#mar writes twc

[agentnatesewell]

tremendous tasks, dear friends

the wayhaven chronicles | barbara robertson (f!detective) / nate sewell / mason + family (lucas daniels) | 5k words | rated G

happy holidays to @delucadarling on this twelfth night and epiphany eve! i have simply fallen in love with barbie and had such a wonderful time writing for her for the @wayhavensecretsanta

.🎄.

Within the forested woods surrounding a deceptively inconspicuous town, one brimming with holiday cheer and festive wishes, bustling with last-minute preparations of a yuletide celebration for humans and supernaturals alike, sits a dilapidated building. A relic of a time ago, thought abandoned and unbothered, hiding a veiled mansion beyond its crumbling facade. 

In this warehouse, now as familiar as home, Barbara Robertson - detective or agent depending on when and who one asks - sits in the center of the living room elegantly dressed for the season. One last task, a final check-in, for the next day’s Wayhaven Christmas Fete remains, and her trusted Filofax is set securely nearby, traded for a cup of steaming, glasses-fogging drinking chocolate. Hands warming against the gold rimmed and whimsically painted precious porcelain, she shifts her attention from event planning to listening, intently, of past traditions once forgone and now renewed. 

In this living room, now his home, Nathaniel Sewell - agent and acting commanding agent, a temporary promotion until their team leader returns from a self assigned important mission - sits adjacent, on the floor with long legs tucked beneath him; sweeping his hand over carefully laid materials, collected from the nature surrounding them, on the ivory lace-embroidered cloth covered coffee table. He picks out a hard confection from a glass jar in the middle of the table, passes it to her then reminisces, “My earlier days, when I was with my family, during the Advent period before Christmas Day, my brother and I would spend the morning hours collecting what we could on our grounds. Not dissimilar to what we’ve found on our strolls in town and the community garden this autumn.” 

Long branches of holly from the gardens, deepest green leaves with sharp, curved edges, clusters of bright, reddest berries; vines of ivy growing along on the outer stone of their home, long stems dense with lined green and white leaves; hardy sprigs of rosemary from their kitchen window garden, fragrant and robust; precious bundles of mistletoe, from the town’s nursery, with pretty pearlescent white berries; and perhaps his most prized possession of the season, from a bespoke shoppe, a singular pear sitting on a bed of gold foil. 

“Are you making a wreath,” she inquires, leaning closer to the greenery. Fingers already occupied with proffered candy instinctively seek her pencil, and blindly slide behind her ear, in case there is need to write any pertinent information of this tradition. As she inspects, Barbie notices there isn’t any sort of evergreen present that she’d become accustomed to with modern wreaths, though perhaps Nate had used all he could find to festoon along the fireplace mantle, perhaps all the evergreen in Wayhaven and the surrounding forest. 

“A Christmas Bough.” The corners of his eyes crinkle as a smile plays at the corner of his mouth, voice trailing and he falls into a fog of nostalgia, happy memories returning to overshadow those which usually haunt him. As his thoughts fade, Nate chances a glance at Barbie, and he is pulled back into the present. For behind a curling strand of her blond hair, fallen away from her gilded claw clip, peeks a twist of red and white, and the scent of peppermint. The pencil which is usually there in her hand, in peril of becoming her drink stirrer. 

“Barbie?” 

“Nate?” The abrupt change in his tone, now alarmed, draws Barbie away from her study. She looks up towards him, green eyes peering over her red plaid-rimmed glasses, taking note at how amusement highlights the honeyed hues of his brown eyes, and how he’s closing the already narrow gap between them, brows raised questioningly and silently awaiting permission to come closer.  

And it is easy for her to grant him such permission, as Nate is always so careful, comforting, safe, even in this spontaneity, and Barbie is quite curious what it is that has attracted his attention. 

The brush of his thumb across her cheek, his fingers curling at her temple and over the shell of her ear prove far more exhilarating than any spice and sugar rush incurred during the holiday season. Nate chuckles, deep and resonating, just as silver bells sing, and he pulls away, his palm open. “You might find that peppermint candy complements the dark chocolate of your beverage far more than your pencil might.” 

“What,” Barbie looks at her cup, pencil between the rim and its high handle, and groans. “Oh my god.” Shaking her head, she drops the utensil with a sharp laugh. “Guess I needed this break. Helping Tina organize the Fete  at the station this year is keeping me busier than I imagined. Especially with all of,” she waves her hand, “this.”

Nate knows she is referencing her continued training with the Agency and on-call, standby assistance for the Wayhaven Police Department’s local cases - taking a holiday encouraged, always, during their sporadic diners at the local bistro - but does hope she has been enjoying the past week spent transforming their, in his opinion, humble home into a Christmas wonderland so expertly designed, it would rival the most elegant department store displays. And though Adam and, by order, Unit Bravo, had been convinced by Nate’s suggestion of team building exercises, Barbie has been enjoying herself. Excitement casting her in gold and silver radiance, she is even more breathtaking, indulging herself in the season. Dressed in themed ensembles, time made and spent introducing Farah to popcorn tins and Christmas themed movies, baking and icing so many cookies, decorating while singing tunes so delightful, he has been humming them both in tandem and alone. 

Regardless, Barbie deserves empathy and understanding, and a second candy cane. “May I say that the Fete has been coming along quite nicely, and will surely be memorable for years to come.” 

“You may,” she accepts his compliment, allowing her fingers, nails painted to resemble ribbon tied gift wrap, to just barely glide along his as she accepts the candy. To avoid a repeat of a near miss, Barbie stirs her drinking chocolate with the straight side of the candied stick, inhaling the melding scents as the steam rises and evaporates into the air. “Thank you, Nate.” 

Pleasant moment aside, and desperately needing the embarrassing moment aside, Barbie points the candy cane, melting end, at the table. “Tell me about your Christmas Bough. I thought it was called a Kissing Bough?” 

Nate nods. “You’re correct. Formally, these were called Christmas Boughs, and traditionally, Kissing Boughs. Every year, from when we could carry in ash wood or willow wood branches, our bough would adorn the doorway to our drawing room, welcoming our guests for the many parties held during the twelve days post Christmas. Usually family, many cousins, family friends.” 

Barbie places her cup on the table, resting her elbow on the edge, listening intently once more. The cadence of his voice again melodic, a nostalgic recitation in celebration of a life passed instead of a sorrow of a life lost. 

“One modern convenience this year.” Nate points to a neat stack of green craft wire, set opposite of the shining pear. “Bending curved tree branches into circles is much easier these days, but I would like to focus more on this particular foliage” 

“Do they hold any meaning?” She asks, knowing too well that rarely does Nate take on a task casually. 

“Holly,” Nate works as he speaks, nimble hands still familiar with the process from centuries ago, tying the branches together with the wire, a blur of green and red repeating until creating a circle. “Everlasting life.”

The irony is not lost on Barbie. By how Nate blinks his eyes, an attempt to keep them clear, she knows it’s not lost on him, either. But then he clears his throat, shapes his mouth back into a smile, and transfers the rest of the holly branches and half of the wire to the space in front of her. An offer to join him, and she obliges; observing and enamored by his hands, mirroring his motions to create a second circle. 

“Ivy,” Nate continues, “dependence and endurance. Rosemary, remembrance.” Running the tip of a finger along the leaves, breathing in the released fragrance, he takes a deep breath. Another breath. 

As silence grows, the bough making process is acknowledged as a memorial by them both. When her half is complete and returned to him, Barbie lays a hand on Nate’s shoulder. Immediately, she feels him relax, and this time the deep breath is an exhalation. When he turns to her, his smile is genuine, grateful for her grace. “Thank you. My apologies, for my sentimentality.” 

“What about the mistletoe?” She squeezes his shoulder, and hopes the question cheers him up. 

“Ah, mistletoe.” Nate lifts a bundle for himself, a second one for Barbie. She keeps it for herself. “A good luck charm. One could, during the celebratory period, greet their guests or each other for a kiss. A suitor could kiss the one they wished to court, on the cheek, and we did make sure all parties were in accordance. All would hope to be kissed, lest they endure the bad luck of being left out. There was a limit, as with every kiss, a berry would be picked. When all was gone, the kissing ceased.” He chuckles, picking a single spray which had fallen out of place. “Milton’s pockets would be full by night’s end, as he was rather outgoing and effortlessly charming.”

Barbie plucks a gem-like berry to roll between her fingers, twisting her lips as her gaze shifts towards Nate, finding he has done the same. It comes as a surprise to them both, a happy and quite welcome surprise, when Barbie closes the space between, kissing Nate’s cheek. Drawing away, she puts the berry in his palm. “There, now you have one, too.” 

Behind a second, cordial-ish, exchange, through the doorway of this living room which has yet to bear the meaningful ornament of greeting, shaking bruising snowflakes off the jacket he’s worn during his overnight patrol of the town - stubborn to accept the order to dress weather-appropriately from their temporary leader, until an approving hum from Barbie, he will keep to himself that he did not mind the shearling-lined leather moto jacket that kept him from freezing - Mason grimaces at the warm welcome of glittering ornaments, the droning and inescapable music repeating too many damn times, and the strong and tangled scents of cassis, eucalyptus, white musk, and pine. 

Thick blankets of snow keep him from his reprieve on the rooftop, and if it was any other season besides one that compels humans to decorate their homes with garish and gaudy blinking lights, corral them into the streets to sing in groups, he would volunteer to take the next patrol. But it isn’t wholly terrible, though. In the living room he can wait for Barbie to tie up any loose-ends, as she’d called them, with her next-day festival preparation; maybe Nate will help her, and Mason can retreat to the quietest and dimmest corner of the room to look out the window and watch the hidden parts of the forest, untouched by merry well-wishers. 

Her voice cuts through his annoyance, happier he knows but unsure how to tell. She sounds like she did the other day as he watched her hang monogrammed stockings over the fireplace, Nate explaining some change, some rise and fall in her sound, more cheerful. When he hears Barbie laugh, the tension in his body fades, and the abrasive reminders of the season taunting his senses fall into the background. Mason sheds his coat, rubbing his hands over his arms to avoid losing too much heat too fast, and follows a conversation to the middle of the room, in front of the couch and on the floor.  

Too far to perch on the arm of the velvet armchair, where he’s most comfortable when Barbie is around, he instead sits on the edge of the coffee table, angling away from the herbs and plants invading his senses. Any other time the seemingly innocuous rosemary would have him retreating, but she turns to him. And Barbie is fucking - glowing. Mason blinks, wondering if his retinas are taking longer to heal from the morning’s snow glare than usual. Still glowing with a pink tint to her cheeks, and damnit if that halo around her doesn’t make him think of that angel on top of their second Christmas tree, and damnit that he’s lost the cool edge to his entrance. 

“Elf got your tongue, sunshine?” Barbie asks, smoothest he’s ever seen her, at least with a candy cane between her teeth. 

In his periphery, Mason spots a small bundle of leaves and the plant is easily identifiable. Cheap, plastic replicas in abundance at the previous night’s party in some sort of garden dome when he’d walked through the park on his route. He swipes a sprig and twirls it, answering, “Wouldn’t mind you catching my ton-”

“Hello, Mason,” Nate sighs, tying what is left of the mistletoe together. “How was your patrol?”

Giggling teenagers and metal scraping at the ice rink and the entire town smells of vanilla, chocolate and sugar, that flashing robotic Santa waving in the air are all enough to keep anything interesting from happening; too chaotic to focus any magic, too much of a headache to get up to any trouble. Mason shrugs, “Same old.” 

Settled, finally giving notice to whatever Nate and Barbie are actually doing, Mason juts his chin in the direction of the circles of holly. “You aren’t done decorating this place yet?” 

“It’s a Kissing bough,” Barbie explains, rising to her knees to meet Mason. Nate subtly coughs the alternative ‘Christmas bough’, likely as a means to keep the atmosphere light and less hot, less heavy - wholesome! “When you’re under, you give a kiss, and get a reward.” She leans in, one hand on his thigh and he grins, arm slinking around her waist, ready for a knock-her-tights-off kind of kiss. But instead of her mouth, his is met with a waxy, tasteless and not sticky clump of berries. “It’s not up yet, Mason.” Smiling, having amused herself, she sits at the coffee table once more, awaiting Nate’s next instruction. 

