#oh god I cannot be bitten by the writing urge right now

[queenofmalkier]

Now I'm stuck on how unhinged and depraved and AWFUL Tuon/Gawyn could be.

[watchtower-feed]

Dream Over

SSA Spinoff ✧ Tim Drake ✧ Subconscious Link Anon:  the Subconscious link with Tim Drake(Young Justice version) Note: Sadly, Tim barely had any spotlight in YJ so I’m writing from headcanon here. Words: 1,957

     “Tim! Behind you!”

     You shout on reflex and stop paying attention to your own surroundings. Tim knew it was there. He acts on reflex, not even looking, and shuts it down before it could take a bite at him. But you’re not so lucky.

     As Tim turns around, he witnesses the very moment an undead bites into your wrist. You scream in agony and it makes the rest of his senses numb. Your pain was vibrating through the air and he can feel it.

     You can feel its teeth boring deeper into your skin until it’s gnawing at your bone. Blood is oozing out and dripping on the ground. You try to pull your arm back which only makes it bite harder.

     You kick the zombie on the side of its head and it finally lets go of your bleeding and mangled limb. The absence of your voice knocks Tim back to his senses. He grabs you and drags you away from the rest of the horde, hacking and slashing them out of the way.

     The Narrows is a great place for escaping hordes because of its network of alleyways. Tim finds a hidden basement door and the two of you hide inside. You look around the small studio that used to be somebody’s office. There were blueprints, corkboards, and whiteboards hangup on the walls lit up by green glowing question marks littered all over the room.

     “What is this place?” you whisper.

     You sit down on a rolling stool and watch Tim go through a chest and take out a medical kit and a saw. You immediately stand back up.

     “Woah--”

     “We gotta cut it off, Y/N, before the infection spreads.”

     You back off slowly. “Na uh. No way. It’s one thing to be bit by a zombie and another to get my hand cut off.”

     Tim takes two steps forward for every step you take back. “You have to trust me.”

     You stomp your foot in place and glare at him. “Hell no. Dream over.”

     As soon as the words leave your lips, your eyes are forced open and you’re back in your bedroom. You blink three times before you assess your surroundings, making sure you really are in your room.

     Tim’s subconscious is a lot stronger than yours, which means he mostly controls everything that happens in the dreamscape. But you talked about it and decided to create a safe word. ‘Dream over’. Anytime any one of you says it, you’ll both wake up. 

     But that doesn’t mean you trust the system. Whenever you’re dreaming with Tim, everything feels so fixed and logical, as if you’re actually experiencing everything consciously. There are no time jumps and unbelievable events. It’s hard to tell it apart from real life.

     Even the apocalypse dreams Tim cooks up for you two feels real. As if Gotham was really hit by a new form of Scarecrow fear toxin that turned everyone into zombies. Tim even did an analysis on the toxin and came up with the result that Scarecrow mutated it with components from rabies.

     Your phone lights up and rings with Tim’s peaceful sleeping face displayed on it.

     “I sooooo cannot believe you right now.”

     “You would have turned if I didn’t--”

     “Tim. You told me we were going to have a zombie apocalypse adventure tonight. Not another simulation!”

     Tim is quiet for a second before he answers you, “I thought it was a great opportunity to test out plan Z.”

     Plan Z. Not because it’s his 26th plan. No way. Tim has about 72 plans, that you know of and have dreamed through so far. All plans for sudden world-ending events. You definitely know what the Z stands for in this one.

     “You could have let me turn then we could have reenacted human zombie relationship tropes-- Wait. Is cutting off my arm part of your plan Z?”

     “It’s just a contingency--”

     “Tim!”

     “You wouldn’t have gotten bitten if you just stuck to the plan. We were supposed to be assessing the area. No noise. No muss. No fuss.”

     You slump in your bed and pout at the phone. “Oh, well, forgive me for caring about you enough that I would risk my life in the process. Won’t happen again.”

     “Doubt it,” he teases. You place the phone in front of you and stick your tongue out. “How about we go back to sleep and I’ll make it up to you?” he says. “No more simulations tonight. I promise.”

     The fact that Tim thinks of absolutely everything also means that he creates the best worlds. Tamaran. New Genesis. Even his rendition of Mars feels real. Your favorite so far is his version of Themyscira.

     Of course, it’s not like Tim would’ve actually been to all of them. Magical places like that are only pipe dreams for born and raised Gothamites. Maybe Batman’s children have been to some of them. But you and Tim, all you’ve ever known are the streets, alleyways, and rooftops of Gotham. 

