dave it was just me today” and she nodded and kissed him, “Sit, I will be right back” and skated out. Killian parked himself next to M and she was scarfing down her food. “You know no one is going to steal that from you M” and she laughed.

“Sorry, but we just had a huge rush, I am starving, you missed Emma inhaling her food a few minutes ago” and he smiled. “Eat, I am just placing a carry out, and she threw him her pad to write his order on. She got up and skated around the counter throwing it on the counter for the kitchen and tossed her plate into the dish bin. “It will be up in a few” and skated out, her brunette hair blowing out behind her. He shook his head, they worked really hard, and honestly, he was grateful because this obviously contributed to Emma’s outstanding legs. Speaking of which, she skated in and into his arms and he caught her. “Hi” she said, and he kissed her. “Do you want something?” and he told her he had a carry out coming. Emma told him Sunday dinner and he nodded, and “order up” came and Emma skated to grab his bag. “What time are you off again?” she asked, “Looks like later, 530 or so” and she nodded. “See you tonight?” and he nodded, Ill head over after I go home and shower. She nodded, “Love you” and he kissed her hard. “See you tonight” and she smiled as he walked out, food in hand.

David closed the last book and popped a few journals and the legal pad he had taken copious notes on and headed towards the car. He looked at his watch, both Emma and his mom would be home soon, so he wanted to make sure dinner was ready and, on the table, when they both got in. Tonight, was going to be rough on them all, and he decided to swing by the gashouse on his way home. Spotting Killian, he waved with his good hand, “Hey, shouldn’t you be resting?” Jones said to him and he nodded, “I am. I need you to come to our house tonight, I know you are busy, but actually Liam and Elsa should come too for dinner.

Killian nodded, “Ill track Liam down, what’s up? Em said Sunday dinner, but tonight?” And David sighed, “Can you make dinner? Or be there after dinner?” Killian looked nervous, “Dave” and put a hand on his good shoulder, and Dave shook his head. “Tonight?” And Killian nodded, “Emma?” “Is going to need you. But I gotta go” and he booked it out of there leaving a confused and very worried Killian in his wake. Killian lifted the phone dialing the docks, and got Liam to agree to dinner, said he would meet him there at 6, Elsa was working though, and Killian couldn’t tell him why because he honestly didn’t know, and by Emma’s demeanor today he would bet that she didn’t either.

After his shift he rushed home, and showered, changing, and throwing in clothes for good measure in case, and skated towards the Nolan’s like a fire was under his ass. Ruth walked in to find her son tossing a salad, and stir fry going on the stove. “Someone has been busy” she said to her son, as she looked over his notepad, and he snatched it out her hands. “I did some reading, wanted to be prepared” and Ruth hugged her son. “We are telling Emma tonight, I asked Killian and Liam to come over, no one else. But Emma is going to need the support, and with Liam leaving he has a right to know” and Ruth looked sad. “I didn’t want those boys to worry” and Dave nodded, but said “Ems going to need Killian just as much as I need M and you need all of us. We are a family, and I didn’t know if you wanted M to know or not yet, so I haven’t said a word to her, and didn’t ask her to come tonight.” Ruth nodded, “You should call her, I don’t want you keeping my secret from her” and he walked to the phone calling.

Ruth headed into her bedroom and changed into a floral sundress that she loved and combed her long hair back. She needed to be strong for her kids, for herself. She knew David was right, they needed to involve those closest to them first, and she headed into the kitchen to help her son with dinner, since they were expecting more people now. Dave banished her to the porch swing, and she hated being bossed around but she had to let her son come to terms with this, and if bossing people around and making her sit and read was punishment, she would be a glutton for it. Emma’s yellow bus rolled in and she hopped out, M with her, hearing her in the kitchen, and heard her daughters footsteps up the stairs. M and Dave came out to sit with her, and Emma came down a few moments later, her long blonde curls drying and a smile on her face. “Dave said dinner tonight, and Sunday. What’s going on?”

She watched her mom school her features, Emma did the same thing when she was upset or had a secret. Killian rolled up on his skateboard, and Emma was surprised but not, Killian looked nervous as he approached their porch and sat on an empty seat. M moved to an empty chair beside him, and Emma moved to the swing with her mom and Dave. Dave nodded at Ruth, and Emma’s mom clasped her hand and Dave’s good one.

“We asked you here because we have something to tell you, and because you two are the most important people in their lives, it’s going to take us all as a family to get through this, together” Ruth said swallowing. Dave produced a box of tissue from somewhere and handed one to his mom. “Mommy?” Emma said, and Ruth patted Emma’s cheek. “I’m sick Sunshine, Breast Cancer” and looked grim. Emma gasped, her lip trembled, and tears began to pour. She hugged her mom tightly, Killian and M held hands and they watched the three hold each other and cry, Killian now understanding why Dave wouldn’t tell him, it wasn’t his news to share.

Killian knelt in front of the three of them, pulling M with him and he rubbed Emma’s leg in reassurance, but she didn’t take her eyes off her mom. “Whatever you need, I’ll help” Killian said, and Ruth smiled at him. “Tell me everything” Emma said, and Ruth did, telling them all, and Dave chimed in with what he found at the library. M and Killian excused themselves to allow them privacy for a moment, and to go get dinner off the stove, and wrapped each other in a tight hug. “Ruth is tough, she will be ok” M said to Killian and he nodded, “it won’t be like it was with your mom Jones, if they caught it early enough…” and he gripped his friend tighter nodding. “Help me get this on the table” and he followed the small brunette around, lost in his thoughts.

Emma was reeling, “How long did you know” she nailed Dave with a glare. “Just this morning sunshine, don’t be mad at your brother, he caught me in a weak moment right after you left, and I just spilled it” she laughed lightly. “It isn’t funny” Emma said to her mom, and her mom wiped the tear tracks off her daughters cheeks. “I am going to be ok, treatment and maybe a surgery, but like I told your brother, I told dad this morning I wasn’t leaving and that’s that” and Emma nodded wanting to be alone. She got up off the porch, and walked around to the bus, grabbing her spare key, and backed out of the driveway and pulled out, her mom and brother looking confused, but she saw her mom pull Dave down as he tried to stand. “Emma” he yelled, and she took off, heading toward the beach.

Killian heard them call Emma’s name and saw the bus gone. He ran to the front steps, “Where did she go?” and Ruth sighed, “the place she always goes when she needs to be alone” and stood patting his cheek. “Come on, let’s get supper on the table, and start eating, is Liam coming?” and Killian nodded. “I should…” and Ruth looked at him, “Let her be, if she isn’t back before dark, you can go get her, drag her back. I expected this, Emma is like the wind, temperamental and strong, I knew she would need a moment to process it, and I am not going to deny her that and neither are any of you” and he nodded in understanding, wanting to support his love and hold her like she held him. He also knew when Emma took off, she needed it and meant it. Liam showed up a few moments later, and as they ate, Ruth told Liam who immediately knelt at her side crushing her in a hug. It was a very emotional dinner, and his thoughts were entirely on Emma as he sat there with her family processing this monumental news and wishing he could take her pain away and looking at her mother, their surrogate mother and wanting to take her illness away.

Emma threw her suit on, and grabbed her board, stalking down the pier, dropping her stuff in a pile and went into the water. The sun was orange and pink, and purples, the waves calm as she laid on her board looking at the sky, sobbing. She was furious at god, or whoever was out there for doing this, they had already lost their dad, and what if her mom didn’t come out of this. God, the tears rolled down her face and she just let her heart crack wide open, and the tears fall into the ocean as it rolled over her skin. She sat up and paddled, having drifted and the sky was getting darker. She went to the shore, and saw Killian sitting, her stuff in his lap. He handed her the towel as she dropped her board and she crawled into his lap and he held her as she cried softly, soothing her, and smoothing her hair until she had let it all out. “Come on angel, let’s get you home” and he grabbed her stuff and led her to the bus driving her back home.

Ruth was on the porch reading, Dave and M in the house watching TV. Liam had hugged her goodbye after dinner, and promised to stop by before he left, and Killian had finally run off to the beach to drag Emma home. It was full dark now and she saw the bus pull in and park at the end of the driveway. Emma hopped out, her wet bathing suit, her eyes red, and Killian kissed her forehead sending her up the front walk while he moved the bus into the backyard. Emma looked up at her mom and came to sit next to her, Ruth holding her tightly and kissing her hair. “I’m sorry” Emma said quietly, and Ruth shushed her. “I know you sunshine, you needed time.” Emma hugged her mom fiercely, “do you think it will work?” and Ruth nodded against her daughters head, “I really do sunshine, I really do. But I am tired, and I am sure you are too. Let’s head in, ok?”

Emma nodded and helped her mom up, and Dave got up and crushed Emma to his good side, “You can’t just leave in the dark, no more. No surfing after sundown Em” and she looked up at him and nodded. “I can’t be worried about you out there, and her here. I need you to be here Em, I need you.” Emma kissed his cheek and noticed Killian, Dave looked at him “When I am not here, she is your responsibility.” “I’m not a child Dave! Killian has his own life, same as you and M, and Liam. All of us. I can take care of myself, but I said I wouldn’t go after dark anymore” she said petulantly. Dave softened, and looked at Killian and Emma, “Well if you’re at the beach after dark, it’s never alone. If I am not there, he is” and Killian nods “I got it Dave” and he grabbed Emma’s hand and led her up to her room. He could feel the emotion rolling off of Emma in waves, she needed grounding and he walked up to her and grabbed her hand rubbing the ring. “I’m your anchor too Em. Let me be, let me in” and she nodded, and he hugged her tightly.

Emma went to the shower and rinsed off. She didn’t bother with clothes and Killian wasn’t surprised when she crawled into bed and curled herself around him. She needed him, just as he did the night before from her, so he rolled her and slid his boxers off. He quietly made love to Emma, silencing her moans with his mouth, and kissed her tears away until they were spent. “Ems, nightgown” he said into her hair and she grabbed it off the end of her bed and pulled it on, and he pulled on his boxers and tee shirt. Emma laid her head on his chest and fell asleep. Killian laid there a while, the crickets out her window, the wind blowing in and thought back to what Ruth said, when she offered for him to be here. Maybe now he should be, for Ruth, for Emma, for Dave. He would talk to Ruth tomorrow, and drifted off to sleep.

He crept out of Emma’s bed, her still sound asleep and put on his clothes, making a pot of coffee. Ruth came in a few minutes later, not surprised to see him. “Morning” she said, and Killian handed her a cup, and she smiled. “You knew the day of the competition, when you said no matter what that I am allowed here whenever I wanted, night, day, if I chose to be, and that you were ok with it. You meant this, didn’t you Ruth?” and she looked at him quietly, and nodded. “I thought maybe you being here would help me, it would help you avoid renting a place, and I am sick. Dave and Em can’t do it all on their own all the time, but I wanted you to know you could be here as much as you wanted honey. Losing your mom, I thought you might want to be here more for Em and Dave, me too.”

He nodded, “I do, but living with you guys is one thing, I moved closer, so I am around the corner, but into your home might be a little much for now. But I will be here every day, we can schedule your treatments around our work and school schedules, so that one of us is always here with you in the house. I assume that’s what the family dinner Sunday is for? To tell the whole tribe?” and she nods and smiles. “I have an army of kids, I figured Dave was right and letting them help as much as they can or want to.” Killian smiles at her, “It’s going to be ok Ruth, I just have a feeling.”

“Is it the same kind of feeling that you had when you put that ring on my daughter?” She cocks her head to side smiling. He blushes, “It wasn’t a proposal Ruth, god I would never do that without asking you or Dave, both of you. I made a promise to Emma is all, a promise to be here as long as she wants me to be.” Ruth nods, “okay. No proposals until college, alright? And no grandbabies either until she is done with nursing school” and Killian pales, letting out a shaky laugh. “Understood.” Ruth stands, “I am heading to work, so I will see you guys later, let the kids know I’ll be home around 4” and she kissed his hair and headed towards her room.