“You’re welcome to join us, if you would like to thread this wire through the pear.” Nate knows he is pushing Mason’s good will and willingness to participate in any more decorating, yet persists with his inclusion. “This should be our final project.” 

“Wait! One more!” 

From a flash of purple and a cloud of glitzing gingerbread scents and mirth, attention is captured towards the fir and cedar garlanded mantle in this living room, and standing between a cozy, crackling fire and the main Christmas tree, eight feet all and so elegantly adorned, skirt at the base holding exquisitely wrapped gifts, is Farah Hauville - home from one last visit to the Christmas Tree Lot at the edge of town for the season before taking over agent patrol for the rest of the day - standing atilt, resting an elbow on the top branch of a small, a quite small pine tree. 

Amber eyes sparkling with triumph, Farah sweeps her hand out in an arc, resting it on her hip. “Ta da! What do you all think? Natey, Barbie? Mason.” 

Not just quite small, the tree is rather sparse. Uneven weight distribution, inconsistent branch thickness and needle distribution - some thick with vibrant needles while others rather pale and almost white, some with just tufts at the end. A lone pinecone sits towards the base, and there may have been a debate if the bird’s nest fell or broke apart. 

Nate stands, stepping slowly and surely to the tree, mind whirling as he thinks of how to express his thoughts; keep Farah from being crestfallen, express his gratitude for her enthusiasm, how to hide the tree in plain sight and preferably outside. “Certainly a unique tree,” he manages, “though, I do wonder if it would be better suited in the hallway. Could be set in an urn outside of your bedroom door and we can bedeck after your shift - wrap a strand of fairy lights, drape tinsel, use the rest of the ribbon.”

“Knew you’d say that,” Farah replies, bouncing, “This tree has been in that lot since it opened, and no one has given it a chance! A second look! I know it’s not pretty, it doesn’t match the other trees we brought home. It’s not perfect,” Farah flails her arms, pointing to the three other trees in the room that could have been portraits in a magazine. “But it deserves love, doesn’t it? Like the great philosopher, Linus, said.” 

“Linus? I’m not familiar with their work.” Nate pokes at a dull needle with this index finger. “Unless you mean Linus of Thrace, the musician.”

Barbie soon joins, shadowed by Mason, and circles the tree to study it. “‘Charlie Brown Christmas’. Farah and I watched while you read ‘The Gift of the Magi’.”  

“You were even playing the song the next day,” Farah remarks, miming him at the piano. He nods in response, fingertips brushing along the edge of a healthier branch. She continues her plea, turning to throw her arms out, wide and dramatic, and quotes, “‘I never thought it was such a bad little tree. It’s not bad at all. Maybe it just needs a little love.’”

“Farah,” Nate rubs the back of his neck, knowing she’d likely practiced her speech during her last few patrols about town. The tree truly does not fit in with the well planned out, specific aesthetic of the room but he is moved by her effort, her passion. “I can promise to find space for it. In here.” 

To the great shock of everyone, Mason grabs a smooth, circular red ornament from the main tree, fixes it to a sagging branch on the new addition. He comments before Nate can protest, “I like it. It’s irregular, obviously intended by nature to be so. Has character. Leave it where it is, at least it’ll be something interesting to look at.”

Barbie stops pacing, following Mason’s lead, with a green ornament she hangs on an opposite, slightly lighter branch. Just a little trimming, tinsel and lights and ribbon, and this tree could truly be special. One of a kind. Its own new tradition. 

It gives her an idea. 

Leaving the others to discuss re-arrangement, Barbie walks back to sit on an empty space of the coffee table to consult the ‘CF’ section of her Filofax.  A layout of the main room of the Christmas Fete is centered by a hallway length runner rug with tables at either side for Haley’s hot cocoa and treats station, beginning at an entry arch and a dais at its end. On the side of the page, the cast. Elves - Len’s kid and Douglas, Mrs. Claus - Tina, Santa Claus - Lucas, making his debut.  

Lucas, her beloved brother and subject of her final, most important task - confirming his, and Adam’s, flight details and estimated arrival. Barbie checks the time, and tapping her phone screen she notes alerts from his airline. Five minute delay, ten minute delay, confirmation of arrival, a text from him. 

Another hour or two from the city, and Barbie and Lucas will be reunited after far too long apart - and she can hardly wait! Smiling to herself, singing to herself that song from their childhood Christmas pageant, Barbie pencils in a small tree in the space between Mrs. and Santa Claus. She calls to the group, asking Farah, “Could you bring this Charlie Brown Tree to the Fete tomorrow? It’s just the right size, wouldn’t be in Lucas and Tina’s way. Added bonus, the people in town seeing what they missed out on, how a little love goes a long way.”   

Nate places a hand to his chest, mouthing a ‘thank you’ to Barbie. Farah claps hers in excitement. “It would be an honor! I’m going to get Nate’s decoration box and get this little guy ready for the show! I’ll drop it off at the station.” Taking a hold of the tree at its base, Farah lifts it like a piece of paper and runs off and out of the room. And it is a testament to Nate’s reflexes and agility that he catches the two ornaments shaken off, and returns them to their home. 

A ring of Barbie’s phone interrupts the calm in Farah’s wake. 

Video call, her mirror image on the screen and Barbie gives her glasses a quick adjustment before swiping her finger across the glass to answer. 

“Ho, ho, ho!” A voice bellows, and there is a grinning Lucas, dark brown hair expertly mussed under the brim of his vintage, thrift-shop treasure, red flannel and white wool Santa Hat. “Merry Christmas!”

Barbie waves, laughing, widening the camera view to show off the living room, then back to her. Nate greets Lucas, unsure where to stand and if he can even see him, moves to lean over Barbie’s shoulder where the pocket of his brown leather jacket fills the display. His own cellular phone rings and he excuses himself to answer. Mason shakes his head, and, arms folded, walks to settle on the edge of the couch.

Back to Lucas, and now Barbie spots a twinkling flash against the red of his hat, one more, behind him white snow flurrying and thickening with each passing second. His voice muffled, harsh streaks of wind silencing him, though she can pick up the unmistakable and clear, deep accent of Adam Du Mortain, calm and authoritative.

There is a leaden, sinking feeling in her stomach. 

“Snow squall,” she finally hears, and when did Lucas move? Blurred behind the camera lens, he has found shelter inside the doors of the airport. Fellow travelers behind him converge into small groups, collective voices rising in confusion and frustration relaying the news to their loved ones. Airplanes had been taking off and landing, no imminent threat of weather. “Barbie, roads are closed, don’t know when they’ll open. Promise I’ll be home as soon as I can, but I’m not sure I’ll be able to make the Fete tomorrow.”

“Oh. Okay,” she answers, nodding, glancing around the room to find Nate speaking animatedly and Mason watching snow swirling outside. “Just stay safe, Luke, alright? Keep me updated. Is Adam with you?” 

“Ordering the weather to behave,” he chuckles, attempting to keep her spirits from crashing. “Look, Barbie, I’m sorry.”

Trying to formulate a plan, alternatives and logistics, how to inform Tina, Barbie doesn’t respond until she hears her name again. She shakes her head, “It’s alright. Take your time. We will figure this out. Don’t do anything hasty or dangerous, you need to come home in one piece.” Barbie looks at the screen again, zoom tighter on Lucas, notices the same plush red and fluffy white at his shoulders. “Are you wearing your Santa costume?”

“If you’re going to travel for the holidays, you’ve got to travel in style and make a big entrance. Besides, someone has to spread holiday cheer amongst the masses.”

“Keep them distracted and don’t have too much fun. Again, stay safe. I’ll talk to you soon.” 

As she ends the call, Barbie consults her Filofax, searching for an answer. Surely, she wrote up a back-up plan for Santa, Mrs. Claus, and the Elves, and she did but Sung committed to the community Christmas Feast. She turns to a blank page, scribbles thoughts - Surely, Adam will take care of Lucas. Surely, Mrs. Claus could take the place of her husband, saying he needs a head start on his journey, the children could video-chat with him. 

“Barbie,” Nate’s voice is as understanding and gentle as his gait, taking a seat next to her, patting her back with a touch so light it does not register. He finds Mason, raising his brows and tilting his head and in seconds, Mason stands before them. “I spoke with Adam. Unexpected change of weather a few miles northwest of the city, might be due to magic gone awry, and does not appear to be malicious. Unit Golf has been dispatched to secure the situation, and Adam will be working with them. Bravo is on standby, but he feels this should be contained without our intervention.” 

Mason shrugs, Barbie is still writing in her organizer. 

Turning towards her, Nate’s smile is encouraging, “Now, you are in need of a Saint Nicholas for your Christmas Fete tomorrow. Do you have Lucas’ costume? He and I are of similar build and height, and I would be glad to stand in for him.” 

Barbie, facial muscles finally moving and her mouth falling into an unintentionally pretty pout, unlocks her phone, finds her text messages, and brings up a picture to show him, then Mason. Lucas, mid-laugh, Santa hat flopping to the side, Santa jacket open with a white shirt underneath, Santa trousers on underneath, standing with a not so stiff shouldered, slightly amused Adam in the midst of white and colored glistering lights. “Spreading so much cheer that he performed a holiday miracle, making Adam smile.”

Mason, concerned with the pallor of her skin and the dullness in her eyes, crouches down and pats his pockets, where his now banished cigarettes were once stored - to prevent a fire hazard in this room of shimmering, glimmering potential kindling - pulls out a package, a monstrosity, a little cake shaped like an evergreen tree, an emergency treat purchased at the convenience store. Smushed, and he decides there is no way he will let her raise her blood sugar with something that tastes like plastic. “Eat something if you’re going into figuring-out mode. Maybe not this, I’ll get you something that doesn’t look like reindeer vomit.” 

Nate, rubbing his bottom lip with this thumb, remembers the prior year’s Christmas celebrations. A truly magical time in this already magical town, every year healing from the tragedies at the start of their permanent tenure. He recalls a certain gentleman, an embodiment of the legend and a hero to each child, reading their name from a scroll and making them believe to be the most special. “Mr. Rockwell. He was treasured, and enjoyed the role.” 

“Retired. Out of town to visit his new grandchild.” Barbie taps her pencil against the cover of her Filofax. Nate’s mention of the Santa Claus of the past decade, of his generosity and love, his joy infectious, reminds her of a conversation - between Mr. Rockwell and his wife, Lucas and Tina, and her. A transition of tradition. 

“Wait.” Her eyes open wide, sparkling once more with another idea. “We are brilliant! Mr. Rockwell left us his suit, even though it was too short for Lucas, something about keeping the Christmas spirit. It should still be at the station, I’ll call Tina to confirm.” 

Once more in the middle of this living room, Mason returns to see two faces look at him expectantly, and though there is some he does not understand, he understands the faces of two schemers. Especially one who has talked him into decorating more than he ever thought he would in eternity, and one he would do just about any damn thing for. He shoves the cookie, on a napkin to avoid another lecture by Nate, towards Barbie. “Eat this. And what do you both want?”

“Tina said the Santa costume is at the station, and she’s running a lint roller over it to get rid of any dust. You’re about Mr. Rockwell’s height -”

“No.”

Nate makes a second attempt, honeyed words pleading, “for no more than two hours. It would mean so much to this town that has become our home. It would mean -”

“I’m not dealing with any little brat screaming in my ears about some presents.” 

“It would mean a lot to me,” Barbie finishes for Nate, flatly. “We will keep the kids calm, Nate and Farah will entertain them. Tina will talk to them, and you can just check their names against a roster and repeat their wish. Then take a picture with them.” 

“Nope. Besides, we’re supposed to be in the shadows.”