     “Where are we going?”

     Tim smiles. He can already hear how excited you are. “Go to sleep, Y/N.”

     You look at the time on your phone and it’s half past five. You have classes in the morning and you don’t really trust that Tim would wake you up in time. But you bite your lips and think about what could be waiting for you in the dreamscape.

     You close your eyes and thankfully sleep comes to you quickly.

     When you open them, the first thing you see is your hair floating in front of you. Your arms move slowly against the new gravity as you pull your hair back. Suddenly, it’s clear. You’re floating in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. Deep underwater, right in front of the majestic gates of Atlantis.

     You open your mouth in awe and a bubble comes out of it. You quickly close your mouth and forget that you don’t know how to breathe underwater. But as you hold in your breath, you don’t feel the urge to take in oxygen.

     You see small bubbles fluttering about coming from your side. Tim is chuckling as he watches you. He points to his neck and he has gills opening and closing. You quickly feel your own and it almost grossest you out and excites you at the same time.

     ‘Come on.’

     You stare at him with wide eyes.

     ‘I can hear your thoughts!’

     Tim rolls his eyes at you with a smile.

     ‘Every time.’

     You’ve had other dreams where you and Tim would communicate telepathically. It’s not something you knew you could do with your links but Tim had figured it all out. After all, in the dreamscape, both of your subconscious are already connected. It was just a matter of opening your mind to each other.

     Tim leads you to the gates of Atlantis and you watch in awe as the guards open them. It’s not like any city you’ve ever seen.There are no roads or paths. The buildings are made from overgrown corals with other Atlanteans swimming in and out of it. The sun’s rays are slipping through the water's surface like small thin beams scattered about.

     Tim swims over to one of the overgrown foliage decorating the city.

     ‘They use magic to make the kelp grow this big.’

     ‘Magic? Did you make that up or did you read it in a Justice League journal?’

     Tim chuckles, making small bubbles float around him.

     ‘You’re messing with me aren’t you?’

     Tim stops chuckling and he puts his arms on your shoulders.

     ‘I swear I’m not. I’ll show you.’

     You swim after Tim. He leads you into a dome-like enclosure with a small platform in the middle. You’re about to swim to the middle when Tim stops you.

     Across the dome, a figure emerges from the shadows.

     ‘Is that-- That’s Aquaman!’

     He towered over the two of you. The dome’s ceiling only made him look bigger and more intimidating.

     ‘Are you allowed to just conjure up League members like this? This feels blasphemous.’

     Tim shakes his head and holds your shoulders to keep your eyes forward but Aquaman is just standing in the middle of the dome. Waiting.

     ‘Oh right.’

     Tim has visited Atlantis a few times but he’s never seen them perform their magic. The only magic he’s observed an Atlantean do is in combat.

     You grab Tim when he takes a step forward.

     ‘What are you doing?’

     Tim gently peels off your hands and smiles.

     ‘Remember. This is just a dream, Y/N.’

     You blink at him as he walks off. Then you scowl and cross your arms over your chest.

     ‘I know that. You’re the one who takes this stuff way overboard.’

     ‘Minds still linked.’

     You stick your tongue out at him.

     As soon as Tim is in the middle, Aquaman changes his stance for combat. Then the markings along his arms light up a cerulean hue, glowing in the water. He brings his arms back, grabbing at the water, and whipping it at Tim, knocking him down.

     ‘Tim!’

     He’s propped up on his elbows and he shakes his head.

     ‘Woah. Guess I left the difficulty level on hard.’

     ‘Oh my god. This is another simulation, isn’t it? What plan is this? For when the Justice League goes rouge?’

     ‘No, that’s Blackest Day--’

     Aquaman sends another wave at Tim before he could get up, making him fly against one of the pillars of the dome. You watch Tim’s body float down with your fists clenched.

     You stand in front of Aquaman and your arms light up, bathing you in an aquamarine glow. You have no idea how Atlantean magic works but this is your dreamscape and anything goes so long as you can believe it.

     The water around you starts to stir and you see a small whirlpool growing beneath Aquaman. You just want to stop him from attacking Tim. The whirlpool starts getting bigger. When Aquaman notices it, it’s strong enough to keep him in.

     You keep your focus until the whirlpool grows enough in size that Aquaman is no longer underwater and gasping on the ground. You’ve created a pocket in the middle of the ocean and trapped Aquaman inside it. 