Killian finished his coffee and went to wake Emma, knowing she had to work but Dave headed him off at the steps. “Morning” Killian said, and Dave eyed him. “Sleeping over again Jones?” He nodded, I could lie and say it won’t be a regular thing, but your mom asked me to be here more, for Em, for you, for her. So, is that going to be a problem?” Dave looked at him and shook his head. “Just make sure you have clothes on, alright?” and Killian laughed and nodded. “I am heading to work, was going to wake Emma up before I head home” and Dave nodded. “See you later roomie” Killian taunted and laughed while Dave glared at him. “Still my sister man” and Killian ignored him still laughing.

He ran his fingers up Emma’s spine, her curls dried in a wild blonde tangle, and she looked so peaceful. “Em” he said kissing her cheek, and she stirred. “Hmmmm” “I’ve got to get to work, I’ll see you later love” and she peeked her eyes open and puckered her lips, and he kissed her soundly. “love you” she said sleepily, and he agreed. “Bye” and he grabbed his backpack heading home. Liam and Elsa were drinking coffee when he walked in, and Liam greeted him, Elsa coming to hug him.

“How are you, are the Nolan’s ok?” and he nodded. “As well as can be expected” he said leaning against the counter. “I am glad she told me” Liam said quietly. “I wouldn’t have been able to forgive myself if we left and got a call, I wish I could stay to help her, return the kindness she has shown us since the day she met us” he said looking down at his hands. Killian came and clapped his hands on his brothers shoulders and kissed his head. “I’ll be doing that; you just focus on staying in one piece for us. But I have to get to work, dinner tonight, packing?” And Liam nodded. I’ll be home around 4, so I’ll just be boxing here, maybe I can help you take a few things to your new place, you have the keys, right?” and Killian nodded. “Alright, I will see you later. Bye Elsa” and he went to shower quickly and head off to work.

@captainswanouat @captainswoon @captain-swan-coffee @ao3feed-cs @kmomof4 @onceuponadaily @itsfabianadocarmo @lieutenantswan @kymbersmith-90 @killiansprincss @mrs-emma-swan-jones @hollyethecurious

@stahlop @hookedonkillianforlife87 @holdingoutforapiratehero

@jrob64 @teamhook @purplehawkcaptain @sals86 @killiancomeback2me @killiansprincss @karlyfr13s @myfearless-love @resident-of-storybrooke

@thesschesthair @the-captains-ayebrows @jonesfandomfanatic @laschatzi @tiganasummertree @donteattheappleshook @purplehawkcaptain

#emma swan #once upon a time #killian jones #ouat au

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underthewingsofthblackeagle · 4 years

Photo

“Berliner Fernsehturm” * Foto: BernardoUPloud

After her marriage with Frank Randall has failed and Claire Beauchamp flees from her violent husband, she finds refuge in the house of the Fraser/Murray family in Berlin-Wilhelmshorst. But then tensions arise between Britain (which has since left the EU) and some EU member states. All holders of an English passport are required to leave EU territory within six weeks … and suddenly Claire’s fate looks more uncertain than ever.

This story was written for the #14DaysofOutlander event, hosted by @scotsmanandsassenach

Chapter 9: 14 Men (5)

After she sat down and Jamie poured everyone a glass of water, Ferdinand Groide began:

"Mrs. Beauchamp, Jamie, Mr. Fraser, told me that your husband is Dr. Frank Randall. Is that correct?"

(...)

"As you may also know, I have left my husband. Our marriage had been on paper only for several years. I intend to ask for a divorce, if that's possible from here. But I still have to care about this man's life. I'm a doctor, I took an oath. If I reveal the secrets I have learned... what will you do to him?"

"What do you mean? What are we going to do with him?"

"Will you hurt him? I mean, will you let someone hurt him?"

Ferdinand Groide and Jamie looked at each other in amazement.

"Mrs. Beauchamp, we're not the Mafia. We don't hire hit men."

"But you're in Intelligence, Mr. Groide."

Claire said that sentence with the same calm and objectivity as if she was saying to Jenny:

"If you put one more egg in the batter, it gets better."

"And intelligence agencies do these things," she added to her statement with the same objectivity.

"Well, maybe the CIA or the KGB. Let me answer you this way: In my opinion, a living Frank Randall is far more interesting and valuable to a secret service than a dead Frank Randall."

"In other words, you guarantee me that the information I give you will not endanger his life."

Groide and Jamie looked at each other again.

"Promise me."

It wasn't a question, it wasn't a request, it was a demand, and the words Claire used to make that demand left none of the men unaware that there was no alternative to this bargain for them.

Groide struck the hand Claire held out to him.

"You have my word, Mrs. Beauchamp. You don't know me yet and you probably mistrust me. That's only natural. But Jamie, Mr. Fraser, can assure you that I'm a man of my word."

Claire looked over at Jamie. He nodded.

"Done."

She reached for the glass of water that Jamie had put in her hand and emptied it in one gulp.

Then she began to talk.

"Microphone" by Florian-Media

"It was in the year 2015, in late November 2015 to be exact."

"Excuse me, Mrs. Beauchamp," Groide objected, "but we ought to do this properly."

He removed from his briefcase a device whose rectangular clunkness was reminiscent of an early mobile phone. After placing it in the center of the table, he inserted two small, round microphones attached to longer cables, one pointing at Claire and one pointing at himself. Groide pressed the record button, then he gave the date, time, place, names of those present and, as the reason for the recording, ‘Statement by Dr. Claire Elisabeth Beauchamp’.

Jamie had to smile. Ferdinand was a friendly person, but he was also a German bureaucrat. Everything had to follow the specific order and everything had to be done 'by the book'. Those Germans. They had rules for everything. They couldn't just have a conversation like that, it had to be a 'statement' and of course it had to be 'recorded'. In this country everything was recorded, either on paper or on tape. And then everything was filed, paginated, numbered and archived. Nothing was lost. They were so damn meticulous, these Germans, but also so damn effective.

"Please begin with your personal life, Mrs. Beauchamp. Name, birthday, place of birth, family, etc."

"My name is Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp. I was born in London on October 20, 1993, the only child of Julia, née Moriston, and Henry Montmorency Beauchamp. My mother was a primary school teacher, my father worked as a statistician for an insurance company. In the winter of 1998 my parents were killed in a car accident. My uncle, Lambert Quentin Beauchamp, was appointed by the authorities as my foster father and guardian. He was my only living relative, my father's only brother. Due to the activities of my uncle, who was an egyptologist and archaeologist, I grew up in England for only a short time, the rest of the time we spend abroad. When I was 16 years old, my uncle returned to England permanently and accepted a professorship at Oxford University. Shortly afterwards I began training as a nurse. Also in Oxford. At the age of 19, I had just completed my education, I met my future husband Franklin Wolverton Randall through my uncle. He also worked in the history department and specialised in Scottish history. At times he worked as an assistant to a professor. We married the following year. My uncle died only a few months later. His health had unfortunately not been the best at the end of his life. When my husband was called to Harvard University's history department, we moved to Boston.

"Oxford" by MarlonRondal

Groide nodded. Jamie was sure that nothing Claire had told him so far was new to his friend. Guaranteed, they had checked Claire from the day he requested the visa for her passport. And they had certainly not been idle since then. At "In Vino Veritas" there was a small but very effective group of staff who had certainly dug up everything they could find about the young woman in the past few days.

"When and how did you learn of your husband's secret activities?"

"It was in the year 2015, in late November of that year to be exact. Does the name Jonathan Pollard mean anything to you?"

Jamie listened with new interest. Groide just nodded.

"Then you know that this man has served thirty years in the United States for espionage. In 2015 he was released on parole and in the American media there was a lot of coverage and discussion for days. I had never heard this man's name before and, to be honest, I didn't care about the whole thing. However, I listened up when my husband spoke about it. It was a Sunday, two days after Pollard was released. I remember the whole thing so well because that day was the day of the terrible accident in that jademine in Myanmar, where 90 people were killed and over 100 people were missing. We had had dinner and then Frank turned on the TV. There was a talk show where the case was discussed. My husband had already started drinking in the afternoon. While Frank was watching the talk show, I thought, ‘My goodness, they're talking about an age-old espionage case and people are dying elsewhere without the media even paying attention.’"

Claire reached for her glass, which Jamie had refilled in the meantime, and took a big sip.

"I didn't pay much attention to the discussion on TV. But then suddenly Frank started mumbling loudly:

'Spy! Spy! Spy! Nonsense! The man was an amateur! What real spy leaves secret documents openly on his desk in the office and his wife was stupid enough to leave a suitcase with secret documents with a neighbour who was in the military himself!’”

Claire reached for her glass again and drank.

"What he said made me furious, so I said to him: 'Oh yes, but you know how a real spy behaves!’ I thought his reaction was terribly arrogant. To my surprise, he then turned down the TV. He came over and sat down with me on the sofa. He looked me in the eyes and grinned. Then he said, ‘Yes, my darling, I know that. The MI5 recruited and trained me while I was still studying at Oxford. Right after they heard I was going to specialise in Scottish history. With my family background and the good connections we had in the military and police through my cousin Jonathan, there were no obstacles.’”

"Books" by MichaelGaida

"How did you react to that?"

"Well, at first I was stumped. I thought he was just showing-off again. So I replied, ‘Why would the MI5 need an expert in Scottish history?’ He replied, ‘Well, of course you can't imagine, you little fool. Good God, Claire! The Scots want independence and just because last year's referendum went so well, they will not give up. It's their history they're drawing strength from! What do you think will happen if they really gain their independence? It could set off a chain reaction. You know that Prime Minister Cameron announced two years ago that he would hold a referendum on Britain's withdrawal from the EU if he was re-elected in 2015? So? He has been re-elected! Now there must be a referendum. And what if Britain's withdrawal from the EU is carried out but Scotland becomes independent and is then admitted to the EU as a member? Did you ever think about that? This is going to get us in big trouble! Then the EU will continue to stand with two legs on our island! We can't let that happen.’”

Claire paused for a moment, then she went on: "I must have looked at him in wonder and disbelief, because suddenly he stormed out of the living room. I heard him looking for something in his study. When he came back he had a newspaper article in his hand which he held in front of my face. ‘Read it,’ he said to me. ‘Our government takes this danger seriously... and so should you!‘ I took the article and read. It was an article in the International Business Times in July 2015. It reported that the Prime Minister had met with the CEOs of a media company. The purpose of the meeting was allegedly to prevent the broadcast of a TV series about the Scottish Rebellion of 1746 before the referendum on Scottish independence. It seems that a request has been made to postpone the broadcast. I later found on his desk a copy of an article from ‘The Scotsman’, which also covered the subject in detail.” Groide and Jamie looked at each other and smiled. Both men nodded, but said nothing.

"Frankly," Claire continued, "I hadn't given the matter any thought at all. In the five years before, I had been mainly busy finishing my medical studies and gaining experience as a doctor. You don't have much time to worry about other things. Besides, due to my, well, somewhat non-conformist upbringing, I was never so much confined to one country alone ..."

"How is it that despite medical school, your husband still refers to you as..." Groide is looking for words, "intellectually... weaker...?” "Frank believes that medical school would consist largely of memorizing the contents of textbooks. He thought that people's bodies were somehow all the same and that if you had learned the appropriate forms of treatment, then you could treat them. He never understood the diversity and complexity of the human body and how medical science reacts to it." "Did your husband explain his duties for the MI5 to you?" "When I told him that Scotland's history, and Scotland's ambitions for independence, were well known, he told me not to think so superficially. He said that historians are not only concerned with the past. They can also make predictions about the future to a certain extent, based on their knowledge. I should think about what the clan system had meant and still means to the Scots. Why did the English central government everything to destroy it after the Jacobite uprising of 1746? England should not allow a united counter-power to be formed again in the north of the country. He was probably particularly concerned about this lobby group, One Banner for all Scots, which had formed the year before."