Nate nods, acknowledging that Mason is correct. The accessories, such as the full, white beard, may be uncomfortable for him, as well as the inevitable sounds which come with the excitement of children. It may not be such a fair ask, and there may be some other possibilities. “Babs, there may be some adjustments I can have made to the suit, to accompany the length of my arms and legs. The tailor in town, I am sure, is quite busy. I can, however, make a request with ours at the Agency.”

An attempt to speak comes out as a squeak, and Barbie throws her arms around Nate’s shoulders in a hug. “Thank you, Nate. Really. We should go now, and get to your tailor as soon as possible.” 

Mason, silver eyes sharp and observant, regards Barbie and he guesses she’s relieved, with the sharp exhale of breath, taking a bite of the cookie and writing down some last notes. There is an errant thump in his chest, and he rubs his palm against it. Then regards Nate, also exhaling a breath, longer, and his hands slide into his pockets, their refuge. 

And damnit, her smile is making his jaw tingle, and he stretches it to alleviate that sensation. Damnit, she is so fucking beautiful like this, merry and jovial. And, groaning, Mason drags his hand down his face, wrapping his fingers behind his neck. 

He thinks he might regret this for eternity, but then figures that being able to do what Nate is doing, make her glow like that again, so ecstatic? Maybe that’ll make an afternoon of misery worth everything. 

“Wait,” he reaches, finding Barbie’s hand, and pulls them both up. “You just have to promise to stay near me, alright, sweetheart?” 

Barbie’s mouth falls open, and she truly is stunned, frozen in place as she processes his answer. She then grins, thanking him with a kiss to his cheek. “You got it, Santa.” 

~

In the midst of hazing lights, luminous trees and the rising dawn of the Eve, there is a stir. In this living room, under a bough and honoring the custom of the mistletoe, a couple hushes each other between deep kisses and berry extraction. His senses are heightened once more, and he grumbles an announcement of visitors. She spies past the door and wishes, one small wish, that he will appear.

And to her delight, they are not just any visitors.

The commanding agent will claim this a completed, successful mission, but with a hearty and robust, “Merry Christmal to all!”, Lucas will say that with a little magic, he fulfilled his Christmas promise.

fin.

[garglyswoof]

I was tagged by the lovely @evilbunnyking (go check out her wayhaven chronicles fic pls, i dont even know what twc is but it doesnt matter when the writing is lovely)

I keep forgetting to write what i was tagged for lol. ANYWAY - to post an older fic! This is a repost of what I think is my fave thing I've ever written. It's klaroline, and apologies if you saw this back in the day. This is inspired by and includes a repeated line from a Richard Siken poem.

tagging @stars-and-darknessess @morningstargirl666 @carry-the-sky @purplesigebert

@thetourguidebarbiedebarbie @kirythestitchwitch to do this too! (no need to read, it's 2700 words)

I am the thing that is hurtling towards you…

At first, she is far away, too far for even his enhanced senses. She is merely a title - 'the doppelganger's friend'. Then a flash of blond waves, a cheerleader's uniform. He notes her for her worth as a chess piece, the feint to his second play. He sees that Mystic Falls friendships run deep and he uses the folly of it to his advantage.

Plans within plans within plans and he bares his wolf teeth in victory.

I am the thing that is hurtling towards you…

She's there, in the school, and how perfect it is, for here is another to press deep on the witch's pressure points; to find a way to make his hybrids live past a few desperate gasps before the light dies in their eyes. Her voice blares warning and he dismisses her concern with a dose of reality, not bothering to look up as 'love' spills from his lips. He knows her face well by now, does not need another study. He remembers - before the hybrid ritual when he watched her talking with the pup in the cellar, her quick mind making connections and his own name rolling off her lips. He treasured the fear in her tone, and he is glad she is here now to witness his triumph. He has noted the hand that reaches out to soothe Tyler's feverish brow. The two must dream themselves star-crossed lovers, the Romeo and Juliet of the supernatural world, mortal enemies drawn together. By his hand, if truth be told. They should be thanking him.

And so he layers plans within plans within plans to test a new hybrid's loyalty.

I am the thing that is hurtling towards you…

He hears the death rattle of her breath as he rounds the corner into her room. Her hair clouds on the pillow and the shadows loom deep on her face as she speaks:

"Are you here to kill me?"

It's an odd question, for she knows well the cut of a werewolf's teeth is fatal, but he thinks that she says it as a condemnation, that she wields the only weapon she has, her esteem. He admires her fire and thinks that maybe this one should be spared, that there are lights that should always be allowed to shine.

There is a reverence in his hand as it sweeps aside the thin blanket she's pulled over the mark of his hybrid's loyalty. Oh, she doesn't have long, he thinks, as he eyes the angry red weals that mar her creamy skin. His anger at Stefan rises up in a flare for a moment, for look at what his erstwhile friend made him do, to use this chess piece so brutally.

It's nothing personal, he says, and he still believes it. For now.

She shifts, and the light catches on a bracelet, some hideous, common, semblance of jewelry that has the aesthete in him crying out in horror. He fingers a charm and thinks that it does not suit her in the least.

"You have to adjust your perception of time when you become a vampire, Caroline." And he knows then, when he says those words, that he will let her live should she so choose. But indeed it should be her choice, for there is a part of him that looks back on the boy he was and dreams of the comfort of cold earth cradling his bones. It is a small, secret part of him and he cannot believe he speaks of it now to her. Perhaps it is her spirit that calls to him, perhaps it is that darkness that he sees simmering underneath the skin, he's not entirely certain.

All he knows in the moment is that he sees her wrist and that damnable bracelet and thinks she should have a chance to wear the finest jewels.

So he chooses to give her a choice, knowing which one she will make, closing his eyes and breathing out in a rush at the beautiful monster's fangs closing upon his wrist.

I am the thing that is hurtling towards you…

Although Klaus misses the spirit of centuries past, modern day does offer a world of convenience at his fingertips. Klaus brushes a hand across the tulle of the evening gown he ordered that morning and had a hybrid pick up in Richmond. He imagines the color vibrant against her skin, his birthday gift sliding down her arm as she crooks an arm through his. He thinks that he should show her his paintings, no, he wants to show her his art. Wants to see her face light up with the same fire as when she claimed her life from his blood.

Later, he eyes her across the floor's expanse and drinks her in, those moments before her gaze snags unwillingly on his caught forever in his memory. Her hair falls in delicate tendrils to frame an elegant neck. Her eyes dart about, taking in the glamour of the evening, and he sees the nervousness that creeps into her gaze. He wonders then about her past, about what she's seen, where she's traveled, what dreams slide beneath the sheets with her as that golden hair fans out on the pillowcase. His hand twitches with the urge to paint her.

He dances with Miss Mystic Falls and admires her carriage. Her elegant, long-fingered hand is clasped delicately in his own, and their movements are fluid. He finds himself looking forward to how she'll manage to insult him this time.

—

She clasps her shawl around her shoulders and he smiles at how human she still is. He remembers the rise and fall of her chest from her birthday, the convention of breathing another instinct remained. He can pinpoint the moment he stopped his own - on the run from Mikael, dragging Rebekah through the damp forest, mouths wet with blood from a recent meal. A rotted stump, a mound of damp leaves, a hand over Rebekah's mouth and his own breath held until he realized.

He shakes the reverie away and refocuses on the vision in front of him.

"Do you like horses?"

—-

He is not used to being rebuked, and he blames his surprise as much as anything for his attempt to try again. It is also a thing, a slowly growing thing, that there is something between them, and it's not just in his own head. So it's another attempt at conversation, and he delights at what makes it past the façade of disdain she armors herself with. He sees it slip as she looks at his drawings, her face awed. His heart does something odd just then, a little stuttering flip at her regard. He wonders what style would be her favorite, what painting would stop her in her tracks at the Louvre, the Hermitage. Would she pause at his own? Admire the depth of color that he spent days perfecting?

And then the moment is over and her eyes flash with anger and his own echo in fury and a line has been crossed. He grits his teeth to hold the roar in and only just stops himself from tearing his Botticelli mimicry in two. She is gone, then, the words an acid burning in the pit of his stomach. He leaves the study for a moment, pulling close to a brunette server carrying a full tray of champagne flutes. The glasses clatter noisily to the ground, but he does have the presence of mind to drag the server back into the room (mustn't upset mother) before tearing the man's throat open. Klaus spins the server around and the shocked scream cuts off abruptly, eyes dilating from the compulsion. Klaus' fury grows from his own sloppiness.

I am the thing that is hurtling towards you…

He knows her role by now, his little blonde distraction, the baring of cleavage as she enters the bar almost comical in its obviousness. So when she makes a loop and heads right back out the door, he doesn't care that he's being lured. He follows with a spring in his step and a grin dimpling his cheeks, the thrill of the chase flaring brightly in his chest. He has a captive audience, he knows it, and he will use everything at his disposal to place the seeds of doubt in her mind. She can't be that great an actress - while she is too smart to be seduced by him (and oh at that line, the pang in his chest grows) - she doesn't realize the fundamental truth that familiarity breeds more than just contempt. But he feels the urgency, the time slipping away, and he wants to drink in whatever truths she will let spill from her lips, this fascinating creature with her bright smile that hides.

So captivated, he forgets the ruse for a moment. Forgets himself, forgets that the world is a betrayal, forgets that she cares nothing for him beyond a distraction. The pang in his chest twists into something darker, cold anger rushes through his veins as his dead heart beats double time to spread the poison of his rage.

And so he makes plans within plans within plans and tries not to think of her.

I am the thing that is hurtling towards you…

He inhales sharply at the sight of Caroline in her red dress, hair up in perfect finger waves, for his imagination is vivid and he sees her on his arm in Chicago in the 20s. He pictures them in the corner booth as their eyes meet across their meal. He pictures her monster's visage receding, veins fading until her skin is unmarred except for the drop of blood that she licks off the corner of her mouth. She would have been a queen.

So he tells her so, and she rebukes him, and his patience is starting to wear thin, he admits, for it is not his nature to pursue. He manipulates, he seduces, he coerces, he forces, he plans, he tracks, but he does not pursue. So he tells her the truth as he sees it because he's tired of her hiding behind her sharp retorts and he sees to the core of her and why won't she listen?

So he continues planning his plans within plans and he tries not to include her in them.

I am the thing that is hurtling towards you…

He smells the vervain and the rawness of her wounds and his breath is at her ear and he clutches her like a thing once lost and she is safe, she is safe.

I am the thing that is hurtling towards you…

Her worry washes over him like a tidal wave, and oh god it is not for him but he lets himself pretend for just a moment because the words she says make it so easy. "Klaus is dead," and her voice breaks like she's mourning him and it strikes a match in his chest and the ember flares.

He cringes even as he says the words, for he knows better than to be this obvious. "You're strong, and you have a beautiful future ahead of you." He is surprised she does not catch on, blames her distress. He wonders if this is what it is like to truly embody a role, to be an actor upon a stage and feel as if the words were meant for you and not a character.. Because he kisses her and it is only as their tongues slide that he remembers this is not for him and never will be.

I am the thing that is hurtling towards you…

It's easy to be a stalker when you have a team of sire-bonded hybrids at your disposal to gather information. He flaps the folded paper against his leg and grins - Caroline Forbes, journalism superstar. He simply must bring up her editorial diatribe on the vagaries of school lunches the next time she's sent as a distraction. Not that he disagreed that hot dogs were an offense against "both nutrition and humanity".

He spots the Miss Mystic Falls application on the corner of his desk and slips it in the inside pocket of his suit jacket, smoothing his hair with a practiced flick. He should have eaten before he got dressed, and he rolls his eyes as he realizes he'll need to drink from a glass. It wouldn't do to show up to his first date with blood spotting his collar.

When he arrives he waits on the edge of the lawn to get the lay of the land. He sees Tyler and that wolf bitch, spots Elena - and there - there she is ordering her minions about like the queen she is. He watches for a moment, smile on his face as the staff scuttles away, chastened.

"And how am I doing?"