     ‘Woah, YN. ‘ Tim floats beside you. ‘I don’t think whirlpools actually do that.’

     Tim’s thoughts are too much for you and your hold releases the water back around Aquaman. You immediately grab Tim by the gills, ‘I’m trying to help you! Stop distracting me with your logic.’

     Tim blinks at you for a second before he starts laughing, filling the gap between you with bubbles. ‘You know he can breathe on land, right?’

     Your eyes widen and your cheeks redden, ‘I knew that!’ You turn around to face him again but Aquaman is gone.

     ‘I made him go.’ Tim takes your hand. ‘I always forget that anything is possible here. I mean… I just watched you do Atlantean magic. How did it feel?’

     You bite your lip and turn to the side, letting your hair create a floating wall between you and Tim, hiding the blush that keeps spreading. 

     ‘The truth? I kind of feel like a level 99 waterbender.’

     Tim stares at you before he scoffs. It’s one of those little ones he always does with his eyes closed and mouth open like he’s silently laughing. ‘Sometimes I forget you’re such a nerd.’

     You smirk and squeeze his hand. ‘Coming from you, that’s insulting.’

     Tim smiles at you and then leans in slowly, using his other hand to slowly turn your face to him. He leaves a small kiss on your red cheeks. Then gently tugs on your hand.

     ‘Come on. You can show me Atlantis, Y/N.’

✧ Watchtower Masterlist ✧

[chelsfic]

Vampire Seeking Familiar - Nandor x Guillermo Fanfic (One-shot)

WWDITS Masterlist

Summary: Nandor places an ad for a human familiar and Guillermo responds. My take on how they first meet!

A/N: I woke up with the urgent need to write this. I was inspired watching Harvey’s AMA where he mentions that maybe Nandor placed an ad on Craigslist for a familiar. Hope you enjoy!

Warnings: Fluff, Crack, Smooching, Light mention of sex (not explicit)

---

"Greetings, peasant. I require your assistance with the electronic computing device."

Nandor hulked over the reference desk, looking like an anachronism standing amidst the dull, institutional decor of the public library. He wore a floor length cape trimmed in gold embroidery over a brocade tunic and deerskin pants. He attempted an awkward smile, putting his fangs on full display.

He wasn't the strangest thing the librarian had seen that day.

“Sure,” she replied with a guarded smile. “What are you trying to do?”

"I am attempting to post an advertisement on a list kept by a man named..." he glanced down at a scrap of paper in his hand, "...Craig."

Ninety painstaking minutes later the librarian breathed a sigh of relief as the strange man finally clicked “publish.”

“Now, you just keep an eye on your email,” she kindly explained, “and wait for someone to respond.”

Nandor’s eyes lit up with a kind of hungry delight as he switched tabs to his empty Hotmail inbox.

“Your assistance has been most appreciated,” he thanked her, reaching into his tunic and flicking a heavy, gold coin in her direction.

She flinched as the coin flew at her head, awkwardly catching it and placing it beside the keyboard. 

“You’re welcome, Mr. Relentless. But I can’t accept a tip. Have a nice night.”

She stood up and walked back to her desk with a look of repressed hilarity on her face. She doubted anyone would reply to this guy’s post. But then, she reminded herself, she’d certainly seen stranger things happen…

Nandor clicked refresh and frowned when his email remained stubbornly empty.

---

Vampire’s Familiar (Staten Island)

Attention Mortals!

Do you weary of your pathetic human lives? Do you wish to find purpose in serving your evolutionary superior? Can you lift at least 50 lbs without assistance?

I, Nandor the Relentless, Conqueror of Thousands and Immortal Vampire, seek a human familiar to do my dark bidding. Duties include, but are not limited to, daytime errands, cleaning of a large mansion, laundry, personal valet services, securing the house against sunlight, blowing out candles, and waste disposal. The successful contender will be provided room and board for a fair rate ($1200/month) and the promise of eternal life after their term of service (length TBD).

If you possess the courage, kindly respond by electronic letter.

---

It had to be fake, right?

Guillermo sat in the break room at Panera Bread, idly scrolling through job ads on Craig’s List when the heading “Vampire’s Familiar” caught his eye. For a second he felt his stomach swoop with excitement before he got a hold of himself. It was probably just another jerk looking for attention. Guillermo knew in his heart that vampires were real, despite never having met one in real life. And it was his dearest, secret dream to become one of them. But so far, his internet sleuthing had uncovered nothing but a whole lot of pathetic internet trolls.

But what if this was the one?