"Scottish Independence" by Emphyrio Claire was focused on Ferdinand Groide and the recording equipment in front of her. She didn't see Jamie's face become more and more thoughtful.

"Mrs. Beauchamp, all this is interesting, but... not very specific." "At first, I too got to know only general things. It only became more specific later when I did... well, my own... research. "You did your own research?" Groide suddenly seemed interested again. Jamie tried not to smile. What seemed like a minor revelation to his friend only confirmed what he had been thinking all along. Claire was an intelligent, strong woman. Her strength might have been broken for a time by what her husband had done to her. But Jamie was sure that she would find her way back to that strength. And he vowed to himself that he would do everything he could to help her. "I thought Frank was a braggart for a long time, but... I can't describe it exactly. Something had caught my interest. Then a colleague asked me if I would trade a weekly shift with her. She would have had a night shift, but her babysitter was unavailable. I agreed and that same afternoon I went to the university library and borrowed books on Scottish history and the independence movement. The department where I was on night duty was not very labour-intensive. I had a lot of time to read and think during the nights of that week." She paused for a moment. "After that week, I became aware of the urgency of the issue." Groide didn't say anything, but his gaze urged her to continue. "National self-determination. Well, there's no need to explain that further. Scotland's oil. 64% of Europe's oil reserves are on Scottish territory. They're said to be worth 4 trillion pounds. Then there is the issue of renewable energy. I mean Scotland has 25 % of Europe's wind energy potential, 25 % of Europe's tidal energy potential and 10 % of Europe's wave energy potential. I do not have to tell you that these are also enormous financial potentials." A fine smile appeared on Groide's face. "And then, of course, there is the question of nuclear disarmament: with control of defence and foreign policy, an independent Scotland could tackle the elimination of Trident nuclear weapons, an issue long associated with the campaign for an independent Scotland. Trident class submarines carrying missiles with 120 nuclear warheads are based at the Clyde naval base near Glasgow. In the event of Scottish independence, England would have to withdraw these weapons and revise its defence strategy. I imagine that would be a thorn in the side of the American allies as well. There will certainly be a lot of diplomatic pressure behind the scenes." Claire took a deep breath. "Now you're going to tell me that this is all public information and I would agree with you. But I wasn't aware of it before. These informations woke me up. It took a while but when I had the opportunity to take on another week of night shifts I immediately agreed. In this time I developed a kind of plan. I was eager to find out if Frank's statement was true. At first I tried to track when he was going to conferences or work meetings. Not all of them, but several of them took him to England and Scotland. I can't prove it, but I had the impression that his travels became more frequent at times when 'the Scottish theme' was boiling up. Later, after 2015, and particularly after the brexite, his travels intensified.” To Jamie's surprise, Claire reached into her handbag, which she had hung on the back of her chair, and pulled out a piece of paper she handed over to Ferdinand Groide.

"Tea" by Pexels "This is a list of all the trips my husband has taken since 2013. supposedly for reasons of his work as a historian." Groide skimmed the list, then put it aside. "Thank you very much. We will try to verify the data." "In the weeks that followed, I voluntarily took several weeks of night duty. Because there was another advantage to this. I was at home while my husband was at university and could look through his records almost undisturbed."

"Will you share the knowledge you have gained from this?" "Yes. But perhaps we could have some tea?" Claire replied as she looked at Jamie. "Certainly." He got up and left the room. Ferdinand Groide pressed the 'stop' button on the recorder. Then he got up and stretched a bit. Claire did the same.

#14DaysofOutlander #From Boston to Berlin in 14 Hours #Outlander #Outlander fan Fiction #Boston #Berlin #Claire Beauchamp #Jamie Fraser #Frank Randall #Jonathan Randall #Ian Murray #Jenny Murray

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ghostsreadingghosts · 3 years

Text

The Specialist

Synopsis: Welcome to the Institute - a business slotted into the space between worlds. Here, strange things aren’t so abnormal, but should still be feared. Follow Ellis, a Data Specialist, as she fulfills her tasks in the archives and perhaps finds more than what she was meant to in the process.

Data Specialist. Data. Specialist. Such a vague title, though Ellis thought it was probably fitting. She felt like a vague member of her company, just an almost faceless little job puppet that flitted from work load to work load without ever leaving much of an impression on anyone. She wasn’t closely tied with any person here - wasn’t even close enough that most of them knew her name. But she knew them, or at least, observed them.

Amilia was head analyst for the Institute, meaning she was the one who assigned everyone’s work load in their department. She was a petite, intelligent woman who’d never worked anywhere other than the Institute for her entire life and, honestly, was probably born there. No one was really sure where she came from. She just sort of appeared one day working in the archive vault and no one questioned it. It was one of those things that was best not to question, Ellis had learned.

Charlie, on the other end of the employment ladder, was a junior analyst, having been hired right off of his college internship, meaning he’d already been working there for a year so it was easier than putting up another job posting and training in someone else. It also meant he’d probably stick around for awhile because he had no “real world” experience yet outside of an internship and he was just poor enough that he couldn’t afford to quit without another job lined up. Which was unlikely in the near future, given the experience garnered at the Institute was a very specific kind.

Then there was Darius, who was one of the Analysts and field workers. They were always running on too much caffeine and too little sleep, but so was everyone else in the Institute aside from Upper Management. They’d been a runaway at one point in their life, but by now would simply describe it as having a ‘no contact relationship’ with their parents. Only Ben tried to ask about them once and Darius had stonewalled him at every turn. So much for a “close knit workspace,” as Ben liked to call it.

Ben was the secretary and the liaison between Upper Management and the Data & Records department where Ellis worked. He was the perfect creature of poised charm and warm smiles - all grins and business talk with nothing really much deeper. It made Ellis’ skin crawl. He looked like one of the Office Drones from the top floor. Those strange little eldritch beings peeled off of the Beyond and stuck into expressionless skins, milling about on the upper floors in jerky, uncoordinated movements as they fulfilled the tasks of their masters until they could be released back into the Beyond again were the primary menial workforce of the Institute, though Ellis couldn’t imagine why. Their faces never moved right, their skin and clothes never settling quite into a perfect facsimile of humanity. Instead it was always just off enough to cause discomfort and Ellis had long learned to steer clear of them when they made their rare appearances on the lower floors to deliver packages or run office errands. It did make Ellis wonder how other offices worked, though.

She had never really had work outside of the Institute, as far as she could recall. Maybe a job when she was teenager babysitting or cutting grass, but she couldn’t remember. Her life was full of long days and boring evenings, so it’s not as though there was anything particularly worth remembering if her life had always looked the way it did now. But she heard stories from time to time from other people about work outside of the Institute and it always made her mind twist about in strange ways.

She’d gone on a date once with a man named Garrett who, when Ellis asked about his work, laughed and said he was just an office drone. He’d been very confused when Ellis’ color drained from her face and she excused herself to pay her tab and leave. Ingrid, Ellis’ roommate and a woman who worked in marketing, stated that he was just making a joke and that Office Drones were different outside of the Institute. Ellis wasn’t sure what to make of that, but wasn’t particularly keen to go out with someone who referred to themselves as a lifeless husk with nothing but a squirming, wriggling mass of inhuman tentacles and teeth inside.

But was it really any better than her job, when she thought about it? Data Specialist. Did that mean she specialized in data? Or that she dealt with specialist data? Perhaps both. She did have to sign a rather lengthy NDA when she was hired, or at least she thought she remembered signing an NDA. It was so long ago now.

She frowned as she climbed up onto a ladder in the archives, putting a rather temperamental file back onto the top shelf. As she completed the task, she shuffled through her notes and found the form she was looking for just as Ben rounded the corner.

“There you are, Ellis,” he said, never looking up from his clipboard. Ben was one of the only people there who actually remembered her name and Ellis was fairly certain that it was only because he worked with Upper Management and thus was required to know any and everyone who entered the building. “You’re so quiet now. I was wondering if you had the -” he lifted the pages on his clipboard and flicked through a few before Ellis cleared her throat.

“Here.”

“Ah, excellent.” Ben took the yellowed sheet she had stuck in his face, the heading printed in dark gothic lettering, and slid it into the papers on his clipboard. “And the -”

“On the table.” Ellis motioned to the work table where a thick manilla folder sat.

Ben followed the gesture of her hand and spotted the envelope. “Splendid,” he purred through a toothy smile. The air hissed through his teeth unpleasantly as he did so. “I’m not sure how we managed before you, Miss Ellis.”

Ellis wasn’t sure how to take that, but the statement almost sounded like a threat. She wasn’t entirely sure how it could be a threat, but it definitely felt like one.

Before she could respond to his question, the man was gone, the clip of his hard leather soles reverberating through the cramped archive halls. Ellis sighed through her nose and collected her papers into her soft leather briefcase before sliding haphazardly down the ladder to land with a neat plop on the floor. One of the files about halfway up the shelf - far out of reach from the ground level - spat a paper out at her and Ellis caught it with her fingertips as it drifted towards the floor.

“Thank you!” She waved up at the shelf and saw the edge of the file rustling back and forth in response.

“That’s a neat trick. I don’t think the archives behave that well for anyone else here.”

Ellis jumped when she heard the voice behind her and turned to see Francis resting against one of the shelves, his arms crossed against his chest and his dark eyes blinking at her in the dim archive light. Francis had always reminded her of a spider, somehow. Perhaps it was all of the eye tattoos on his arms or his long, spindly fingers that always seemed to be able to grasp things just beyond their reach. Whatever it was, he was as unnerving as he was beautiful and Ellis did not like that she was alone with him in the archive of all places. He technically was the head of Human Resources, so never really needed to come down to the archives except in very specific circumstances.

Ellis didn’t like Very Specific Circumstances. She swallowed and wiggled her fingers in a nervous ‘hello’ towards the man who was technically her superior but was still in a completely different department.

“Ah, I forgot about the silence thing. It has been a while since we’ve seen each other, hasn’t it?” he mused. He waved his hand in a dismissive gesture before Ellis could answer. “It doesn’t matter. I was hoping you’d be able to find something for me and bring it down to the mail center. I’d bring it myself, but, well - you are the Data Specialist for a reason and even I can’t crawl my way through these archives the way you can.” Francis bared his teeth in a strange mimic of a smile which Ellis couldn’t bring herself to return. She cleared her throat to ask what Francis needed, but the suit-clad HR manager simply began speaking again.

“It’s actually a few somethings - if you don’t mind. It’s for the Guillespe case. You know the one, I’m sure. The gentleman with the unfortunate bog hound?” Francis pulled a sheet of paper from his breast pocket, folded long ways down the center and handed it off to Ellis. “I was hoping it was an isolated incident, but Hellen thinks otherwise. She gave me a list of call numbers for you to look up. Just put them all in an envelope for me and bring them down to the mail room. They’ll make sure it gets to me in the morning.”

Ellis tugged on the tarnished chain hooked to her belt and pulled out her pocket watch to check the time. If he wanted this by morning, it meant a late night for her. And it was supposed to snow as it was. She frowned.

“Any questions?” Francis asked and Ellis looked up at him.

“I don’t think -”

“Good. Have a good night, Ellis. I’ll try to remember to swing by more often. It’s such a lovely little hovel you’ve carved out for yourself down here.” With that, the man scurried up the shelf and back into one of his tunnels in the ceiling, disappearing into the black void without another word. Ellis let out an exasperated sigh and unfolded the paper in her hands, scanning the call numbers and already forming the most efficient way to look for the articles and files that Francis wanted her to dig up. It would take her awhile, but she could manage it if she worked quickly and the archive decided to be helpful.