His heart warms at her answer and it is those moments, when she drops her guard, that add more fuel to his imagination's fire. Later she opens to him, as if…he is a friend and he wedges his foot in the door for he won't let it close, won't lose this traction. He opens up to her, because he sees the way her eyes change, disdain and hatred turning for just a split second to something warmer. He wants to see more of it, and so he tells her of the hummingbird. And if a part of him also loves that the whelp of a hybrid sees it all, hears his speech and sees the way her eyes change, well then, isn't that part of the plan?

I am the thing that is hurtling towards you…

His rage is cold and calculated and moves around inside his skin. He shoves Carol Lockwood's head under the water of the fountain and for a moment wishes he could do the same to Caroline, to be rid of her traitorous heart. To feel the life ebb away and know he will reclaim himself because he is tired of the lie he keeps telling and why does he keep that tiny shred of hope that lets him care? He feels Mrs. Lockwood's struggles lessen, hears the sound of lungs filling with water and he plans his plans within plans and if he wonders how he'll acquit himself with her for just a moment, it's a moment that swiftly passes.

Carol's movements cease and she stares the glassy-eyed stare of the lifeless, moments ago staring at the bottom of the pond while the brain sent panic signals through the nervous system and the heart pumped and the lungs pulled. Klaus lets go, stands, and lets the lie continue, trapped for now beneath cold fury.

I am the thing that is hurtling towards you…

His brother lies dead and his scream is not loud enough, can never be loud enough. He is trapped and he stares at the body of his brother, the smoke still rising from his corpse. Klaus spent centuries keeping them safe and now an impudent vampire and her baby hunter brother have killed that which he vowed to protect and there is no scream loud enough to contain his rage.

So when Caroline comes in she becomes part of the plan, you're just collateral damage, love, nothing personal. One does not live a thousand years without being able to make up a plan on the fly and her disdain is a punch in the gut already soured by grief but the taste of her on his lips almost makes him regret.

She lays there, a sense of déjà vu punctuated by her rasping breath. She speaks and his heart twists and reminds him of everything he is not and can never have and Kol's body lays as a sentinel on the edges of his vision and her words punch a hole in his chest. As he often does with her, he pretends, and he lets hope ask the question, even if his words are laced with doubt.

Her breath falters and her eyes close and her chest stops rising and his heart won't stop twisting and he is undone. She ragdolls in his arms and it takes her a few terrifying moments to start sucking at the punctures in his wrist but she does, and he combs her hair back and mumbles into her hair promises he always intended to keep.

Because he sees it clearly, the thing that has been hurtling towards him for a year now, the flaring in his chest, the twist of his heart. He sees it clearly and he is surprised, for he doesn't feel weak.

tagging @stars-and-darkness @morningstargirl666 @carry-the-sky

@thetourguidebarbie @kirythestitchwitch

[amlovelies]

this is from a prompt I shame deleted in early 2021 and am now filling in mid 2022 because I write at a snails pass

#17 things you said that i wish you hadnt  from this prompt list

Too honest

fandom: twc pairing: Nate Sewell/F!detective (Riley Jordan)/Morgan rating: M (really like older teen but I’d rather err on the side of caution) words: 1.2k read on ao3

             The bar was not a place Nate could easily picture Riley. He had grown used to their long afternoons together in the library. To her face buried in a book, a pad at her side as she scribbled notes, ink covering her fingers and occasionally her face when she had to readjust her glasses. It’s a pleasant change, for all of the noise and bustle and whatever passes for music now days. She’s all smiles and laughter, catching up with old friends.

               It’s a short walk back to the detective’s apartment. The streets of Wayhaven are peaceful, light gathering in the pools of rainwater, shimmering along the asphalt and painting the night in softness. Painting her in softness. It has been growing harder and harder for Nate to ignore the feelings Riley elicits within him: longing, regret and most of all guilt. Guilt that he should be feeling this way when she so clearly had feelings for someone else. Not just someone else, Morgan.

               Morgan who he’d never seen like this before. Morgan who moved on so quickly, always seeking new pleasures, new distractions.

               What sort of man wished a heartbreak on his friend? Wished that Morgan would fall back into her old patterns, and maybe just maybe there might be more than friendship in those long afternoons with Riley. He’d often wished for a companion, a partner, but never found someone he could envision that with, until now.  

               Fate was nothing if not cruel.

               At least he has moments like this, walking in comfortable silence. She’s humming something he doesn’t recognize under her breathe. Steps a little unsteady from the wine she’d been drinking, or maybe just from dancing with the song in her head.

               He opens his mouth preparing to ask about the artist, to horde more details of Riley and her life, but before he can her steps slow and then stop in front of the bakery.

               Her eyers study her own reflection in the window. One hand reaches up to brush her cheek, contemplative, a small frown marring her features.

               “Is something wrong?” He can’t sense anything, no dangers lurking in the shadows, something else must be going on.

               Her voice is halting, quiet, “do you think I’m pretty Nate?”

               “Riley, I think you are one of the most stunning creatures I have ever beheld.” He answers too quickly, without thinking, more honest than he intended.

               She turns surprise evident on her face, “you’re full of it.” Brown eyes searching his face trying to gauge his sincerity.  

               “I assure you I am not.” Perhaps he should have gone for a more teasing tone. One that is light and friendly, but it’s hard to do so.

               There’s a long list of things it is hard to do. Or hard not to do. Right now, Nate would like nothing more than to sweep Riley up in his arms, to kiss her breathless, to stare into her eyes, to make her understand how beautiful she is. How is he supposed to keep his tone light when it weighs so heavy on him?

               “Oh,” she’s looking at him and he can hear the way her heart is accelerating, and hope sparks to life within him. “Nate, I--” she reaches out a hand placing it against his chest. Can she feel how his heart his hammering in his chest?

               A long moment where she searches for words and Nate waits with baited breath. Wants to say something, to sweep her off her feet, but he can’t. She’s been drinking. He can smell the wine on her breathe, strong now with her this close. This moment, whatever it is, wouldn’t have happened otherwise.

               He must do the right thing here. For Riley’s sake, for Morgan’s sake.

               Her hand is small in his, delicate as he pulls it away, the cool night air rushing in to fill the void where her touch had once been. The urge is there, to place a kiss on the back of her hand, but he swallows it down and instead gives it a brief squeeze before releasing it.

               “It’s late; we should get you home.”

               Riley nods, eyes not meeting his and he mourns the loss, what he wouldn’t give to lose himself in their warm depths.

               He only has a moments warning, the sound of familiar footfalls, before Morgan steps out of the shadows, “am I interrupting something?”

               A small shriek erupts out of Riley, her hand flying to cover her mouth, “Morgan! You scared me half to death!”

               He should have sensed her sooner. Too distracted by Riley, and what if she had been another supernatural? One intent on hurting Riley? He needs to be better, to be more careful, to not lose himself in far-fetched dreams and longings.

               He didn’t expect her here, she still has a few hours of patrol left. Had she heard their voices and come to say hello? She never would have bothered with any of her old flings. Just more evidence that this is something more between them, something he shouldn’t get between.

               “Sorry, sweetheart,” Morgan drawls as she wraps an arm around Riley’s waist, “that’s not how I intended to make you scream.”

               “Morgan!” Nate splutters, words failing him as his face heats. Wishes he could say it was just indignation and embarrassment at Morgan’s words, but he knows its more. “That’s highly inappropriate.”

               “I am highly inappropriate,” she responds with a dry chuckle, “but Nate is right, we should get you home.” She doesn’t wait for a response, just starts walking, her arm still around Riley’s waist.

               Nate watches them walk away unease sitting heavy in his stomach. How much had she overheard? They will have to talk after this, clear the air.

               “Aren’t you joining us?” Morgan calls over her shoulder, her grin wicked, and he knows she overheard it all.

               A small squeak escapes Riley, her eyes darting back between the two of them. Her heart rate skyrocketing, her skin heating, a hundred other small changes his vampire sense allow him a peek into. One he wishes he could ignore.

               Has Riley thought about it? The three of them together? Images too easy to recall rise in his mind, walking in on them in the library. Lace against Riley’s skin, Morgan’s lips travel along her collarbone. . .

               A raised eyebrow from Morgan as she waits for his response. He knows it’s no good trying to hide it from her. They’ve known each other too long, and their senses are too strong too attuned to each other after almost a century.

               The smile grows larger across Morgan’s face and he needs to redirect this somehow.

               “You’re more than capable of getting her home, no need for me to tag along,” he tries to keep his voice neutral, to push those thoughts away, to slow the rapid beat of his pulse. He doesn’t wait for their response, turns on his heel and retreats, but he can still feel the weight of Morgan’s gaze long after he is out of sight.

tag list: @agentnatesewell @rosarx @lord-king-saint

[coldshrugs]

the view when i'm beside you

featuring: surina batra/nate sewell word count: 425 words note: a @wayhavensummer entry for the 7/16 prompt farmer's market! i'm borrowing suri/nate from @agentnatesewell for this one -- thank you, mar! these two are so sweet 💗

Nate's favorite day of the week is Saturday.

There's a ritual to it: he and Surina wake slowly, grab coffee at Haley's, then meander lazily, arm in arm, through the stalls of Wayhaven's farmer's market. Suri needs flowers, and Nate likes the quiet, genial bustle of the townsfolk. He likes feeling like one of them.

The verdant bite of produce fills the air, mingling with the scents of fresh earth, baked goods, and the gigantic bundle of flowers Suri cradles. This week, she's chosen pink and pale green zinnia and amaryllis blooms, and their delicate sweetness isn't so different from the soft floral scent of Suri herself.

"I'll be back in a second." She steps away to peruse a peach vendor. He finds himself smiling as she goes, then busies himself with a selection of root vegetables.

Wayhaven is Suri's runway and not even the rustic charm of jarred honey and crated fruits can stop her. Nate can only describe her movements as effortless. She navigates the cobblestones in strappy stilettos, and the rest of her outfit–a smocked linen dress with dramatically billowing sleeves in a red gingham pattern, needlessly belted at the already-cinched waist–is what she calls "casual wear."

Surina stands out, but she's not out of place. Even in this open-air market, she's at home. If someone like her can still manage to fit in, surely he can too. After all, they're building a life here, together.

The vendor greets Suri like an old friend (they might actually be old friends, he’ll have to ask), and she inspects the peaches with discerning squeezes and sniffs while they catch up on the week's events. Nate watches from a distance, partially out of habit, mostly because each fruit she raises conjures thoughts of peach juice dripping from her lips, and–

Alas, that line of thinking is wholly inappropriate during their shopping. He tucks it away, something to resume when they're not surrounded by the rest of the town.

"Nate," Suri calls to him, sing-song voice pulling him out of the self-inflicted distraction. She's biting down a giggle and before she can get it out, he knows a pun is on the way. "Would you be a peach and carry these for me?"

He reaches for her basket as they fall in step again, and Nate's mind turns back to this simple domesticity, this routine they allow themselves to lull in, if only one day per week. He hopes they'll get to look forward to Saturday for the rest of their lives. "Where to next, hayati?"

[ejunkiet]

snippet sunday~

pairing: detective olivia greene & mason notes: somewhat suggestive, but also very silly. rated teen.

preface: this is one of my favourite moments from (just) a movie night.

--

It’s a long moment before she pulls away, slightly breathless even as she smiles, dropping her hand from his jaw to settle against his chest, feeling the steady weight of his heartbeat beneath her palm.

“We should move.”

Adjusting his grip, Mason squeezes his hand around her thigh, briefly. “Or, we could stay.”

His voice is a low purr, the tension from earlier returning in full force, hot and simmering between them - and she can’t say she isn’t tempted. “At least lose the remote - it’s digging into my hip.”

A low chuckle rumbles through his chest, before his mouth returns to her ear, his voice low and filthy. “That’s not the remote.”

She chokes on empty air, sputtering, before she pulls back to look at him. “You’re joking.”

“You can check for yourself, sweetheart.”