He clicked the link, biting his nails as the text of the job posting loaded on the screen. He read through it, a smile tugging on his lips. He really shouldn’t get his hopes up, but his eyes kept darting back to that name. Nandor the Relentless. Conqueror of Thousands. What a cool vampire name.

He opened his Gmail app and started a new message.

---

Dear Nandor the Relentless,

My name is Guillermo de la Cruz and I am writing to you in response to your Craigslist posting seeking a human familiar. I have long been an enthusiastic admirer of vampires and it would be a dream come true to meet one and work for them.

I’m a responsible, hard worker who’s eager to learn new things. While I have never worked as a familiar before, I do have a background in customer service and a Bachelor’s Degree in History from Stony Brook University. I have attached a copy of my resume.

Looking forward to hearing from you,

Guillermo de la Cruz

---

Guillermo suggested they meet at a Panera Bread on Staten Island because it was familiar and, more importantly, public. He was less worried about meeting an immortal, murderous creature of the night than he was about the possibility that the guy could turn out to be a regular human serial killer.

He picked a comfy armchair by the window and sipped his tea while he watched the door, feeling a thrill every time it opened. He was early. If this guy turned out to be the real deal, then he desperately wanted to make a good first impression. When a tall, darkly handsome man with long hair and a cape walked through the door Guillermo gulped and raised his hand in a shy wave.

“Nandor?” he asked, just to be sure. 

The man turned to him and there was no mistake. Guillermo’s breath caught in his throat. His skin was pale, almost glowing in the restaurant’s warm lighting. His eyes were dark brown and penetrating. Guillermo felt struck when the vampire’s gaze fell on him, as if he could see straight through him and into the most secret parts of his soul. He stepped closer, looming over Guillermo and looking somehow both self-important and unsure.

“And you are…” Nandor glanced upward, searching for the name. “Guy...Gil...Gilbert?”

“Guillermo,” he corrected with a shy smile. He shifted on his feet and adjusted his glasses nervously. He knew vampires were sexy by nature, of course. But he hadn’t been expecting to feel an immediate attraction to his prospective employer. This guy had his own gravity and he was sucking Guillermo in.

“Guillermo, of course.”

Hearing his name in the vampire’s rich, accented voice sent a tingle down his spine.

“Shall we, uh, sit down?” Guillermo stammered and then smacked a hand to his head, gesturing to the display case of pastries, “Unless you want something…?”

Nandor hissed dramatically and Guillermo got his first good look at his fangs. Honestly, he felt faint. This guy was either an excellent cosplayer or he was for real.

“Vampires cannot consume human food,” Nandor announced with a grimace of disgust. “Lesson number one.”

Nandor sat with a sweep of his cape and Guillermo followed suit.

“Oh! Of course! I have a lot to learn… Mr. Nandor--Mr. Relentless, sir,” Guillermo stammered, finally picking up his tea and taking a big gulp just to shut himself up.

“Master will do just fine,” the vampire replied as he adjusted the fall of his impressive cape around him. “That’s how you’ll refer to me if you get the job.”

“Oh! That’s--um,” Guillermo tilted his head and narrowed his eyes as he pondered the right word, “very...antiquated?”

“Well, hello! I’m a vampire! Kind of comes with the territory,” Nandor scoffed dismissively. “If you’re not interested--”

“No! No, I’m...I’m definitely interested,” Guillermo insisted, blushing furiously at his own words. He was interested...in more ways than one, apparently. He couldn’t stop glancing down at the vampire’s mouth, his full lips and the delicious hint of sharp fangs. God, what would it be like? To be bitten…

Nandor watched as the human’s full cheeks darkened with a blush. He parted his lips and inhaled longingly, scenting the sweet, spicy aroma of the man’s blood and barely suppressing a growl. 

He cleared his throat, shifting in his seat and abruptly asking, “So, you want to tell me a bit about why you are wanting to become my familiar?”

The interview--oh my god, I’m having an actual interview with an actual vampire!--flew by somehow. At first, Guillermo was all nervous stammers and sweaty palms, but after a few minutes he couldn’t help the natural urge to gush and he found himself barraging the vampire with fascinated questions. Not just about the job, but about himself. How old was he? Could he fly? Turn into a bat? Use mind control? What about sunlight, was that really a thing? Garlic? 

Rather than becoming annoyed, Nandor seemed to preen under the human’s obvious admiration. He held his head high and his word choice became increasingly grandiose as he waxed poetic about his existence as a creature of the night.