She made her way determinedly through the sprawling catacombs of the archive, taking long-familiar turns and winding her way on sure feet through the space, sometimes pausing and glancing up at the shelves to verify the call sections again. The struggle in compiling already collected data for the people at the Institute wasn’t so much that it was difficult to find, but rather that it was difficult to get to. Shelves were sometimes fathoms deep and some files were particularly cantankerous, whereas other organizational units and shelves were high enough that just getting up the ladder took several minutes, let alone climbing up on the shelf to then finish the journey. The information was easy enough to find, but collecting was a wholly different matter.

But Ellis knew the archives. She knew every shortcut, every switchback and wrong turn, every ladder and high shelf and soothing song to play for the files and the creatures that lived with them. She knew where to go and how to get it and where other people could become lost in the endless hallways and cramped corridors, Eliis could always find her way. It was a pity that so few remembered she was here to congratulate her on her hard work.

Oh well. She couldn’t have everything.

It was a long trek to collect all of the data for Francis and by the time she had it all, it was well past closing time for the Institute. The mail room would still be open since they sorted mail at all hours to make sure they kept deadlines, but most everyone else would have gone home or be in their Institute Approved cabinets by now. She’d be lucky if she wasn’t locked in.

The hallway to the mailroom was long and narrow and steep, almost more of a chute than a hallway and it was always a struggle to get back out again. Ellis had once slipped and wound up falling into a mail bin and was almost put in the paper shredder since non-addressed living organisms couldn’t be accepted. She’d gotten out of that by quickly writing “To: Archives” on the back of her hand, making her an addressed living organism and thus mailable. It had taken half an hour, but she eventually was deposited back at the archive door and only had to spend a few minutes getting the mailroom label off of her forehead. Ever since then she’d been more careful and always made sure to keep a new felt-tip pen on her when she went to the mailroom just in case. She tucked the files into an inter-office folder and wrote “Human Resources: Francis” on the front before dropping it into the open maw of the mailroom and scurrying her way back up the hallway to safety.

To her dismay, it wasn’t the locked doors that were keeping her in the Institute when she finally reached the entrance, but the foot and a half of snow piled up on the ground. Ellis groaned as she looked out at the fat snowflakes the clouds hurled down at the earth. She couldn’t see more than five feet out the door, which meant she’d almost certainly get lost before she made it to the bus stop. If the buses were even running in this weather, which they probably weren’t.

She eventually turned back into the Institute entryway to see if she might be able to snag a guest cabinet for the night. It was no use trying to find alternatives outside. She would sleep in the archives, but that wasn’t the best idea. She knew what was there when she was awake, but even Ellis, who knew the archives better than anyone, didn’t trust them while she was sleeping.

Twenty minutes and several flights of stairs leading to nowhere in particular later, Ellis found herself at a very odd door that she didn’t remember seeing before. It wasn’t as though the door was odd in any way. It was simply an office door - brown with blinds covering the window and a round handle with a lock in it. It looked much like any other door Ellis had seen in the Institute before, but Ellis was certain - certain! - that it had not been there before. Or, at least, she was sure that she’d never seen it there before. So then why did something just seem so familiar about this one?

Ellis had always been a curious person and on instinct, her hand began to reach out towards the handle.

“Don’t open in,” a part of her whispered in her ear and her hand paused. “You know something bad will happen if you do.”

“Open it,” another part replied. “Who knows what might be behind it? It could be different this time.”

This time? But Ellis hadn’t ever seen this door before. Or, at least she thought she hadn’t. Had she? No, wait, that wasn’t right. Something was… wrong.

Ellis dug the heels of her palms into her eyes and scrubbed until she saw stars. She felt a headache coming on.

But she wanted to know what was behind the door. And besides, Upper Management went to bed when the Institute closed for the night. And Francis - dealing only in Human Resources - was probably out schmoozing their next Human Resource, so it’s not as though he was there to get angry with her. What harm could it really do? She placed her ear to the door and listened. If there was no sound coming from inside, then it was probably just a storage room and she wouldn’t bother going in, she decided. But she did hear something. A little mechanical whirring noise, followed by a pause, then more whirring.

Hesitantly, Ellis reached out and tried the handle of the door. It was unlocked. Ellis felt her heart thrumming loudly in her chest and she swallowed before swinging the door open and looking inside.

Ben looked up from a desk. Bright pink readers perched precariously on the end of his thin nose and his eyes narrowed as he saw who was standing in his doorway.

“Ah, Ellis. I’d hoped you’d gone home for the evening.”

In front of the man was what looked to be a rather ancient sewing machine all in black with an electric lamp attached to it that had clearly been added at a later date. Ben appeared to have been using it and now he picked up a seam ripper from the desk and clipped the threads connecting his project to the machine.

“Rather unfortunate, that. I had hoped you’d remember what happened last time. But I suppose it can’t be helped. They did a little too good of a job when making you a Data Specialist.”

Ellis’ eyebrows furrowed and she tried to open her mouth to speak.

“Ah, ah, no. You’ll tear your stitches, dear Ellis.” Ben rose from his seat and crossed to her. Ellis noticed for the first time just how tall he was. And that he wasn’t wearing his suit jacket. Without the suit jacket, the sleeves of his dress shirt were rolled up to reveal the thousands of little threads running up and down his arms. All his Connections. It was a little frightening how many he had. Ellis looked up at him in confusion and Ben simply motioned to her left.

In the mirror was a woman - unkempt dark, curly hair and large eyes that looked like black marbles. Her long, thin form was covered by dusty, ragged clothes and her soft leather briefcase hung at her side like a satchel. But her mouth -

Her mouth had been sewn shut.

“I suppose you won’t remember. I had hoped-” Ben paused behind her and looked over her reflection. His face held the imitation of a frown and for a flash of a second he almost looked sad. Almost. “Well, in the end t was Upper Management’s decision, not mine. Though, I did ask to do the the stitching myself. I thought the blue silk suited you. It really stands out with your eyes.”

Ellis blinked at Ben’s reflection in a panic, her heart racing faster than before.

“Oh, now, now, Ellis, don’t worry,” Ben spoke reassuringly as he pulled several long threads from his arms. He held them up to his lamplight, squinting and checking the threads against each other before choosing one and threading it on a needle.. “We’ll just start again like last time, little puppet.”

Ellis watched as Ben lifted the limp form from his sewing machine up, holding it out like a dress for her to appreciate.

“What do you think?” he asked.

It was a skin. A skin that looked like her. Ellis felt herself go stiff with fear as Ben laid the skin out carefully on the work desk and walked over to her, brandishing his seam ripper.

“Now, hold very, very still.”

#writing #short story #horror #writers on tumblr #original fiction

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gabriel-agreste-has-no-rights · 4 years

Link

Rating: G

Summary: Side-effects may include: eating fabric, staring into bright lights, and being allergic to mothballs. (AKA, the one where Gabriel Agreste has moth tendencies, and Adrien is rightfully concerned.)

Word Count: 4203

Notes: Mostly inspired by the fact that there's so many Chat Noir cat tendencies fics and even a few Ladybug hibernation fics but WHERE are my Hawkmoth tendencies fics?? Anyway be the change you want to see

For non-english readers in particular since I got a lot of questions when I talked about it on discord: mothballs are little balls of pesticide/deodorant that can be used to repel moths. Usually kept in clothes drawers and are pretty outdated now but anyway its a Real Thing and not me trying to make an innuendo i swear lol

XXX

“Uh… Father?” Adrien peeked in through the cracked door. He shouldn’t—Father valued his privacy more than anything, including his son’s attention—but he couldn’t help it. The brief glance he’d caught was just too weird.

Gabriel snapped to attention, his glasses jostling slightly as he tore his eyes away from the blinding lamp in the center of his desk.

“Adrien.” His candycane-striped tie dropped out of his mouth. The end of it was completely chewn off. Was—did he just swallow that? People couldn’t digest silk, could they? “You’re supposed to be practicing your Chinese.”

“I-I know, I just came down to ask Nathalie—nevermind.” It wasn’t like she or Father were likely to adjust his schedule so he could get ice cream with his friends, especially not when Father was doing… whatever he was doing. “Are you okay?”

“That is no concern of yours,” he snapped. Which wasn’t a yes. Was this some new kind of coping mechanism?

Not for the first time, Adrien wished Father would agree to go to therapy.

“Um… okay. I’ll just—go back to work.”

He dashed back up the stairs before Father could decide that his momentary break should be punished. But still, he couldn’t get the image of the half-chewed tie or Father’s wide-eyed, trancelike stare out of his head.

XXX

“Have you noticed Father acting weird?” He finally got up the nerve to ask Nathalie. “I mean, weirder than usual?”

“I am sure he is just busy as always, Adrien.”

Which was just as much of a brush-off as “that is no concern of yours.” Maybe he should’ve tried a less direct approach, but he couldn’t think of one.

“Has he… been working on a line of flavored fabrics?” He tested one of his wilder theories. It would explain why Father’s tie was patterned like a candy cane, at least. Even Adrien knew that wasn’t in style.

Nathalie raised an eyebrow. “What would give you that idea?”

Somehow he got the feeling that telling Nathalie what he’d seen wasn’t a good idea. But who else could help Father if he was struggling?

“Um… well, he seemed like he was… eating his tie? When I saw him yesterday.”

She sighed, and Adrien swore he heard something like “not again” muttered under her breath. Maybe that was why he usually kept it tucked inside his vest?

“Your Father has developed some… odd habits lately. But I can assure you it is nothing to worry about.”

Father had said the same thing before Mom disappeared. Adrien didn’t stop worrying.

XXX

“I don’t see what the big deal is. So your dad likes to chew on fabric, so what? Not everyone can have excellent taste like me.” Plagg swallowed another wedge of Camembert as if to prove it.

Adrien rolled his eyes and rolled over on the floor, soaking up the warmth of the sunset spilling in through his window.

“Maybe kwamis can eat all sorts of weird stuff, but humans can’t. I just don’t know if this is some kind of coping mechanism, or something. Maybe he’s been avoiding me because he’s acting weird and he doesn’t want anyone to find out.”

It would explain why Father only talked to him through his tablet, more often than not. Maybe he was just embarrassed. But he couldn’t go on like that forever, right? Even if Mom’s disappearance hurt, they were better off leaning on each other than staying apart.

“Hate to break it to you, but your dad’s already weird, kid. Eating ties is probably the best of his qualities.”

Adrien sighed. It wasn’t like Plagg could understand; he just put whatever he wanted in his mouth. Adrien himself could understand a little—ever since becoming Chat Noir, he sometimes had the urge to chew on cords, strings, even some plants. It was a little embarrassing, but he could usually control himself. Maybe if he shouldn’t though. If Father saw him doing it, maybe he’d feel less weird about it himself?

...Or he’d punish Adrien for ruining perfectly good headphone cords. Yeah, that was more likely.

Maybe it wasn’t a big deal, and he should just drop it, but he wanted to do something to help his Father.

“Get him something better to eat?” Plagg suggested when Adrien voiced the thought out loud. “A good aged swiss might do the trick. Just don’t give him my Camembert; he doesn’t deserve it.”

“You’re useless,” he huffed. Maybe the internet would have better advice.

“Eating fabric” just brought up a bunch of articles about sewing machine problems and disobedient pets. Not exactly helpful. But “How to stop my dad from eating fabric” didn’t seem like a useful search entry, either.

Plagg squirmed under his chin, looking up at the phone screen he held over his face. “You think it’s got something to do with bugs?” He asked, pointing to the one search result Adrien’s thumb had been half-covering.

“How to control bugs that eat clothes,” the article was titled. Adrien snorted.

“Unless Father is secretly some kind of moth—”

His jaw snapped shut. No, no, he was not going there again. It had been bad enough when Ladybug suggested it before, and besides, it wasn’t like Father’s actions were any kind of proof.