She bites her lip, taking in the way his eyes track the movement, the winter storm of his irises darkening, before he shifts in his seat and leans back, draping his arms over the back of the sofa once more.

It's a clear invitation, and tentatively, she reaches down, wrapping her hands around the-

Remote.

It’s Mason’s turn to laugh at her expense, loud and unabashed, and she almost throws the damn thing at him. Jesus - he doesn’t stop, his whole frame shaking with it, cheeks flushing dark beneath his freckles as her own redden despite her best efforts, and she huffs out an annoyed breath.

Still chuckling, he meets her gaze, teeth gleaming as he gives her a wide grin. “Oh sweetheart, you’re too kind.”

And that’s enough. “Shut up.”

--

read the rest here

final notes: this may reference a hilariously awful shifter romance novel I found online (that has since been removed, which is a travesty). 

[feralrosie]

I saw @agentnatesewell tags on this post I made and... Well, I had to do it, too 😏

#i would love to see the nate pov when farah and morgan help him unlock his phone and get to the messages

The Wayhaven Chronicles

F!Detective/Nate

Words: 1336

Rating: T for mention of the same female presenting nipples

"How are you so good at this game?" Morgan grunted, perching against the pool table in the games room. The dark walls, faint light and absence of windows quickly turned it in one of Morgan's favourite places in the Warehouse.

Nate smiled, setting up another game for them, "Because I'm actually trying. You're just hitting the balls and hoping for the best."

"Well, yeah. What else am I supposed to do?"

"You can also try," he chuckled and placed the white ball in the middle of the table, "You can start."

"I bet five bucks that Nate is gonna win again," Farah teased behind them before throwing a dart at its target hanging on a wall. For the last few hours, her fun had been trying to catch the darts before they could hit the bullseye, in an incessant blur of movements.

"Make it fifty," the woman replied, taking a cue stick from Nate's hands while circling the table.

"Are you betting against yourself?" Farah laughed, but agreed to raise the bet. The other's grin was reflecting the faint lights when she set herself in place and leaned over the table. With a solid, powerful hit on the white ball, Morgan easily sank five balls at different pockets at once.

Nate gasped, aiming an astonished look at her. "How did you do that?" he asked.

"I tried," she grinned, handing him the cue stick and walking towards Farah to claim her money.

Nate couldn't hold back a smile before turning his back to analyse the arrangement on the table. He always took too long to calculate his next moves, and while doing so, the muffled sound of piano keys rang from his jacket on a nearby chair. His head turned instinctively to the melody, and he sprinted over to look for his phone.

"It's Agatha," he commented, searching his pockets, "Why is she awake? What time is it?"

"It's 7:30 in the morning," tired of the darts, Farah sprawled herself on an armchair by Nate's side, "How do you know it's her?"

"What!? We have been playing this game for seven hours?" He asked Morgan, who just shrugged, uninterested. Ever since they moved to the Warehouse, it was common for them to lose track of time whenever they had a leisure day, especially when they didn't need any sleep. When he finally found his phone, he turned back to Farah to answer her, "She set this sound for her calls and messages, so I can know it's her."

"Like a dog whistle?" teased Morgan, approaching them and perching herself next to Farah, "Cute."

Nate rolled his eyes and focused on the device. He turned it around, tried to tap the screen multiple times and press two tiny buttons on its side, but was unable to unlock it.

"Need some help there, Natey?" The youngest vampire chuckled, watching as the man struggled with technology.

"Yes, please," he admitted, defeated, and handed her the phone before going back to the pool table, "Agatha is probably just saying she's off to the station and will meet us here later."

"When is her birthday?" Farah asked.

"December 23, why?" Nate's eyes were focused once again on his game.

He didn't see when Farah tapped the password 1223 and unlocked the phone. Scrolling down the notifications, she opened the detective's message to read it out loud for him, "Oh my goodness," she choked in surprise.

By her side, Morgan leaned down to peek at the message, opening a wide grin right after, "Nathaniel Henry Sewell, you lucky bastard."

"Hn?" he shifted his attention to the women, frowning a little in confusion. His eyes studied their faces, the phone in Farah's hand, and then them again, "What did she say?"

"Oh boy, how do I even begin to describe it?" Farah bursted into laughter, while Morgan took the phone.

She stared at it for a few long seconds before announcing, "She said, and I quote, 'Mornings are too cold already. Getting out of the shower is torturing. Maybe you should warm me up a bit tonight?' and quote. She also sent a tongue emoji and sweat drops."

When both women looked at Nate again, he was seriously confused, standing still while staring back at them. His eyebrows were frowned and his lips were pressed together, as if he was trying to connect some dots in his mind. When it finally clicked, and his expression turned into pure despair, Farah grinned, "I didn't know she had freckles on her boobs, too."

In coordinated action, Morgan showed Nate his phone, displaying a picture of Agatha, taken by herself. The detective was laying on her bed, partially covered by her sheets and long loose hair, but having her torso exposed, where all three of them could see her nipples, hard and shivering in the cold air.

When his eyes met the image, a rush of blood took over Nate's face, and his skin got hotter than ever before. His whole body was taken over by adrenaline and, in a blur of movement, he ran towards his companions to grab the phone from them. Farah was laughing out loud, unable to control herself, and wiped a tear of joy from her eyes.

"Let us leave the room first if you're gonna answer accordingly," Morgan provoked, grinning so widely that she thought her cheeks would tear apart, "Make good use of that pool table."

"I–" Nate tried to speak, but he couldn't form words. Not only his embarrassment clouded his mind, but the picture surely had the desired arousing effect on him. The wave of extreme emotions froze him in place, and for a moment all he could hear was Farah's laughter and his own heart beating loudly. When he finally gathered enough senses, he aimed pleading puppy eyes at the women and blurted, "Please, don't joke about it. Let me tell her what happened so she won't think I showed you this picture on purpose. Heavens, what if she thinks I'm bragging about her? Please, if you're my friends, let me explain everything and apologise properly. I don't want her to be upset."

He spoke so fast that even Morgan couldn't help but laugh, "Relax, Nate," she said, "Those are not the first tits we've seen, and I'm sure we are not the first to see them either. Agatha will understand."

"Still!" He ran a hand over his hair, trying to calm himself down, and took a deep breath, "I must implore for her forgiveness."

Suddenly, a deep voice echoed into the room, dragging Nate away from his frenzy, "Good morning," Adam said from the door while reading some reports. The Commanding Agent turned his attention to his oldest friend, finding him with constricted pupils, messed hair and heart racing. "Nate, Agent Greene called. She needs us at the facility. Are you ok?" he raised an eyebrow.

"Fine! I'm fine. Perfectly fine." The vampire chuckled nervously, locking his phone's screen again before grabbing his jacket and heading in a rush to the door, "Facility, right? I will meet you there. See you later."

Adam blinked at the speed in which Nate ran out of the warehouse. He turned slowly to the women in the back of the room, silently demanding explanations.

"Hey, don't look at us, we did nothing," with hands raised beside her head, Farah defended herself. The agent grunted, turning on his heels and following his friend, leaving both women alone. After a few seconds, the youngest prompt, "So… we are totally telling this to Agatha as soon as she arrives, right?"

"Of course we are," Morgan smiled by her side, "If Nate thought that she would be spared, then he should know us better."

Chuckling, Farah agreed, calming herself down from the joy of the moment.

"She really has excellent tits, though." Morgan commented on a low voice, leaning a bit closer to her friend as in a confession.

"Right!?"

"It's Impressive."

"Stunning."

"I could look at it all day."

"Me too!"

[tuagonia]

i’ve gotten to a point in this fic where i’m like: “what was the point of this again....?”

[musingsofadrunkensailor]

Letters to the sea

Dearest love,

I have not written about you yet, and for that, I am deeply sorry. The words, like waves, have been pulled away from me but much like the tide, they shall return soon, with songs of the sea, windswept hymns  that I pray, like yourself be restored to their rightful place in my arms.

[kelseaaa]

What’s in a Name

Pairing: Mason x f!MC (Detective Athena Kouris) | The Wayhaven Chronicles

Word Count: 1.6k+

Warnings: E rating - 18+, nsfw, complete smut and soft words and filthy language

A/N: Hi! So this is the first time I have written anything in over 2 months due to gaining the ole “mom” title. But I had some free time today and a few lines popped in my head so I decided to write some smut. I blame @oxjenayxo honestly. This is also my first TWC fic though I am working on another one right now. Enjoy!

~~~~~

“Mason.”

It’s not just the fact that Athena says it and says it well. When she’s all spread out beneath him, body tense and heated as his hand works her through her first orgasm. His hand is slick - just like her inner thighs and the sheets below her - and his senses are so full of her that he can barely think about anything else but here, right now, this. Again, it’s not the fact that she moans his name.

“Mason.”

But it’s how she says it. How breathless she is when she utters his name. How her voice pitches at the ‘a’ and whines at the ‘n.’ It’s how - after her second orgasm while he licks and sucks and bites - she’s forgotten every other word in the English language except his name. 

“Mason. Mason. Mason.”

He has never been a fan of catchy themes or melodic tunes but the way she sings his name as they finally connect is his favorite song. The only song he would ever want to listen to on repeat. The only sound that doesn’t grate his nerve endings - besides her moans that only harmonize the chorus that is his name.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he praises.

He’s pulled her into his lap, her legs wrapped securely around his hips as his hands palm her ass, dragging her deliciously close. Her usual five-foot-seven height has been elevated slightly and her head sits about one inch above his now in this position. It’s perfect, he thinks.

His lips press against her sternum, mouthing the valley between her breasts as he pumps slowly in and out of her cunt. Her hands are everywhere, tangling in his hair, nails raking down his back then traveling back to grip his shoulders.

Mason hates pains - hates the marks that an injury momentarily leaves on his skin before they heal and disappear. But fuck what he wouldn’t give to keep the crescents from her nails marring his skin and the purple, mottled bruises along his neck. He would wear her scars with genuine satisfaction and secretly he hopes she feels the same as his finger dimples the skin at her hips. Incisors scraping along the swell of her breast, leaving red marks in their wake.

He wonders if she can sense his possessiveness.

“Mason, please,” she sings.

“Shit, sweetheart, you feel so fucking good.”

And she does.

She feels like sweet relief, like the first drag of a cigarette when he’s alone and hasn’t had one in a few hours. Her body is warm and accepting, like stepping into the warehouse after being out in the frigid cold for far too long. And her cunt - fuck - so wet and tight and absolutely divine that there is nothing else in the world that compares.

She’s rolling her hips against him; silently urging him to give her more. To give give give because she can take take take. And he’s more than happy to oblige.

When she’s on her back, limbs still draped around his body, Mason gives.

“Fuck.”

Mason briefly thinks that if she earned a dollar for every time she pulled such filthy words from his mouth that the old tin can of a car she has would have been long gone by now.

“I need more, Mason. Please, please, plea-“

He dives in and silences her with his lips. He knows what she needs, he can feel it as her legs tremble against his sides. His hand moves from where it’s palming her breast, down the expanse of her soft stomach until landing on the bit of flesh that has her groaning against his lips.

He pulls her bottom lip between his teeth, light enough to not break the skin and draw blood, but enough to make her eyes roll back. When he releases it he leans up just slightly so he can stare down at her face. Taking in the flush that sits high in her cheeks and the glisten of saliva on her swollen lips.

It’s almost time for his favorite part.

“You’re close.” It’s stated, not asked.

She still nods her head eagerly, her eyes wide and full of want and desire.

His thumb still strokes on her clit as he continues to fuck her deeply. All his motions are slow and a time ago she would have thought he was torturing her but she now knows how good it feels when she comes from his steady movements. When he takes his time to actually draw her pleasure from deep within instead of yanking it from her greedily.

She’s repeating his name again and Mason buries his face into her neck. His lips brush against her skin - a scar that shouldn’t be there but it is and he can’t change that but he can’t lose focus now, not when she’s so-

“I’m close. Mason, fuck, fuck, fuck.”

He pulls away from her neck to rest his forehead to hers and continues to sink into her as her orgasm crescendos. The feel of her fluttering and tightening around his cock makes a groan escape his throat and he closes his eyes as his hips start to stutter just as her peak descends.

“Mason.”

Her voice is distant, far back into his mind as he chases his own release. But then he feels warm skin - hands - holding his head and he’s forced to open his eyes. Honey brown meets stormy grey and Mason nearly comes just from her gaze. But he holds out, needing to feel this - feel her - just a little bit more.

“That’s it,” she encourages and now she’s canting her hips to meet his and threading her fingers through his hair and he’s never felt anything like this before. Nothing before her. “Mason, Mason yes. Come for me, love. I want it, I want it, please.”

Mason certainly has never heard that before, either. But the sound of the word on her lips and the way it feels when it travels through his head makes him dizzy and tense and then he’s giving her what she wants and spilling inside her. Hips gently rocking into her overstimulated cunt as he comes and there’s a moan but he can’t tell who’s throat it leaves but he doesn’t care because immediately her lips find his. The kiss is rough yet intimate and Mason drops down to rest all his weight on his elbows that frame her head.

When his senses come back and the rush of his release finally ebbs away their lips are still locked together, moving languidly and tongues gliding against one another. It’s her who breaks away first, much to his protest but the smile that graces her lips somehow takes the breath he doesn’t need away.

“Hey.”

“Hi, sweetheart.”

She’s covered in perspiration, strawberry blonde hair fanned out over her pillows and the deep ruby lipstick she had coated on her lips earlier in the evening is smeared everywhere but her lips - probably on Mason’s if he’s being honest. He has never described anything as adorable but somehow that is the first and only word that comes to mind.

“You good?” He asks and something deep inside him flares and she gives him a smirk. His thumb traces along the edge of her eyebrow but he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

“I’m more than good,” she responds, her fingers running gently along the nape of his neck. 

He gives a smirk himself and then lets out a deep chuckle as she rolls her eyes. 

She yawns. “I’m pretty tired though.”

“Then I did my job right.” The punch she throws against his shoulder only makes him laugh, low and full of mirth. “I’m joking, sweetheart.”

There’s a few moments of pillow talk - and this is new, too - before the pair finally come apart and Athena heads into the bathroom. Mason looks around the room, grabbing his underwear and tugging them on first. He’s looking for his shirt when the bathroom door opens and she walks out and there’s the garment he was missing.

He quirks a brow at her and she merely shrugs before throwing an extra blanket on the bed - covering up the messy evidence. She crawls on top of it and turns back to him where he still stands.

There are many new things happening tonight and Mason’s brain can’t catch up. It isn’t until she starts to frown that he pushes those thoughts away.

“Sorry,” she admits and now he’s frowning. “I just, I-“ she pauses and takes a breath and Mason still hasn’t moved from the spot at the foot of her bed. “If you need it so you can head back I understand.”

Before she can even reach for the hem of the shirt Mason is there - the vampire speed will always surprise her - gently grabbing her wrist to stop her.

“Don’t,” he says, surprised at the tenderness he hears himself. He grins. “It looks much better on you.”

Her mouth hangs open for a moment, silent before she closes her lips and nods. “Okay.”

“But I’ll be honest,” he begins, his fingers releasing her wrist, trailing down to her exposed hip where the fabric has bunched up. “I prefer you without it.”

There’s a giggle when he starts to kiss her neck, his stubble grazing her sensitive skin and leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake.

“Mason,” she exclaims when he nips at her shoulder, and again, he can’t get over the way it sounds when his name leaves her lips. Can’t get over the way he feels when she says it again when their bodies come together.

And he knows that tomorrow he can’t wait for it to be the first thing he hears when she wakes up.