As the meeting finally wound down, Nandor turned his deep, liquid eyes on Guillermo, capturing him in his gaze as he spoke.

“Now, Guillermo, you must tell me one thing. If I choose you for this job, are you willing to give up all this,” he gestured around at the interior of the Panera Bread. A cashier wiped down the glass display case and an infant wailed somewhere in the back of the dining area. “And come and live with me, putting yourself under my control and becoming subject to my dark power?”

Guillermo gulped down his nerves, feeling the momentousness of the occasion as he whispered, for the first time, “Yes, master…”

“Wonderful!” Nandor cried with a clap of his hands. “I will reach out to you through the ether after the checking of your background.”

The vampire stood, moving away from the table before Guillermo could formulate a response.

“The...ether?” he finally asked, his brows knitting together in confusion. “How will that work?”

Nandor waved away Guillermo’s confusion with a flick of his wrist and answered, “Very simple. My voice will come to you in the evening before you are a falling into the slumber.”

Guillermo was silent for a beat, wondering how this answer was meant to clear up his confusion. 

“Right,” he finally murmured. “Of course…”

Nandor turned to stalk out the door and Guillermo jogged after him, “Wait! There’s just...just one more thing, before you go.”

Nandor turned back with an annoyed expression, “Yes, what is it? I’m getting pretty hungry over here!”

Guillermo choked down an enthusiastic squeak at this admission and attempted to school his features into neutral calm as he asked, “How do I know you’re legit? Can you...show me proof?”

Nandor’s eyes darkened and he seemed to grow even taller as he turned his full focus on the human man, “You require proof? You require proof from Nandor the Relentless, who has twice turned the waters of the Euphrates red with his enemy’s blood. Proof, you say?!”

“Yeah,” Guillermo shrugged, holding onto what he hoped was an aloof calm as he quaked internally.

Nandor sighed and rolled his eyes as he answered, “Fine! Come with me. Fu-cking guy…”

He led Guillermo to the alleyway behind the Panera. During the day you might find a delivery truck back here or an employee taking out the garbage, but it was deserted at this hour of the night. Nandor stomped ahead of Guillermo, clearly aggravated at this request. He stopped and turned to face the human with a dramatic flare of his cape.

“Prepare your puny mortal brain,” he warned and then, without ceremony, he transformed into a bat.

Guillermo gasped, his face splitting into a wide grin as the tiny, squeaking thing flew circles around his head, landing in the lush curls of his hair for an instant before taking flight once more and erupting back into his vampiric form.

Guillermo rushed up to Nandor’s side, positively gushing, “It’s true! You’re real! A real vampire! Oh my god, I--”

Nandor suddenly broke out into an aggrieved hiss, grimacing and turning his face away.

“Watch it with that shit!” he complained loudly. “You can’t say...the g-word around vampires! You understand?”

Guillermo tilted his head in confusion for a second before realization lit his eyes.

“Oh! The g-word, of course! I’m...I’m sorry, master. I promise I’ll learn quickly,” he babbled. Now that he knew for certain that Nandor was a vampire, he was desperate to land this job. It was everything he’d dreamed of since he was a little kid first watching Antonio Banderas as Armand.

“Yeah, well--you’d better!” Nandor griped, but his face smoothed into a self-satisfied smirk at Guillermo’s obvious hero worship. A thought occured to him as he watched Guillermo’s adoring gaze. “There’s one more thing--I’ve just remembered. You can never fall in love with me, human. I know a lot of vampires who get into the whole sex thing with their familiars and it always ends up...messy. Understand? That’s a condition of your employment.”

Guillermo felt his face once again heating up with mortification. Had he been so transparent?

“Of course, master. I understand,” he murmured. 

Nandor nodded, looking satisfied with Guillermo’s answer.

“Alright, then. Remember, you will hear my voice through the ether! Night, night!”

And then Nandor braced his knees and leaped into the air, soaring over Guillermo’s head and into the night sky.

“Wow!” Guillermo sighed, watching the tiny pinprick that was his vampire disappear into the darkness. “He’s so fucking cool…”

---

Some years later…

Guillermo sat in the fancy room with his legs tucked up underneath him, typing away on his laptop as Nandor fed another piece of wood to the fire. He paused long enough to enjoy the view of his boyfriend’s ample (yet firm!) backside as he bent over the fireplace. 

“Guillermo,” Nandor started, dragging out the last syllable adorably. “What are you working on over there?”