Even if he had also been staring directly into a lamp, entranced…

“Adrien? Kid, you don’t look so hot. What’s going on?”

He didn’t want to say it. It was stupid, anyway; Father had been akumatized before. He shuddered just remembering it.

But he wasn’t just Adrien Agreste, son of Gabriel Agreste. He was also Chat Noir, Hero of Paris. And it would be irresponsible to drop a lead just because he was scared.

“Do you think… would Hawkmoth have animal tendencies from his miraculous too?”

Plagg’s eyes went wide—wider than they always were, anyway. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

“Just tell me, Plagg.” He didn’t want to admit what he was saying at all—this was his father, and even if he could be restrictive and controlling, he wasn’t evil.

He was being ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous.

“Well… yeah. All miraculous users do. Nooroo’s holders have always been weirder though. They tend to be shut-ins. Couldn’t even bribe them out with my best brie.”

“So you haven’t been around a lot of past Hawkmoths?” It was both relieving and disappointing, but it made sense. If Plagg thought Father had the side-effects, he would’ve said something before now. Not that Plagg saw much of Father, considering Adrien didn’t see much of him…

“Nope. They sent out their champions to fight for them most of the time. Not like us who’ve gotta do the real work.”

Adrien snorted. “What work?”

“Hey, protecting you when you take a beating isn’t easy!” Plagg flicked his nose, and he laughed.

“Fair, I guess.” Adrien rolled over onto his stomach as his kwami zipped away. Probably grabbing some Camembert, or a stinky sock to snuggle under.

But to his surprise, Plagg didn’t come back with either of those things. Instead he was carrying something just as smelly—if not worse. A small, round white ball. He was pretty sure he’d seen ones like it in his sweater drawer.

Adrien sat up and covered his nose. “Is that a—mothball?”

“You’re still worried about your dad, right?”

He blinked. It was easy to forget that Plagg could be perceptive when he wanted to be. “I don’t see what mothballs have to do with this.”

“Really. You don’t see what mothballs have to do with telling if someone is Hawkmoth,” he deadpanned.

“You think I should see if Father is… you know… by seeing if he hates mothballs? Do you really think that will work? I thought Hawkmoth had the butterfly miraculous.”

“You’re the one who was worried about it.” Plagg shrugged. “And like I said, the butterfly miraculous is weird. Think there might’ve been something wrong with it even before it was used by a supervillain. Maybe Hawkmoth picked his name for a reason. Anyway, you won’t know unless you try it.”

As far as Plagg’s ideas went, it wasn’t too bad. It didn’t involve cheese, at least. And if Father wasn’t hiding anything, then he wouldn’t be bothered by it, right?

Adrien took the mothball from his kwami’s outstretched paws.

He was going to prove that his Father wasn’t Hawkmoth. And then he’d figure out what to do about the whole eating fabric situation.

XXX

When Nino told him he should push back against Father’s boundaries, Adrien was pretty sure this wasn’t what he meant. Anxiety prickled the hairs on the back of his neck as he paced in front of the bedroom door.

“Come on kid, don’t get cold feet now,” Plagg whispered.

“My feet aren’t cold. I have socks on.” Adrien frowned down at his red-and-black socks. They kept his footsteps quiet and gave him a little boost of confidence. Ladybug wouldn’t be afraid to peek in his father’s room.

“Let’s do it,” he said with newfound determination, and cracked open the door.

Hadn’t Father had a window in here at one point? The sunset should be streaming in right about now, but instead Adrien had to fumble in the pitch black for the lightswitch. When the room illuminated, he blinked in shock.

“Wow.” Plagg whistled. “Your dad is a few wedges short of a wheel for sure.”

That… that was one way to say it. Fabric was scattered across the floor in careless heaps. At one point Adrien would have blamed it on his designing, but if that were the case, the clothes wouldn’t look gnawed on.

“This is worse than I thought, Plagg.” Maybe it was a good thing his kwami had encouraged him to rebel after all. Father seriously needed help. Humans shouldn’t even be able to digest silk and wool! What if he got some kind of disease? What if he already had some kind of disease? That second option was more likely, considering… well, all this.

“So, you gonna drop those mothballs or not?”

“Right.” Adrien snapped out of his thoughts and began digging the white spheres out of his pockets. He’d have to bury them in the chewed up clothes so Father wouldn’t see them. But what if Father did notice? Was it really worth the risk just to ease his mind about Father being Hawkmoth?

...Yes, it was. Especially considering there was no proof Hawkmoth couldn’t akumatize himself. And Father had been the only lead Ladybug had ever had…

He shook his head. Just put the mothballs down, and he could prove his Father was innocent once and for all.

“Alright, let's get out of here. This place is creepy,” Plagg said when Adrien was done.

“I thought you would’ve liked the smell at least,” he tried to joke. Better that than actually thinking about what he was doing.

“I’ll take your stinky socks over this any day.”

Adrien crept out of the bedroom, hoping that this whole endeavor ended up being pointless.

XXX

Father had a cold.

That was what Nathalie said, anyway. Adrien had never actually seen Father sick before. Nothing could keep him away from his work, or from… whatever he did when he was busy ignoring Adrien.

But he heard him wheezing behind his bedroom door, so he really had some kind of illness.

...Or he was allergic to the mothballs. Plagg didn’t say it, but from the pinched look on his face every time Adrien passed by Father’s door, he was definitely thinking it.

“It has to be a coincidence,” Adrien told Plagg, who shrugged.

“Hey, don’t look at me. You’re the one who had the idea that your dad is Hawkmoth in the first place.”

“Technically that was Ladybug,” he mumbled, flopping back on his bed. “Maybe he just got sick from eating all that fabric.”

“Maybe. But didn’t Nathalie say he’s been doing that for a while?”

Dang it, Plagg was right there. It was just so surreal, thinking his father could actually be the supervillain he’d been fighting this whole time.

It was going to take more than therapy to fix this.

XXX

“You think he’s planning something?” Ladybug asked when they lay back on their usual rooftop at the end of their patrol route.

Adrien’s stomach twisted. There’d been no sign of an akuma for two weeks.

Father had been sick for two weeks.

Coincidence. Right?

“Maybe,” he mumbled, his tail twitching fitfully. Then he sat up and shook his head. “Actually, LB…”

“Yeah?” She sat up too, her gaze completely focused on him. While he normally loved to be the center of her attention, right now he wished he had nothing to say.

“Remember when you thought… well, when you thought Gabriel Agreste might be Hawkmoth?”

She startled. “Why are you bringing this up now?”

“Well, um… I got a tip from uh… Adrien. You know, Adrien Agreste?”

“Of course I know him, he’s—I-I mean, everyone knows Adrien, right?” For some reason, her face looked pink in the moonlight.

“Right, right. Anyway… he was telling me he was worried about his father, and it’s kind of a long story… but it seems like he might have some… moth tendencies.”

Ladybug blinked. It felt like a long shot, now that he said it out loud. Stupid. He was probably just overreacting.

“What kind of moth tendencies?” She asked, her voice carefully guarded.

“Eating fabric. Staring at bright lights. Being allergic to mothballs.”

“Mothballs?” She laughed. “Sorry, sorry, I believe you. It’s just—wow. And here I thought my wanting to eat bugs was weird.”

“You? Weird? Never,” he joked to relieve some tension. She believed him. She believed him, and that meant that he wasn’t just overreacting. Which meant his father could be Hawkmoth.

He swallowed, trying to hide the hole that seemed to open in the pit of his stomach.

“So… you want to investigate him? Even though he was akumatized?” Her mask furrowed around her brow, the way it tended to when she worked out her lucky charms.

“I don’t… I don’t know.” He sighed and shook his head. “It wouldn’t be easy. Believe me, I’ve tried.”

“You—what?”

Oops. Probably shouldn’t have mentioned that.

“It’s no big deal. I just wanted to confirm some things for myself before taking Adrien’s word for it.”

“Adrien would never lie,” Ladybug was quick to say.

His lips quirked upward. “I’m sure he’d be flattered to know you trust him.”

Her accusation of Gabriel before couldn’t have been from any kind of animosity towards him, then. Unless it was animosity on his behalf? Did he know how much his father isolated him? No, she’d have no reason to look that closely behind his model smile.

“So… why did you think Hawkmoth was Mr. Agreste before?” He asked hesitantly. Before she’d said it was a secret, and he hadn’t pressed her, but it seemed an even more serious matter now. “We gave up the lead pretty fast last time.”

“Maybe too fast.” She grimaced. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want it to be true anyway… and as for why I thought that… I found a book that I learned belonged to him. If he isn’t Hawkmoth, then it was my fault he became akumatized into the Collector.”

“No, it isn’t. It’s only ever Hawkmoth’s fault, you know that.” Adrien squeezed her shoulder, even as inwardly his mind was racing. Ladybug had found his father’s book when he’d lost it? How? She had been there when Lila had been talking about it; maybe she’d had to double back for some reason? “Wait—you’re telling me that book he was so attached to had something to do with Hawkmoth?”

Adrien had been the one with the book at first. The one she’d seen with it. Why did she trust him so much?

“Yes. Master Fu took pictures of it before I returned it so Adrien—anyway.” She waved her hands, as if all that wasn’t important, even though it definitely was. Father had never mentioned Ladybug returning his book! “Master Fu said the book was lost at the same time as the butterfly and peacock miraculouses. It’s not hard to assume they’d end up in the same place.”

Adrien was glad he wasn’t standing, because he probably would have fallen. “That’s… a pretty big lead.”

“It really is. I should have been more responsible about investigating. Less selfish.”

He had no idea what she meant by that, but the crushed look in her eyes prompted him not to ask.

“If this is true, Adrien’s going to be heartbroken,” she murmured, quietly enough he wasn’t sure he was meant to hear.

She was right about that. But there was no reason for her to feel bad because of it.

“Hey, he’s the one who gave me the tip, remember? Maybe it won’t be such a shock to him.”

Huh. He got all those words out with barely a crack to his voice. Maybe he was in shock.

“Maybe. But he’ll still be crushed. I don’t know if he has any other family, and his mom is gone. As awful as his father is, I just don’t know…” She trailed off, shaking her head.

“I don’t know either.”

He hadn’t thought about it. Any time his thoughts danced too close to the implications of his theory, they danced back just as quickly. He had to be brave. Ladybug was counting on him; Paris was counting on him. It didn’t matter if one scared boy lost his father.

“So what… what do we do now?” She asked, voice soft. “We need proof, but I don’t know how to get it.”

Plans were normally her area of expertise. If she didn’t know what to do…

“I don’t know. Get a big lamp and hope it attracts him?” He shouldn’t be joking right now, but it was the only thing distracting him from panicking.

(Nino’s family might take him in. Or there was always the Gorilla. He wasn’t alone, he wouldn’t be alone—)

“You know, that’s actually not a bad idea.”

“Wait, it’s—it’s not?” He blinked.

“No, it isn’t. You’re a clever kitty when you want to be.”

He blushed under her praise and fought off a purr. “Okay, so we draw him out with a big lamp. If Hawkmoth really does have the same kind of side-effects as us, then it should work regardless of whether or not he’s transformed, right?”

“Right. So the only question is how we get a lamp big enough to draw him out.” Her gaze drifted across the rooftops, to the top of the Le Grande Paris hotel. A smirk spread across her face.

“What are you thinking, Bugaboo?”

“I’m thinking I just answered that question.”

XXX

Gabriel jolted back into consciousness when his desk lamp winked out. Impossible—the mansion had its own generator, mostly to keep the city from learning of his underground lair.

The lair. Where Emilie was.

“Nooroo!” He snarled, spitting the end of his tie out as he did. Cursed side-effects; he could hardly go a day without chewing on the silk. At least he could hide the end of it under his vest, which he hadn’t taken off even while in bed. Better not to have Nathalie nagging him about his “habits” again.