~~~~~

I don’t have a tag list for TWC but if you want to be added to it, let me know! I will most likely write for Mason only but who knows!

[night-triumphantt]

I was tagged by by @not-sewell and @wayhavensmasonsbitch and also @lxdy-starfury sjsjsjsj :D

rules: answer 30 questions and tag blogs you are contractually obligated to know better.

(ima tag a few ppl sorry if u’ve already done it, also feel free to ignore, also I just KNOW I’m missing ppl I’m so very sorry :P) @masonsfangs @bobbymckenzie @queerbrujas @agentnatesewell @raleighcarrera @specialistagent-morgan @lilas

Name/nickname: Judie, I don’t really have a nickname but y’all can use N-T if u want, or my name, up to u

Gender: Female (she/her pronouns :P)

Star sign: Aries sun sign and Libra Moon and Rising, I assume thats where the diplomacy comes from XD

Height: *Sigh* 5’ 1”

Time: 2:55 pm

Birthday: March 25!

Favorite bands: IIII don’t feel like I listen to that many bands actually, tho did u know technically Bruno Mars is a band artist, Bruno Mars and the Hooligans XD.

Favorite solo artists: I have, pretty mainstream tastes tbh lolll, (at least thats what my sister tells me, but I maintain that I just don’t have the time to go out and LOOk for new music) aAAAnnyways, I can never choose a favorite anything so Im gonna list a few that I always come back to: The Weeknd, Billy Eilish, Victoria Monet, Ariana Grande,Taylor Swift, Stromae, Logic, Halsey, Ed Sheeran, & Bruno Mars ofc but I just mentioned him XD.

Song stuck in my head: Long Story Short by Taylor Swift

Last movie: Soul :D

Last show: I’ve been rewatching ATLA

When did you create this blog? I made this sideblog, innnnn November-ish of 2019, but wasn’t active til about January of 2020, a whole year guys :D, (I have had a Tumblr for many years at this point tho, I’m not quite sure when I first joined though)

What do i post? Art, mostly fanart for TWC, or choices, very rarely my own OC’s, and then I also RB art, writing, and just, fandom memes loll

Last thing i googled: Industrial piercing after care, I am highly considering one

Do i get asks? Yes sometimes, and I cherish each and every one and I am sorry I am so bad at responding sometimes

Why i chose my url: Originally I just made this so I could find posts abt choices that I liked easier, cuzzzz I don’t have a tagging system, so it was choicesstuff, but then I decided I wanted to post art so I changed it to Night-Triumphantt bc of one of my favorite quotes from the ‘A Court of Thorns and Roses’ series

Average hours of sleep: Ugh, that depends, I always stay up far too late but I also sleep in hella late if I am able, I’m gonna say a solid 6 average (its that delayed circadian rhythm babeyyyyy)

Lucky number: 7 :D

Instruments: I can play piano, and viola, (Tho its been a while) and I am currently trying to learn guitar as I have ALWAYS wanted to learn it. I just wanna be able to play some sweet sweet riffs man! (I also reaaaaallly want to learn how to play the bass guitar but I told myself I wont drop the money on it unless I learn to actually play guitar this year XDD)

What i’m wearing: A very comfy sweater from an Ariana Grande Concert, and black work pants cuz I am at work loll.

Dream job: If I could do anything w/o care I would love to be an animator, but like, I know the actual job isn’t really for me, so I’m goin into medicine, very different I know but I do really love the medical field.

Dream trip: I wanna go to New Zealand someday, its so beautiful!!

last book i read: Children of Blood and Bone, HIGHLY recommend

Favorite food: Sushi, or Pizza

Nationality: Lebanese :D (also American IG lol)

Favorite song: I can never choose a favorite anything, I do absolutely adore Drunk by Ed Sheeran tho, that one stays in the top rotation always

Top three fictional universes: hmmmmmm, ATLA for sure but Im actually blanking on any other universes lolll

[agentnatesewell]

by allegoric bards

for the lovely @lalizah as part of the @wayhavenficexchange ! Thank you so much for letting me borrow Liz and Mason, I had so much fun getting to know them and write them!

The Wayhaven Chronicles / Mason x f!detective (Liz Khan-Langford) 3.6k words / characters do not belong to me

~~

It’s quiet in the warehouse. The kind of quiet Mason usually enjoys, used to enjoy in the large space only he occupies. A rare afternoon alone, Felix on patrol, Nat helping god knows who with god knows what, Ava training the newly promoted Agent Khan-Langford. 

Liz Khan-Langford, his Liz. Mason had offered to train her instead, a wicked curl of his lips pulling heat from her pretty, deeply-flushed cheeks; launching Ava into yet another reminder of how he would only serve as a distraction while she outlined Agency hierarchical rules and codes of conduct. A necessary distraction from the boring shit, he’d about said before Ava groaned, grunting instructions to leave before he could suggest anything more. 

As she’d turned, spinning on her heel to catch up with their commanding agent - already halfway down the corridor - Mason caught Liz in his silver eyed gaze. For a singular, shared moment, her eyes returned a flash of warmth and beneath, her mouth moved, shaping words not immediately recognizable to him, soundless so he could not hear. 

He’s leaning against the exposed brick wall of his bedroom, close to the door left ajar. The sunlight is heavy enough to hug and brighten the edges of the heavier, darker curtains of the windows facing him; might be worth the trouble, being able to listen out for Liz, sense any sign of her return. An unlit cigarette passes through his fingers, but the urge to smoke is lessened, though the urge to have his mind occupied is heightened. 

The quiet, the utter silence, isn’t quiet at all.

Mason closes his eyes, tries those deep breaths that are always suggested by those who don’t know him so well, and he thinks of Liz. In the darkness, he outlines her in his mind, he hears her voice, and soon the nothing that surrounds him starts to crackle. The sound stretches and grows louder, staticky like Liz’s car radio searching for a station while roaming the outskirts of town or the dead air whenever Nat attempts to use a walkie-talkie. 

Mason growls, securing the cigarette between two fingers and feeling along his pocket for a lighter with his free hand, and it reverberates, rolling from the base of his throat and onto his tongue. 

The tip of it is heavy against the back of his teeth, and he tries, once more, just to focus on her. How she’d fit between him and the door frame, back against the rough interior left from the old warehouse, how her lips would taste. His mouth moves on its own, mimicking the shapes she’d made before she left - the same she’s made another time before - attempting to remember what she’d said. 

Eyes opening again, Mason schools his expression flat. He can push thoughts away, turn them off, and the touch of the crystal dangling from his neck grounds him; can fade that background noise away. He doesn’t want to, though, not these thoughts. Just like everything else about Liz, this confuses him. 

Why is this so important? 

Riding back to the warehouse, Mason curled into himself as the spotty speakers in the even spottier beat up tin can of Liz’s car did its best to carry music that he wasn’t familiar with but clearly made her happy. Hands on the steering wheel, she sang out loud, swaying her shoulders and her head from side to side, fingers dancing in rhythm along the curve of the steering wheel. She’d turned her head, glancing at him as she sung a particular line, pointing her finger and poking his shoulder. Mason rolled his eyes, chuckling under his breath and returned with a lick of his tongue across his lips. Liz stopped, suddenly speechless and flabbergasted, and he took the opportunity to turn the volume dial. 

As she pulled into the unassuming driveway, slowed the car to a stop in front of the dilapidated building, another song came on and she squealed excitement and Mason, to temper the acute sound, placed his hand on her thigh as she shifted the gear to park and turned her car keys, leaned over to kiss her; she met him, singing the words against his mouth. 

“Come on,” he sighed, and she laughed, kissing him fully and unbuckling her seatbelt, then pulled away, stepping out of the car. He did the same, ducking to slink out of her car and stretch against its side. He reached for Liz as she went to stand in front of him, taking a curl of her hair between her fingers, and fuck, even that lightest touch felt good. She giggled, and she squeezed her hip, and she wrapped her arms around his neck. When Mason kissed her, she did the thing she always did, leg lifting behind her, bent at her knee, the sign of what she deemed to be a very good, perfect kiss. He never hated it, it gave them the excuse to be closer, and for him to secure his arm around her back. 

Song still on her mind, she pressed kisses onto him, kisses all over his face, catching every freckle possible and with each, she repeated something, some short phrase. Over and over. So damn endearing. Kissing until she found the freckle on the corner of his mouth, and he captured her lips once more. Then lead her inside. 