“Yes, Master?” His kwami weakly flew out from under his pillow. Whatever illness Gabriel had contracted, Nooroo seemed to mirror. A disconcerting fact, considering how Duusuu and Emilie had felt before her… well.

But he couldn’t take off his miraculous. Not until his work was finished. Unfortunately, with the incessant itching and cough that had plagued him for two weeks, he hadn’t been able to sense much negative emotion beyond his own. He wasn’t sure that he could stand without wheezing and collapsing from dizziness.

That dizziness was clouding his mind already. What was he doing again?

“Emilie,” he rasped.

“What about her, Master?”

“Go see if… no. I need you with me. In case…”

He dissolved into a coughing fit. Nooroo, the pathetic creature, only looked on in sympathy.

“Master, you aren’t well. Perhaps if you removed my miraculous—”

“No!” he snapped, making the kwami flinch. “No. Let’s… investigate the power outage.”

Fire flared across his skin as he threw his legs over the side of the bed. Nooroo still hovered uselessly. It was tempting to transform, but if his sudden illness was related to the miraculous, that would only exacerbate his condition.

One step in front of the other. He would not be bested by this trifling inconvenience, not with Emilie on the line.

He stumbled through the door, bracing himself against the knob with an iron grip. The generator never felt so far away.

“Master, you really should…”

Be quiet! He would’ve shouted, but his voice was little more than a rasp now. Everything spun. Oh, if only Nathalie hadn’t gone home for the night!

Once he made it to the hallway, however, some of the fog cleared. His lungs didn’t feel quite so tight. But there was… something else. A glow that hadn’t been visible from his room. Through the window, like a beacon of warmth and light… Something that pushed against the darkness of his grief and rage…

His legs regained their strength the closer he grew to the light. It involved actually going out through his front door, but that wasn’t so bad, was it? It was near midnight, with barely a buzz of traffic, and… and the light. How could he possibly sense any negative emotions when staring into its blinding fluorescence?

Dully he realized he should be worried about that—he needed those negative emotions if he wanted to save his beloved Emilie—but it was difficult to think beyond navigating the narrow alleyways to follow the bright beacon. How was it still out of reach? He swore it had been just outside his window, a halo of light, with just a few shadows dancing within… shadows in the shape of… some kind of insect…?

Before he could discern the image now glowing against the brick wall, something wrapped around him from behind.

“Gotcha,” a girl’s voice hissed. The string binding him dug into his arms.

“It’s really him,” a boy breathed.

“Or he’s just crazy. We haven’t ruled that out yet.”

“Unhand me at once!” Gabriel shouted—tried to shout. His voice still hadn’t fully recovered. Nooroo was safely hidden in his jacket, and for a moment he considered transforming. Why had he gone out without a bodyguard? He’d made enough enemies even as a civilian; he should’ve known better, but that cursed light—the light that left spots in his eyes as a red-and-black arm reached down to unplug its source.

“Sorry, Mister Agreste. Not until we check you for any mysterious jewelry.”

The girl spun him around, and he came face-to-face with his archnemesis herself. It was difficult to keep the sneer off his face.

“Does the hero of Paris often accost civilians in the street?”

“Only when they show at least three signs of being Hawkbutt,” Chat Noir said from behind her. He wore a sterile smile, one that clashed with the bitter green of his glinting scleras.

Gabriel shuddered. He was just a child. Nothing to be afraid of, even with the power of destruction curled within his ink-black ring.

Even when he apparently knew Gabriel’s identity.

“I’ll be reporting this to the authorities,” he still threatened as he processed the scene. Ladybug and Chat Noir, confronting him in an alleyway with no witnesses. A now-dark spotlight he now recognized as Queen Bee’s signal. A red-and-black cord that must have been the hero’s Lucky Charm

They’d planned this. They knew.

Still, he clung to the hope that they wouldn’t find his miraculous. Not when it was hidden under—

Ladybug tugged his half-eaten tie out from his vest. “Wow, you weren’t kidding. This is...”

She trailed off as her eyes caught the shine of purple beneath the red and white silk. Beside her, Chat Noir froze.

“Nooroo, dark wings—!”

Chat Noir’s claw snagged the brooch before he could complete the phrase. Nooroo zipped back into the miraculous, and Gabriel swore he heard the kwami sigh in relief.

This was… not ideal.

“It is you.” Chat Noir’s hands shook—with rage? Gabriel wouldn’t begrudge him that. He instinctively moved to capitalize on that emotion before remembering he couldn’t akumatize anyone in his current state.

“Chat…?” Ladybug reached out to him, and he turned to bury himself in her arms.

Gabriel thought it might provide an opportunity to squirm free from Ladybug’s string, but her grip on her yo-yo was just as tight as her grip on her partner. He grit his teeth. Surely there was a way out of this! He couldn’t lose to two teenagers over—over chasing a spotlight!

“It’s okay. I’m here,” the girl was consoling him, though the useless hero had barely done anything besides some quick sleight of hand.

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s going to be okay.” He sniffled and smiled softly at her. Then his gaze sharpened to steel when he looked back at Gabriel.

“Come on, Father. I hope they have good therapy in jail.”

#fic tag #gabriel agreste has no rights #hawkmoth has no rights #miraculous ladybug #gabriel agreste #hawkmoth #adrien agreste #plagg #ladybug #tali writes #crackfic #quality content #please dont take this too seriously lol

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finsterhund · 3 years

Text

A comprehensive guide to Heart of Darkness lost media. Fake, and real

a forward: there appears to be some sort of conflict between Eric Chahi and Frederic Savoir. Things Eric speaks about, Fred denies. However Eric generally has proof to support his side of things but Fred never provides such.

I will edit this as I go along. I intend to source things as best I can. I will not post it to a better website until it is adequately sourced.

I’m not currently planning to include press material, promotional renders, alternate releases of the final game, etc. here (yet!! that may change)

The Movie

What we know is true:

Dreamworks was interested in adapting Heart of Darkness as a feature-length computer animated movie. Predominant parties at play were Jeffery Katzenberg and Steven Spielberg. They invited several of the devs including Eric to the Dreamworks studio in LA, showed them Prince of Egypt storyboards, and toured them around. The movie was never made and development was never started.

According to Eric, the head of Virgin Interactive, Martin Alper repeatedly went to Paris to bother and harass him to abandon all work on the game and give the movie rights to Katzenberg. Eric didn’t want to throw away all that work and wanted to release the game first. Alper abandoned the team and project soon after, dooming the game to years of development hell as they needed to find a new publisher. Fred claimed that “half of the article (in which Eric discussed this) was incorrect” but never went into detail as to how or why

Rumors:

Even though George Lucas was interested in HoD’s display at several expos, he did not involve himself in any film ideas. It is believed he may have stolen ideas of alien monster designs for use in the Phantom Menace but this can easily just be coincidence and is unfounded.

The movie was not going to be live action despite some fan speculation.

The Pilot Animation/character test

What we know:

In Eric Chahi’s biography he mentions that a small animation studio did contract work of some animation concepts for Heart of Darkness. They were ultimately replaced with what Amazing would go with. This may or may not be associated with the same concepts as when they briefly thought to make the cinematics with 2D bitmaps but it is unclear. Eric states that this pilot was made however and in a demo reel from the studio they mention working with Virgin and Amazing Studio.

Rumors:

Fred said it wasn’t a thing but didn’t clarify.

This might have been the opening cutscene in 2D, or it may have just been character models and test animation. It is currently lost entirely with no actual stills of the thing itself.

Blood

What we know:

Someone untrustworthy but people latch onto this sort of shit said the original version of the game has blood in it. We know from tradeshow footage, digging through the final game’s code, an early build of the game, etc. that if anything the original versions were LESS violent. There is no evidence there was ever blood. Anymore than there’s evidence of the poison berries (which we will get to later)

The Gameboy Advance port

What we know:

Heart of Darkness was going to be ported to the Gameboy advance. According to Frederic Savoir the project was quickly canned due to cartridge costs that Nintendo didn’t want to pay for.

Rumors:

Someone claiming to work on this port said that Infogrames founder Bruno Bonnel wanted the game to have an Adidas promotion and change Andy’s shoes. Fred says this isn’t true, and there’s no evidence that this was ever an actual thing.

The Jaguar Version

What we know:

Heart of Darkness was briefly considered to be published on the Atari Jaguar. There are internal letters discussing how good of an asset it would be for the console. That’s as far as it ever apparently went.

The fake developer copypasta:

A copypasta of obviously fake ideas that were potentially given from Amazing to this apparent Jaguar dev has been passed around since 2014. This included poison berries that would make Andy explode, fan-theory sorta ideas about how other children perished in the darkland, a magic mirror, and what is very clearly just the maggots from spiritual successor “Limbo”. This individual provided no proof and his story was far from convincing. And no evidence that someone other than the Amazing team themselves having access to official development code from the game has ever been brought forward.

The Saturn Version

What we know:

Before the game ultimately came out for Playstation, it was going to be a timed exclusive for the Sega Saturn with Sega purchasing an exclusivity from Virgin Interactive. This fell through due to Virgin intentionally (according to Eric) throwing a monkey wrench in things and the Saturn was not viable when they were finally able to publish the game after getting picked up by Infogrames.

There is an incomplete playable demo of the first level and first two story cinematics in English and Japanese from the 1996 Toy Tokyo Show. In it there are slight programming differences such as a screen sliding transition animation, the inability for spectres to eat Andy, features cut from the final game involving the shadow dogs that are still mostly present in the final game’s code, and some slight graphical differences.

Frederic said the Saturn was easy for him to program on, and he finished things quickly so it was likely fully playable but no complete copy has been found.

Rumors:

It is unknown if there is a full build of this version of the game for Saturn. The Toy Tokyo Show build is the only publicly known one.

Based on footage from other events it appears to be from after changes were made to spectre sound effects and some behaviors. So this may have been a build from after the game was altered to be “easier” as mentioned by Eric Chahi at the time.

The Phillips CDI Version

What we know:

Heart of Darkness was offhanded mentioned a handful of times in a few CDI magazines in 1996. But there is no actual evidence the game was actually in development for the console and it was never confirmed in more trustworthy publications. CDI has less evidence than the planning letters of the Jaguar version. A supposed slipcover of a Heart of Darkness CDI CD was supposedly in existence but the guy claiming to have it couldn’t or wouldn’t prove this, with the only evidence appearing as convincing as a fake mock-up photoshop job and CDI websites discussing the final version of the game in full despite providing no evidence development for the console existed in the first place.

The most likely explanation is some idiot at Virgin said “CDI” when discussing this at-the-time secretive project because it would have had to be on a CD-based console and there weren’t that many of them yet at the time and this slip up briefly spread.

The iMac Version

What we know:

There was discussion of a Mac OS version of the game being developed, but nothing about the final product has surfaced online.

There was a page titled “imac” on the official website but the image files weren’t archived.

Heart of Dakness: The Return of Shados

What we know:

A scam artist on indiegogo pretended to be affiliated with Amazing Studio by using stolen assets and copying the kickstarter campaign of a different indie game in an effort to scam HoD fans out of money.

Both Eric Chahi and Frederic Savoir collectively agreed that this was a big fat scam.

It got taken down in under 24 hours of its discovery after I personally called the guy out on being a scamming piece of fucking shit and tattled to Fred.

As it was a scam with its only “evidence” being stolen text and doctored fan art and concept art from the original game, it’s very obvious nothing about this mess actually existed.

Delicious meal.

Merchandise (various)

What we know:

There are photos of merchandise, there have been real items show up, and there have been rumors or discussion of potential merchandise. Real confirmed ones include:

The Vicious and Amigo action figures. Given away for contests, at trade shows, sold on the infogrames store, and potentially included as part of a special box set of the French version

The Japanese big box version came with a mousepad. It is different than the round mousepad that also exists. We do not know where the round mousepad originated from. Potentially tradeshows or contests like the other items here.

Playstation controller and memory card. A memory card was sold separate in the UK, and in France a controller and memory card set were sold. Only photo of the set is in Eric’s collection. Memory card has shown up several times online. I own a complete sealed one.

The hat. Given away at press events, potentially worn by team members, and a version was also available on the infogrames store. Only physically existing version documented has the VIRGIN logo on it however so there’s definitely variations

Skateboard and t-shirt. Discussed in contests. Photos in magazines. Have never shown up so far. skateboard may have been available on infogrames store.

Photos exist of a backpack and fanny pack. Eric has these, the only known ones to exist, in his collection. Fred said they were officially released but they have yet to show up.

Rumored Merch:

A blanket. Briefly mentioned as if it genuinely existed on a French forum

Probably more tbh but my memory is shit. As I am writing this it is 2AM

#text post #long post #heart of darkness #lost media

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primrose-path-of-dalliance · 4 years

Link

summary:

Modern D&D AU. Caleb settled in for a slow morning at the library, only to be interrupted by a very harried tiefling woman.

It was the first weekday of winter break, meaning that the university campus would be as barren of sapient life as the Barbed Fields. Thus, having to come in for work anyway would have been a slow torture—if Caleb worked anywhere other than a library.

It was already peaceful and quiet, nary a sound of keyboards clacking or students snoring through a power nap. Bliss to his ears.

Caleb did a brisk route around the shelves, grabbing books along the way, until he returned to the front desk with a stack of reading material. He didn't smile at the books as he set them down, per se. After all, it still would've been nicer to read at home with Frumpkin purring in his lap. But this was good, too.

He was a third of the way into the first book of the stack, a treatise by Halas Lutagran on the necromantic foundations of healing magic, when he heard the entrance doors open.

He looked up, brow furrowing, just in time to flinch at a loud yell.

"Beaaaaaaaaau! I need your help, where are you?"

A very blue, pretty tiefling woman flounced into the main hall, dark blue skirts swirling in with the bracing winter wind outside. Instinctively, Caleb wrapped himself with a free arm despite still wearing his coat. The cold did not agree with him these days.

She spun around to face the front desk, mouth open for more enthusiastic yelling, and stopped. "Oh."

He wasn't sure what expression he was making, but he was pretty sure it involved a grimace and a raised eyebrow. "Hello."

"Um." The woman fidgeted with a braid in her short hair, gratefully looking ashamed for a brief second before she bounced over to the desk. The multiple layers of skirt on her hips genuinely gave such an illusion when combined with her general air of enthusiasm. At least Caleb could assume she wasn't cold. "Is Beau here?"

"I am covering for her today. She is away on a trip."

"A trip?" the woman gasped. She threw her arms up in a huff. "She didn't say anything about a trip!"

"Since I only received the request last night, I can guess it was spontaneous."

She groaned. "Yeah, that sounds like her. I bet Dairon came over and kidnapped her, that would explain why I haven't gotten any texts back from her. She's really weird about not using phones when doing something 'important.'" She adds the last in a conspiratorial hush, eyes rolling.

"Right." Caleb's fingers in his book twitched. Would she leave?

Based on the begrudging but desperate look she gave him, after taking another moment for herself to grumble and cross her arms about Beauregard, he could only assume no. Inwardly, he sighed and tucked a pen from the counter into the book.

"So, look," she began, leaning over to brace her crossed arms on the counter. Caleb struggled not to draw back at the sudden proximity as she gazed up at him through her bangs. "I really need some help, please. I have a bird I'm bird-sitting because all of my roommates left to go home for the break except for me because I can't really go home for some complicated reasons I don't really want to get into but makes me really sad, and my roommate who owns the bird couldn't take the bird with her because her mom's boyfriend really hates birds—which, you'd think that would be a dealbreaker for the whole relationship, right, because who hates birds? But whatever, relationships are weird—so I have this bird now, and maybe I told my roommate that I can definitely take care of a bird because I didn't want her to worry about it and how hard could it be, right? Except I don't actually know anything about taking care of a bird and I was hoping Beau would be here because she knows how to take care of birds, she has a parakeet, too, except now she's not here because she probably got kidnapped by Dairon which means I won't even be able to call her for help because Dairon made her turn her phone off!"

At this point, the woman's arms were flying all over the counter as she gesticulated her effusive, supreme distress. One of her hands came dangerously close to slapping the stack of books Caleb had collected into oblivion.

And somehow, she had said all of those words in a few seconds without hardly breathing. He was still rebooting from reading a very engaging treatise less than a minute ago.

Subtly, Caleb shifted the stack of books away from her and worked his jaw.

"I do not know anything about caring for birds," he began.

The woman let out a long, horrified groan and buried her face in her arms. Her fingers went to bury themselves in blue locks.

"But," he said.

The woman's head flew back up, hope lighting her features.

Caleb stuttered at the abrupt heel-turn, and at the way happiness livened her round blue face much more pleasingly than despair. "But, erm, there are many books and computers here. I cannot swear to the accuracy of some of the books, which may be out-of-date or just old, but research is not too difficult. You can use one of the computers here to look for advice online."

The hope in her eyes dimmed a little as she pursed her lips, resting a cheek against a hand. "I mean, I thought about doing that at home. But I'm really worried about getting something wrong, and I don't know what articles are right or wrong either, you know."

Later, he would whack himself for being so weak for something as apparently simple as a charming visage. "I can help."

"Really?"

Caleb winced. Goodbye, Halas treatise. "I have a lot of experience with research. I can tell you if something appears accurate."

"That would be so helpful, thank you!"

She was beaming at him. It was very warm. He looked down at the floor, prayed to the gods he hadn't begun to flush, and said, "Okay, let me show you to the computer room."

Several hours later, the tiefling woman too had a stack of reading material.

"Really, thank you so much," she gushed, stopping on her heel to turn to Caleb as he returned to his spot behind the front desk. "You've saved my life—" she patted the top of the stack of printed articles "—and probably the life of Kiri, too."

"Oh, I would not say that." Caleb massaged his forearm, fingers flexing tight. "I sincerely doubt Kiri would have died under your care. I think you are cleverer than you give yourself credit for."

Her smile back was just as warm as the last sixty-two times she gave it to him. "Thanks, Caleb."

Caleb blinked, and then remembered for the fifth time about his nametag. He was so forgetful now for some reason. "It is my job."

"Still. Thanks."

He offered a tentative smile back.

"Oh gods, wait." The woman shuffled the stack of papers around until she cradled it with a single arm, chin on top pressing it in place, and stuck out a hand to Caleb. She was still grinning at him somehow, and the entire effect was unbearably adorable. "I haven't even introduced myself. My name is Jester. It was really nice to meet you."

He was helpless to resist. He took her hand and shook it. It was cool to the touch. "My name is Caleb. As you already know."

She giggled. The papers under her chin rustled. "Yup. You're really warm, you know."

"Ah, ja." Caleb tucked his hand into his coat pocket and tried not to blush for the thirty-fourth time. "I run hot."

Jester took a few steps back toward the exit, again rearranging the papers until she was holding them in both arms again. She paused and pursed her lips for half a second before asking, "Do you work tomorrow, too?"

"All day."

She nodded decisively. "Then tomorrow I'm coming back and you can meet Kiri, okay?"

"I... okay."

"Okay!"

She beamed at him. He smiled back and waved. She also waved, and then yelped and fumbled to keep the top papers from fluttering off as Caleb not-so-successfully stifled his snickers.

Finally she left, winter winds swirling in again in her wake.

Caleb rubbed his arms as he stared out the door after her, smile still lingering on his lips. Then he sighed, looked down at the counter, and put his elbows down to bury his hot face in his equally hot palms. "Fuck me," he mumbled into his hands.

#critical role #cr #cr2 #widojest #caleb widogast #jester lavorre #university au #modern d&d au #widojest hiatus prompts #readmore #link #prim post #prim writes

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notquiteaghost · 4 years

Text

helo i love yuo

so, you may have seen this post where i ramble at length about the admiral (the best magnus archives character). this is that, but... even longer. 3′000 words long, to be exact

this rambling contains the admiral; jon&georgie friendship; the beholding throwing jon a bone and letting him talk to cats; the admiral: this time he's yelling; georgie/melanie origins; & bad things exclusively happening off-screen. we are on fluff about cats 24/7 lockdown

and it’s also on AO3

jon definitely had cats growing up and is the kind of person whose life feels Wrong if he doesn’t live with any

he says this to georgie offhandedly, one day, when they’re living together in a decent flat (as opposed to the Hell House they lived in the previous year with various other uni friends), and both have decent jobs (jon in a small, independent bookshop and georgie as a copyeditor), and in general their lives are Going Good

and he’s not trying to hint or anything, (or at least not consciously), just, tells a story about the small angry ex-feral his grandmother had who hated everyone, frequently disappeared for days, had to be sedated for basic vet check ups, but would lie on his feet in the evening while he read and purr, so quietly he felt more than heard it

and georgie doesn’t say anything about getting a cat in that moment either, just tells a story about her own childhood cat’s habit of stealing socks and hiding them under cabinets

but then a couple days later jon comes home and on their sofa is a tiny ball of orange fluff

georgie is sat next to him and she grins and says, “this is the admiral”

“where did he… come from?” jon asks, because he knows georgie, and he’s having visions of her breaking into the house on the end of their road and just. grabbing a cat.

(the house is occupied by an older man who cares for his many, many cats just fine, aside from how he won’t spay any of them and it seems like with every passing month another six cats have appeared)

“rebecca — she works at the library, you’ve definitely met — her cat just had a litter. he’s ten weeks, he’s had his first two shots, she gave me a huge bag of kitten food”

“right. and you decided we’re getting a kitten…?” “this morning.” “oh, of course.”

the admiral is very small, and ginger and long-haired, and he really likes to curl up on them — on georgie’s chest while she’s on the sofa, on jon’s lap when he’s reading. his favourite place to sleep very quickly becomes across their shoulders, snug between them and the back of the sofa, like a kitten hood

he’s very vocal, and has many demands, and you will listen to them. he follows jon round the flat shouting in the evening until jon gives in and goes to bed, and then the admiral lies on top of him and purrs up a storm

he’s an indoor cat, because jon and georgie live in a third floor flat, and so one of his other frequent demands is for someone to trail a tie along the floor for him to murder (yes, they have bought him many actual cat toys. yes, these are all incredibly boring and all he wants to chase are georgie’s shoelaces and jon’s ties)

he likes marbles, rubber balls, bottle tops and other small things he can bat around the tile in the kitchen, and he especially likes when someone stands at the other end of the kitchen and bats them back. they call it tennis. he always wins

if either of them do anything in the kitchen he has to be sitting on the counter to supervise. he doesn’t usually care about the actual food (unless it’s chicken) but he Has To Know

in general he just likes to have his people in his line of sight at all times. if they’re in different rooms he’ll alternate between them, sometimes with increasing frequency until he’s getting up every five minutes very pointedly and narrating his journey angrily, which almost always has the desired effect of them giving up and moving

he sits on georgie’s lap more often, because if jon’s sat on the sofa it’s rare he’s arranged in such a way to make a lap. often the admiral will sit sideways on georgie’s lap and reach out a single paw to rest on the closest part of jon. sometimes this is jon’s face

he loves new people. anyone who comes to their flat is obviously here to see him, and he’s very happy to accommodate that. if any visitors sit down he will be on their laps within seconds. why else would they have sat down! he’s lovely and they love him, obviously

he hates the hoover, it’s his sworn mortal enemy and one day he will kill it. this is unfortunate, as he’s long-haired and fluffy and without regular intervention, all the carpet in the flat would be ginger. he can’t be in the room being hoovered, as he pounces on the cable with enough murderous intent to do real damage. and after the hoovering is done he sulks

he sulks for weeks when jon moves out

he is, in fact, the reason jon & georgie remain in contact, because regardless of how vicious the things they said were by the end, the admiral pines. he lies on what was jon’s pillow and looks incredibly mournful, and georgie doesn’t think it’s fair if only she has to feel guilty about it, so she takes a picture and texts it to jon

and jon isn’t any less angry yet, but dammit the admiral is his cat too, so then they have this weird unspoken agreement where they never discuss themselves but georgie sends him frequent admiral updates and every so often jon comes round and lies on the floor so the admiral can sit on his chest and knead his stomach with pointed force while scolding him at length