Because what she’d mouthed right before leaving with Ava, was the same thing she’d spoken into her kisses. And it’s what’s making Mason’s fingertips tingle; lifting his features into a hint of a smile that feels like it should be there. Natural.

He turns, pressing his shoulder to the wall, and shoves the cigarette back into his pocket, loose, not caring to tuck it back into the carton. A whisper in his mind muting the dead noise, some stem of a thought, tells him that anything that can make her that happy has to be that special. That it should be something to familiarize himself with. Singing and laughing, talking without taking a breath, from anyone else would be a racket pounding in and between his ears, but damn it if it didn’t make his chest squeeze and open in a funny way he can’t recall ever feeling. A way he liked. Relieving some unknown within him. 

Mason’s walking now, steady footfall the only audible sound in the hallways of their increasingly familiar home. Fidgeting, his fingers wrap around the leather cord of his necklace, curling it like a strand of Liz’s hair, helping him concentrate. Nat had mentioned once, deep in the forest following a path towards a dryad family home, something about neuronal connections, something about synapses and plastic or plasticity, how they all create memory. Activating and reactivating to recall something. She always did find a way to fill the silence, pass the time during those sorts of low-stake assignments; her mind is always too full, thinking too much, yet, thankfully, with just enough to say. Mason, in the meantime, had maintained majority focus on their surroundings, to not miss any snap of a twig under their feet or rustling of leaves. 

Shaking his head, knowing he didn’t need to fill the precious space of his brain with, what Nat declared, informative conversation, he finds himself at a threshold. Nat’s library. Last fucking place he’d never think to voluntarily wander into. 

Immediately, he’s met with the scent of metallic fresh and faded ink, paper aging back centuries, preserved, notices the absence of dust. The sun rays are longer and brighter here, and the change from incandescent to natural light makes his skin itch. Once more, he fishes the cigarette out of his pocket, pinching the middle of the tube, and pats outside of his pants pocket for the lighter. But then he remembers another thing, Nat’s more or less staunch stance; the string of mild curse words, warning him that smoke shall be nowhere near her precious collection. 

Placing the cigarette back into the carton in his pocket, no chance of fire or a lecture, he steps into the room. His fingers tap against his thigh. Mason isn’t sure what exactly it is he’s looking for, but figures this isn’t the worst place to distract him, might even help. 

Neuronal connections is how Nat organizes this place, and he thinks, guesses, it’s a way to keep everyone out. Including Ava. He chuckles, he’s already had too much to think about today. And if he never had to think about neuronal connections again in his infinite life, it would be too soon. 

Eventually, he finds himself eye level with a second row of books, a particular group of them with swooped lines and diamond shaped dots and identifying them, writing that Liz and Nat would recognize. After everything the silence has put him through this afternoon, something, some force around him, is finally giving Mason a fucking break. He steps closer, following the calligraphy, how they meet and separate and curve. Maybe if he stared at the things, whatever the sides of books are called, he can extrapolate the information. His fingers feel what he sees now, gliding over the embossed, gold colors. And then he stares, mouth closed and slacked, fingers tapping. One, two. One, two. One, two. 

“Shit,” he swears, grumbling to himself, closing his eyes and exhaling when he hears familiar steps; catches a familiar scent, too expensive, Ava had called it with Felix nodding, impressed, and that hum under her breath. Of course, of course he’s caught. Even from the hallway, he knows Nat knows he’s here. It’s in the way that hum has taken on a far more playful, far more annoying, far too inquisitive tone. 

It’s in no time at all that Nat is standing near him, an arm’s length away, eyes sparkling with the energy of a million questions. The usual, characteristic worry, the few times she's spotted Mason in this room, dulls them, however, and Nat clicks her tongue in perturbation. But her attention has shifted, and what has caught it is a book. Muttering to herself, she laments that the foundational book of the history of selkie transformation does not reside next to the compendium of the evolution of stylish fur in fashion. 

Once she mentions Ava, who apparently knows well enough that any used book should be placed on Nat’s desk, Mason takes the opportunity to leave. He’ll have to thank Ava later for the opportunity to dodge Nat, or at least initiate the next sparring session. 

“Mason,” Nat calls, quicker in her greeting than he can be in jetting out of their shared space. She pulls the book from where it’d been neatly, inconspicuously placed. He stops, caught again, and slowly, begrudgingly walks back towards her. In a quick motion of her limbs and hands, the offending book is tucked back into its home, the shelf above where it’d been stashed. (Mason neither sees nor cares that it’s in between a book on Midsummer’s Eve and a collection of Bardic tradition). 

Straightening to a full stand, her books in proper order once more, Nat sighs in relief, sliding her hands into her pockets. Her face brightens with the hint of a smile, and she’s rolling her lips inwards to keep from bursting into amusement. “I would ask you if there was anything you needed,” she starts, then lifts her brows, tilting her head just slightly, her line of vision lining up with the books behind them, “but I see that you may have found what you were looking for?” 

“Don’t need anything,” he snaps, not yet moving, feet firmly planted where they’d just been. “Just on my way out.”

But he knows she’s heard him, heard the rhythm of his drumming fingers against the hard book exterior; they’re all aware of the pattern of Liz’s heartbeat. Mason wants to walk away, needs to walk away before she starts poking around at feelings. But something, that same force, is keeping him from walking away.  

Maybe, and Mason doesn’t want to let himself believe this to be true, Nat can help him find those words. Afterall, she and Liz speak her language together. 

“In this book, you’ll find some of the greatest contributions to poetry. Ghalib, in particular, resonates with me.” Nat reaches, plucking his book of happenstance interest off of the shelf and holds it flat in her palm. She sets her other hand on the front cover. Assessing him, her eyes softening, Nat considers her next words with a widening, eager smile. "You'll find, in here, some that may mean a great deal to Liz.” 

He crosses his arms over his chest, slumping against the opposite shelf. If Liz had ever ever mentioned poetry, he was probably distracted with something else, the poetry they could make together. Mason clears his throat, under the watchful eye of Nat he thinks it might be better to go along with her sincerity, and counters, “She prefers songs.” 

“Of course. Though not mutually exclusive. Poetry may serve as an inspiration, may serve as lyrics to the music surrounding the words.” Nat rotates the book between her hands, clutching each side, and then after a moment, narrowed eyes hiding the debate within her mind, she opens the book and turns the pages to one in particular. 

“There is a poem, an Urdu poem. By the Poet of the East, Allama Iqbal.” She sweeps the back of her hand over the words, over letters from the multiple alphabets of its translations. “It reminds me of you, the both of you. If you wouldn’t mind, I think you might find this interesting.” 

Nat has recalled and recited book passages and the like to Ava and Felix, but this is definitely a first for Mason and he wouldn’t mind it being a last. But she is so damn compelling. And he knows that this is not just for his sake, he knows this because she thinks this might also help him with Liz. 

Mason scrubs his hand down his face, yet keeps still; silent, exasperated permission. It would be a better option to get comfortable against the bookshelf while suffering the infectiousness of Nat’s earnestness. Arms folded close to him, rapping his fingers without pattern against his elbows, he decides it’s as good of a time as any to inspect his boots. 

Smiling, easy and completely in her element, she begins. “Sitaron se aagey jahaan aur bhi hain; Abhi ishq keimtiha’n aur bhi hain.” Her gaze lifts and she looks, pointedly at Mason, translating without prompting, “Other worlds exist beyond the stars; More tests of love are still to come.” 

His head snaps up, eyes wide and darkening, the familiarity of her recitation entangling his thoughts. Has she said this to him before? No. No, she hasn’t but she’s said something similar. To Liz. The night of that party, at her apartment. Afterwards, leaning out of the window, half inside her bedroom and half out over the fire escape he’d noticed -

How the beauty mark under her eye had aligned with that star, the one in the sky that never moves, stays in the same place night after night. Constant. Anchoring. Watched the movement of her face, excited as she spoke, stopping only when she ran out of air, her mouth widening and teeth showing, grinning as her words became more melodic until she was singing.

As he hears Nat, muffled behind his memories of Liz, seamlessly speaking the original Urdu and translated English, he picks up a sound. A frequency. Jumbling, increasingly solid images of Liz form in his mind. Earlier in the day, her parting words; that night, serenading into that night. Her eyes, her mouth. It’s soft at first, what she says, but as he can see her, he can hear her. Hears her and understands her, clearly. As though she’s whispering into his ear, the weight of her against his side and against the books. 

“Gone are the days when I was alone in company; Many here are my confidants now,” Nat completes the final phrase then closes the book. Extending it with outstretched arms, in hopes that Mason would take the initiative, she looks in front of her and sees that he’s already gone. 

She finds him, not too far, in the research annex of the library. Mason is hunched over a side table, pen in hand, scrawling on a piece of stationery, threatening to topple and flatten the very neat square of blank sheets beneath it. Hair falling and framing his face, hiding his expression and any indication of what it could be that he’s writing. 

Nat watches, resting against the corner of a bookshelf and her hands back in the safety of her pockets. “As I live and breathe,” she says, awestruck, hoping not to interrupt. This is interesting, it’s unexpected, and she wonders what it is which has drawn this reaction. Wonders if what he’s writing could be the theme of their story. 

But of course she does interrupt, and Mason comes to a stand, shoving two pieces of paper into his pocket. With a final acknowledgement of Nat, he nods in her direction. 

“Thanks, Nat,” he bites out, awkwardness blunting his gratitude. Then, at last, his feet are allowed to propel him forward, and he leaves, before Nat can trap him into talking of anything else too sentimental. And he has had enough poetry for one lifetime. 

~

It’s quiet in the warehouse again. Familiar. The crackle of fire in the living room, the turn of a page. Mason paces in the foyer, a turn in the opposite direction at every tenth tick of the grandfather clock. Occasionally, he reads what he’s written on the papers then crumples the papers; smoothes the sheets out and reads again. 

Mason wants to be on the rooftop, wants that tranquility that the trees afford, empty his mind of all the thoughts of this particular day and simply exist under the blanket of stars in the night sky. Not alone, though, never alone anymore, not without Liz. 

She’d texted him some time ago, reporting that Ava has finally released them after satisfactorily answering assessment questions over the day’s lessons. Mason snickered as he sent a response. Liz is going to tell him everything, down to every answer and how, regardless of Ava’s response, Liz was right. 

The card reader beeps and the front door yawns as it opens, and he hears them, their voices echoing and permeating the space. Mason pushes the papers, balled and crinkled in his grip, into his back pocket. Since he’s standing at the sofa, he perches on the arm. Nonchalant, unbothered. 

“Took you long enough,” he smirks as Ava and Liz walk in, making sure the door clicks closed behind them before walking any further. “There aren’t that many rules and regs to get carried away with.” 

Liz, surprise illuminating her beautiful face when noticing him, turns to Ava and thanks for the training, then quickly makes her way across the pristinely waxed wood floors to Mason.  

“You would understand if you ever completed the required, once per decade, readings, Mason,” Ava quips, voice cool and steady as she removes her aviators and coat, securing them over her arm as she walks to the stairs. “Agent, you performed well today. We shall resume our training in the morning. Check your calendar for details.” 

“Did you hear that?” Liz waits for Ava to be out of near-ear shot, the steps of her boots heavy on the floors above them, sidling close to Mason now, flush against him as he wraps an arm around her waist. “I have the Commanding Agent’s seal of approval.” 

Mason chuckles, touching her jaw with the tip of his finger to draw her to face him. “Would you like a reward?” She nods. With a beat of hesitation, he inhales. Her skin is warm as he exhales, murmuring the words into her soft skin, “Meri jaan.” He smiles against her cheek, feeling a shiver run through her. His favorite feeling. 

Liz sighs, overcome with affection, then gasps. She turns, eyes locking with his, and Mason seems proud. She’s had a long day, has had to process too much information, follow too many algorithms and graphs. Is her mind playing a trick on her, willing her to hear the words of endearments she cherishes? The words given to him that night they’d come from the Agency party they’d snuck away from? What she’d mouthed that morning, her own secret hoping to be theirs? 