(eventually they start talking properly again) (you can pry platonic jongeorgie out my cold dead hands) (jon gets distant during s2 but prior to that they go out for coffee every couple weeks) (they text a lot. jon has to come round georgie’s at least once a month or the admiral starts shredding the hoodies of his georgie has permanently stolen)

when georgie starts what the ghost, of course the admiral has to supervise. he likes to curl up in her lap while she records. if she stops petting him he reaches up to headbutt the mic

whenever he isn’t on her lap he sits on top of her script / reference files / any other sheet of paper she could need to look at. he loves to sit on paper, especially paper she doesn’t want him to sit on

the what the ghost twitter account is 30% episode announcements, articles, behind the scenes stuff, etc, and 70% admiral pictures

one tweet in particular has like 50k retweets. it’s a video of georgie getting up mid-recording to get a drink and the admiral, sat on her desk, leaning forward to meow into the mic as if continuing what georgie was saying

jon is campaigning for georgie to make the admiral his own twitter account. georgie knows she’d almost immediately neglect her own twitter account and she kind of needs to keep that up for her job. jon argues that the admiral would reach people who might otherwise not check the podcast out; georgie counters that if he thinks it’s such a good idea why doesn’t he run it; jon points out he doesn’t live with the admiral and also has a job of his own; work/life balance is a well-worn argument topic in of itself so generally then they drop it

and then jon is accused of murder and moves back in with georgie and the admiral is overjoyed, he purrs nonstop for three straight days, he tries to lie on top of jon nonstop for three straight days, he is the single good thing in jon’s life right now and jon tells him this frequently

then after a couple weeks jon starts to hear words, when the admiral meows, which. is a thing. sure is a thing. that is happening.

jon stumbles into the kitchen at 4AM, able but unwilling to sleep, on the hunt for more tea, and hears a concerned voice call “jon? jon are you okay?”, and he calls back “i’m fine i just couldn’t sleep— ” before turning round and seeing stood in the doorway not georgie but the admiral, who meows again, except jon also hears “i will lie on you”, and then he has to sit on the kitchen floor for a minute

the admiral comes over, of course, and sits on his lap, and purrs and headbutts jon’s jaw and kneads his stomach, and says “yes love you” when jon says, “thank you admiral”

so then jon stares into space for a bit, still stroking one of the admiral’s ears, before asking, hesitantly, “have you… always understood me…?”

but the admiral mrrrps in that way of his that means no, and says “since you came back” so, that’s good, at least jon’s cat isn’t walking around with a wealth of blackmail material

because, of course, he’s the kind of loud shouty man you can keep up a conversation with, and jon and georgie both have a habit of talking through their problems with him

and he doesn’t tell georgie, because this is before he comes clean about All Of It and also this is, in his opinion, a touch more batshit than even evil doors or women made of wax. and he talks to the admiral like he’s a person and they’re having a conversation anyway!

but, the thing is, georgie isn’t an idiot, and notices that when jon asks the admiral what he did with his day, he seems to actually listen to the answer, and then knows about things that the admiral saw but jon didn’t

so a couple days after jon finally explains about the eldritch fear beings and how he works for one and some others want to kill him, after georgie insisted they both stay in for a day, no mention of anything remotely supernatural, just rewatching monster factory and eating ben & jerrys, the day after that georgie sits down across from jon at the kitchen table and asks, “so, you know things? that’s the deal, yeah?” and jon nods, not awake enough to be wary about where this could be going, and georgie adds, “things like what the admiral’s saying?”

and jon. freezes. but georgie just rolls her eyes, says, “what, i can accept you’re on a crusade to stop evil mannequins from ending the world, but you talking to the cat is too far?”, and, well, that’s a good point

so then, as well as having very surreal conversations with the admiral about the relative merits of various brands of cat food, and his thoughts on the reasoning behind various human activities (“georgie is trying to befriend the microphone.” “no it's– the microphone isn’t alive.” “georgie knows that?” “she’s recording, so other people can hear what she has to say without being here.” “!!! record me!!! tell everyone to bring chicken!!!”), and why jon is an idiot fool who should never go anywhere alone again (“don’t even have claws, jon. take me, i will bite.” “i appreciate that, but–” “i am very sharp! i bite hard! i draw lots of blood!” “yes, you’re very dangerous, and that’s why i need you here, to keep georgie safe.” “i’m not kitten i know you are manipulating” “i love you very much, and i promise to be more careful, okay?” “hmph.”)

as well as that, jon is also acting as translator for georgie — if jon’s around, the admiral can understand georgie, but georgie can’t understand the admiral (if the world wasn’t ending, jon would find that absolutely fascinating, but alas)

the admiral tells them both he loves them, a lot. after they feed him, when they’re petting him, but also sometimes he’ll wake up from a nap, see jon sat in the other armchair (georgie’s flat has two armchairs, one with big armrests she found in a charity shop that’s the reading chair, one with a very low back that came with her flat and is the admiral’s), say “love you jon” with great contentment, then go back to sleep. it makes jon tear up every single time

he’s VERY upset when jon moves out. he does not agree with jon’s logic at ALL, and he rants to georgie about it at length, but she can’t understand him anymore

georgie knows the gist of it, though, and when, four days after he left, jon stops replying to her texts, or picking up her calls, she does get a touch worried, and turns up at the institute for some answers

she has melanie’s number, of course, but melanie has also been getting worse and worse about actually responding when contacted (because she’s so angry, all the time, and she just wants to hurt something, and georgie wants her to get out the institute, and melanie is worried what might happen if they argue about it again), so she goes in person, and finds basira

basira doesn’t know where jon is, hasn’t seen him in a while but that’s nothing out the ordinary, and the only person who probably would know is elias, and elias isn’t exactly… forth-coming

so georgie leaves without answers, and decides whatever jon’s done now, he didn’t see fit to tell her about it beforehand (even though, after mike crew, she made him promise), so he obviously doesn’t want her help, so fine. fine! she has enough going on, without worrying about an idiot with a death wish who she definitely doesn’t still care about to an alarming degree

she does, also, decide the institute, the– eldritch fear gods, whatever, they don’t get all her friends. she goes back to the institute the next morning, and refuses to leave until melanie talks to her

melanie looks like shit, visibly buzzing with rage but also with an air of deep, deep exhaustion, and she hasn’t even finished asking what the hell georgie wants before georgie has grabbed her arm and is dragging her outside

and melanie — there’s a knife in melanie’s pocket (there’s always a knife in melanie’s pocket), but she doesn’t reach for it, there’s no sudden surge of mindless rage, she lets georgie drag her all the way out the institute, and into a cafe four blocks away, the one that does the pastries martin likes

georgie doesn’t say anything about leaving the institute, or where jon is, or the unknowing. she orders them both drinks (a cinnamon latte for melanie, with extra whip cream, meaning georgie remembers her favourite drink still, which makes something in melanie feel fuzzy), and just immediately launches into a rant about this source she’s trying to track down for a what the ghost episode

and then she keeps doing that, every week, barging her way into the institute and barging back out with melanie in tow until melanie starts replying to her texts and answering her calls and waiting for her outside

the admiral still thinks they should be more worried about jon, but he no longer has any way to tell georgie that, and he likes the sound of melanie

when jon returns from being kidnapped, he doesn’t actually visit georgie, or even reply to her texts. she finds out he’s back from melanie, and then has to, again, turn up at the institute and demand jon come back to the flat in person. she’s incredibly angry, but not actually at jon

the admiral has a LOT to say when he sees jon again, mostly to the tune of “i TOLD YOU” and “georgie doesn’t listen” and “weeks!!! lucky you aren’t dead!!!! not safe alone!!!!!” and “idiot, idiot, love you, most idiot”. jon just sits down on the floor of georgie’s entryway and lets the admiral sit on his chest and yell

he, of course, does not agree with jon’s decision to not only leave the flat but the country. jon is a FOOL who will DIE doesn’t he love the admiral!!! doesn’t he want to stay safe!!!

georgie leans against the wall behind them and nods emphatically the whole time

once jon leaves again, the admiral is, to say the least, Upset

jon calls as regularly as he can, to reassure them both he’s alive, and georgie starts spending more and more time with melanie

the admiral loves melanie. she’s sharp and quick, would be good in a fight (not that he’s ever seen her do any violence, cats can just tell some things), and she makes georgie happy, and she’s good at ear scritches, and she doesn’t know what he’s saying exactly but she’s pretty good at getting the gist

he tries to tell georgie that melanie should move in, but can’t get her to understand the specifics. she does start inviting her round more, though, which is good. sometimes they talk into the microphone together, now

after jon returns to england and actually goes back to the archives he shows everyone who stays still long enough admiral pictures

mostly that means martin. and basira (basira is a cat person, thank you) (she hasn’t met the admiral in person despite georgie offering because she Isn’t Here To Make Friends) (but she’s still very invested in him and his exploits)

martin will come into jon’s office with tea and to check he has actually eaten today and jon will immediately go “look look come look at this” and show the video georgie sent that morning of the admiral trying to attack a fly on the other side of her bedroom window

“he’s such an idiot” jon says fondly, and martin looks at him and thinks i know the feeling

and, also, this means jon and melanie have something to talk about that isn’t a) No, Seriously, What If We Stabbed Elias, b) the circus apocalypse, or c) are you… dating my ex…

melanie is not dating georgie. melanie is possibly the only person who doesn’t realise she only isn’t dating georgie Yet

melanie would probably realise she’s in the first third of a slowburn friends-to-lovers if not for, y'know, the slaughter. she knows being around georgie makes the anger dissipate, somewhat, but it’s not yet enough to make room for any other feelings

jon asks, of course, once he’s been back a couple weeks, lying on the floor of georgie’s living room with the admiral being a loaf on his chest while georgie sits on the sofa and edits audio

“so,” he says, and georgie hits pause on the audio file and raises an eyebrow, “melanie, huh?”

“we are only talking about that if you admit you have a crush on martin,” georgie fires back, immediately

and, of course, at this point jon has a) spent several hours going On And On about martin to georgie, b) listened to Those Tapes, c) gone gallivanting round the globe and thought ‘oh martin would like that’ approx two hundred times, so he just says, “sure. i have a crush on martin, and once we’ve successfully survived preventing the world from ending, i will probably ask him out. so — melanie?”

georgie lets out a long, low groan, because melanie

she scrunches her nose up when she’s annoyed, and she’s read every goosebumps book, and one time she nearly started a fight with a guy in costa because she overheard him say something shitty about the homeless guy sat outside, and she hums old folk tunes when she’s thinking

and elias really fucked her up with that shit about her dad, and the speed at which she jumps to violence is incredibly worrying, and if georgie doesn’t remind her sometimes she forgets to eat

“once we successfully survive you preventing the world from ending,” georgie says, at length, “i will ask her out.”

jon nods. the admiral says, “been telling her melanie should move in” and then makes his annoyed mrrp noise when the force of jon’s sudden laughter almost dislodges him onto the floor

#the magnus archives #jonathan sims #georgie barker #melanie king #the admiral #yelling at clouds #fic tag #as i said on ao3 #i may follow up with s4 and shit #but no promises

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