“What? Did you say?” 

She holds him, arms around his neck, stepping in between his knees. Eyes wide and shining, Mason can read her happiness. The clenching and relaxing of his chest returns, and he fills with a pleasurable sensation as she touches her lips to his, kissing her once, and repeating, clearly, “Meri jaan.” 

“My life.”

Mason stands, letting his hands settle on her hips, squeezing them. His gaze never strays, and he feels her warmth, enticing, hears her thundering heartbeat, even more enticing. He repeats the words, moving his hands up, along her sides then to the nape of his neck. Fingers finding hers, they lace together and they come down. He steps back, tempting her to follow. 

In the time he’d been waiting, thinking, he memorized what else he’d written. A phrase or lyric. The song, sung from her car speakers; sung, from her mouth, out and into the starlight and perplexing him in the best and most discombobulating ways, with that smile that makes him fall to his knees. 

“Haji lok makkey nun jandey; Mera ranjha mahi makkah.” 

Mason doesn’t know what he said. But he does know, by the way she sways so he has to catch her, by the way he kisses her in that perfect way that makes her do that thing with her leg, that it means a whole damn lot to Liz. 

Mason will ask her, later, what it means. When they’re sitting together on the rooftop, enjoying the soft melodies of the night and each other, their minds finally clear. 

~~

Poem is "Sitaron Se Agay Jahan Aur Bhi Hain", Bal-e Jibril 60, by Allama Iqbal (Muhammed Iqbal)

Lyric is from the song "Kamli" by Hadiqa Kiani and translates to: Pilgrims go to Mecca; My beloved Ranjha (sweetheart) is my Mecca

Both are in Urdu!

Title is from the poem "Memory" by William Wordsworth

[nabulsi]

Just wanted to tell you how much I love you and how much I loved your TWC Unsolved! Truly inspired and wonderful and so much fun 💕 (~agentnatesewell)

MAR 😭😭 PLS it's your feedback that kept me writing it

You are the absolute sweetest and I love u! 💖

[nathanielhsewell]

TWCasks: 10, 20, 30, 40, 50, please! (~agentnatesewell)

thank you so much for the asks mar! 💕

10. Did Murphy bite your detective at the end of Book 1?

- no oh my god surprisingly, he didn’t?!? which is funny because i fucked up just about everything else in my playthrough - murphy got away, sanja died, falk joined the rogues; the fact that murphy didn’t bite alex was the one thing i got write lmao. 

but honestly, the part of me that ADORES the hurt/comfort trope was kinda sad about that because i just wanted to see nate tenderly trace the marks he left on her neck/wrist and just hold her tight you know?! 🥺imma definitely try to get bitten in my next playthrough lmaoo. 

20. Did Falk sign the treaty with the Agency? Did he side with the rogue supernaturals? 

-oops i kinda already answered this but yeah- he joined the rogues. but he didn’t attack alex so he still ended things peacefully. alsoooo, was he FLIRTING?!?!? wtf wtf i wanted to see where that was going im so curious i really hope he makes a reappearance. also, mans got a good fashion sense ill give him that 😌

30. Has your detective gotten closer with Rebecca as the books went on? 

-she has! in the beginning i chose the option where their relationship is very tense & horrible due to her constant absences. but its very very clear that rebecca loves alex so much and truly cares about her and honestly my heart breaks every time the ever-stoic rebecca looses her cool at the thought of loosing her daughter. also omg that scene were she gave A the DMB and was willing to risk her career for her daughter OH GOD.

so yeah over time alex could see how much her mom cared and while she still has a few walls up when it comes to her mom, she’s willing to try again. i remember the scene where nate tried to tell her how much her mom cares about and she kinda snapped at him and told him to not tell her how to handle her family so its kinda nice to see how far their relationship has come. 

40. Do you have a TWC themed blog?

-HAHAHA you know i do ;) ghdjsjss its funny cause i never thought i would make a sideblog but here we are lmaoo im really happy i made it though everyone in this fandom has been amazing so far ❤️

50. Any HCs about Wayhaven (the town itself)?

- oh i have a hc where the town has weekly town meetings in which the town selectsman who basically lives & breathes wayhaven & is weirdly patriachral about the town drones on about all the useless trivia that took place in the town that week. also in these town meetings, people who have conflicts with another are supposed to come out to the front and hash it out with one another with the town selectsman acting as the judge while the rest kinda become the jury. also the issues are almost always so trivial and nonsensical like stealing someone’s parking spot lol. 

- oh oh also since its such a small town, they obviously dont have a proper cinema hall but they have this little makeshift movie theatre with only one movie option per week and instead of comfy sofas there are chairs and you can only buy one bag of popcorn because there has to be enough for everyone. oooo ooo and its a very popular date spot for the teens of wayhaven so i can see alex bringing nate back there for a date and i can imagine the movie being some historical fiction and nate is super interested but alex couldnt care less and keeps distracting him with kisses and he reallly doesnt mind lmaoo.

-ok ok im rambling now but i hc that my detective alex might have a slight caffeine addiction (like me lmao) and haley tries to lecture her on it and sometimes doesn’t give her coffee cause its like her fourth mug of the day lmao but then alex begs and pouts and she just relents hahahaa

(also yes most of these were inspired by gilmore girls cause stars hollow reminds me of wayhaven minus the murders and the vampires lol) 

from this ask!

[ericboyd]

Yesterday morning I did a video chat for AWP with some amazing writers who all started out on Tumblr! 

K. Ancrum, Devon Price, Mars Sebastian, and Erika Swyler joined me for a panel, “From Microblogs to Book Deals: the Tumblr Writing Community’s Impact” to talk about the old TWC, what’s changed or stayed the same, and what lessons we all learned from engaging with the (mostly wonderful) people here.

It’ll be broadcast in March, register for AWP to check it out--

[ejunkiet]

#38: soak, for Olivia/Mason?

You are wonderful. SO full disclosure, this totally got away from me, and since @alittlestarling also requested the same prompt (galaxy brained, both of you), I’ve split it into two parts.

PART ONE.

Olivia and Mason try out the bathtub in the Warehouse ensuite. 

--

“There’s space enough for two.” There’s no disguising the suggestion in her own tone, and his smile widens, his eyes dark as he looks her over, lingering on places the bubbles haven’t quite managed to cover, tracing her shape through the foam. “The water is still warm.”

Rated M, 18+, minors dni. 0.7K wordcount.

--

It’s not often that Olivia gets time to herself anymore, what with her regular duties and additional activities as human liaison for the Agency. It’s even rarer for her to be able to take a moment to relax like this. 

The bathtub they’ve provided for her in the ensuite at the Warehouse is more than adequate for the job - large and elegantly sculpted, standing alone on clawed feet wrought from iron, designed to look like a lion’s paw. It’s decadent, and overly self-indulgent, and exactly what she needs right now.

Armed with a scrubbie and some of Nate’s expensive bath salts and soaps (likely costing more than her monthly paycheck), she’s filled the tub to the brim with foamy suds, the gentle heat enough to ease the strain from her sore muscles, soothe the tension from her limbs, until she’s almost falling asleep in the water.

It’s a short while later that a familiar voice calls her name from the other room, breaking the hushed quiet that’s fallen across the facility at the fall of dusk, and letting out a gentle sigh, she responds: “In here.” 

She can hear the sound of footsteps in the adjacent room, softening as her visitor removes their shoes, before the door opens with a gentle click, revealing Mason in the doorway, a slow smile breaking across his handsome features as his storm grey eyes settle on her within the tub.

“You look comfortable.” He comments, walking closer until he’s standing at the foot of the tub, and his voice is softer than she expected, empty of his usual innuendo.

Leaning forward, she rests her cheek against the side, the porcelain cool against her flushed skin as she looks up at him, a lazy smile curling on her lips.

“There’s space enough for two.”

There’s no disguising the suggestion in her own tone, and his smile widens, his eyes dark as he looks her over, lingering on places the bubbles haven’t quite managed to cover, tracing her shape through the foam. “The water is still warm.”

“You’re quite the temptation, sweetheart.”

He doesn’t need further convincing, reaching back to pull the tight, dark material of his shirt over his head before his hands settle on his belt, and she lets her eyes wander as she watches him undress, taking in the long, sleek lines of him, the gentle definition of his chest, the narrow cut of his hips as he shoves his jeans to the floor. 

His hands move to his hips, teasing at the band of his underwear before pushing them down to meet the rest of his clothes on the floor, revealing the full length of him to her gaze as she drinks him in, tracing the constellation of freckles across his tan skin, the smattering of dark hair across his chest, trailing down past his navel. 

She takes a breath (when had she stopped breathing?), her eyes flickering back up to find his - to find he’s still watching her, pupils wide and dark, swallowing his irises as he looks at her from beneath lowered lashes.

“Enjoying the show?” His voice is a low purr as he prowls closer, closing the distance between them, and she bites her lip, enjoying the flutter of anticipation as she straightens to meet him, leaning her arms against the lip of the tub.

“If I said I was?”

He braces his arms on the porcelain lip, bracketing her in, leaning in until their faces are barely inches apart. His eyes flicker over her, and he’s close enough that she can feel the soft rush of his breath against her cheeks, find the flecks of blue scattered amidst the grey storm of his iris before he meets her gaze once more.

And grins.

In one swift move, he pushes himself forward to land in the tub, water splashing over the porcelain lip as he seats himself fully within it - submerging her entirely in the process.

Spluttering as she surfaces for air, she glares at him from beneath the sodden lengths of her hair as she brushes it furiously out of her face.

“You bastard.”

He gives her a shit-eating grin in response, sinking further into the water.

"Thanks for sharing, sweetheart.”

PART TWO

[feralrosie]

Prompts for @imjustasadsong 💖

The Wayhaven Chronicles

Ava/F! Detective

Words 433

Fluff; established relationship

3. Surprise hug; 17. Hug with a kiss

The evening was too quiet in the Warehouse. The Agency decided to request tons of paperwork from all Unit Bravo, and the vampires were spread throughout the house, focused on finishing their tasks as soon as possible. Nat was, as usual, in her library, Morgan and Farah were each in their own room, but Ava decided to stay in the common room, sitting on the couch and surrounded by reports.

Kira was bored. If she knew how busy all of them were, she would have planned her evening better. Maybe find something to do before arriving at the Warehouse. But, alas, there she was, walking idly from room to room, exploring the place again and again. Her feet came to a stop in front of one of the doors to the living room, where she could see Ava's back, and she smirked, a little too playful.

The detective passed through the partially open door, tip toeing her way to Ava and keeping her hands raised in front of her chest. Maybe if the vampire was too deep into her work, she wouldn't listen to Kira behind her. An opportunity like that was too good to be missed. Biting her lips to hold her breath, Kira stood few centimeters away from Ava, and caught her breath to then surprise her, and—

"You know you're as loud as a crowd, right?" Ava said, not bothering to look away from the papers on her lap.

Kira's shoulders sagged, and she let out her breath, disappointed, "Can't blame me for trying."

"There's no point in trying to scare any of us."

"It's not scare, it's surprise."

"Same difference."

Kira pursed her lips, watching the vampire in front of her for a few seconds. A few locks of hair were loose from the tight knot, falling on her shoulder and back. An urge to brush her hair grew in Kira's chest, but also gave her an idea. There was one way of surprising Ava.

Smiling widely, she launched herself at the woman, hugging her shoulders from behind and placing a loud smooch on her cheek.

Upon the sudden touch, Ava's body tensed with a rush of adrenaline all over. "What the—" her eyes met Kira's, and her cheeks were dominated by a bright red, "What are you doing?"

Kira tightened the hug slightly, and giggled, "Surprising you."

Ava growled, frowning, but the tiniest hint of a smile formed in the corner of her lips. When the detective tried to move away, her hands quickly held the arms around her shoulders, as asking Kira to not leave. Kira agreed.