“Why don’t you come here and see?” Guillermo replied with a shy smile. He patted the cushion next to him. He was still bashful about flirting with his master. Their relationship had finally--finally!--advanced after years of longing and pining. But even after a week of learning everything Nandor had to teach him about the joys of vampiric sex, he still felt unaccountably shy about their new relationship status.

Nandor settled down beside him, pressing their sides together and peering down at the thin computing contraption with a look of trepidation. 

“You need to be careful with these things, Guillermo!” Nandor admonished, wrapping an arm around his familiar and pressing his face into the warm crook of his neck. He breathed in his delightful scent before continuing, “There are witches on the internet who can curse you through the electronic post!”

“Don’t worry, mas--Nandor. I’m being very careful,” Guillermo assured him. 

The night they first made love, Guillermo had been overwhelmed, beside himself with a heady mix of physical sensations and emotions. He’d cried out at Nandor’s touch, using the title that he’d been trained to use for almost a decade. Nandor had felt his stomach drop and ice flow through his veins at the sound. “No...no, my Guillermo. Call me Nandor. Please. Call me by my name…”

“What do we have here…?” Nandor pondered, squinting his eyes as he read the text on the screen. “Guillermo! What is this all about!?”

“You said it yourself, Nandor,” he replied with a sly smirk. “Not falling in love with you was a condition of my employment…”

The words hung in the air between them for a moment and Guillermo felt as though he’d just opened up his chest and revealed his beating heart to the vampire’s hungry gaze. 

Nandor’s dark eyes softened and sparkled in the firelight as he murmured, “Oh, my Guillermo… I--I love you too.”

Nandor took the laptop and set it on the coffee table before taking Guillermo into his arms and laying kiss after kiss across his sweet face. 

“Are you ready?” Nandor’s voice was hushed. Guillermo looked up at him and was awestruck all over again at his luck. That such a man could love little ole Memo.

“Yeah, just--hang on a sec,” he said, leaning over Nandor’s lap to reach the computer and hitting “enter.” He fell back into Nandor’s arms, looking up at him with perfect trust and saying, for the last time, “Yes, Master. I’m ready.”

---

Vampire Couple seeking Human Familiar (Staten Island)

Do you long to explore the hidden world of magical creatures all around you? Do you have a strong stomach? A career as a vampire’s familiar might be for you!

Nandor the Relentless and Guillermo the Great seek a human assistant to do their dark bidding...

[scifrey]

The following first hand account was found amid the research papers of Rachel Belanger. The date on the entry marks it as Belanger and Munson's first official meeting, and matches CCTV footage transcripts of April 10th, 2032 taken in the Kingston Penitentiary, Domestic Terrorist Wing (Kingston, Ontario.)

[Image - grainy screencap of a brunette woman in her early 40s, dressed in jeans, a tee-shirt, and a zippered hoodie standing outside of a jail cell; inside a man, early 30s, in a bright orange prison jumpsuit is laying on his back on the lower mattress of an otherwise empty bunk bed.] Fig 1. Rachel Belanger as seen with Oliver Munson, a.k.a. The Futurist, a.k.a. The Professor, 10:47am April 10th 2032.

I want to put our first meeting in my own words. Tell my own story, before I work through this god-awful jumble of notes. I’m putting this at the top, a prologue of sorts, if a research paper can have a prologue. I just want it clear what I was thinking when I first spoke to him. I just want it on paper that the way this ended isn’t the way I thought it would when I started. I just need people to know that. Okay? This wasn’t supposed to be how this went. I didn’t mean for this to happen.

He was laying on his back on the bottom mattress, long fingers tapping out a metronome in the silence of his cell. One, two, three. Perfectly matching the tempo of the second hand on my wristwatch. I’d heard that he did this, and made a point of glancing at my watch as I walked down the corridor to see if it was true. They said it was an unconscious habit - counting everything, all the time, eyes skimming along floor tiles, and light fixtures,freckles. Alone in the perpetual twilight of his grey cell, he counted the seconds. Likely because there was nothing else to count.

“Yes?” he said when I’dd stopped right outside of his cell. At that moment, we were the only living things in that corridor. The guard had stayed on the other side of the door, leaving us the illusion of our privacy. I pointedly did not look up at the surveillance cameras.

Cut it out! I thought to my nerves. Fearing a man a trapped in a cage was a ridiculous waste of adrenaline. He couldn’t hurt me. He couldn’t even reach me, if I was smart and stayed far enough back from the bars. And I already had two degrees that said I was smart.

I was so stuck in my head, counting along with him, that I forgot he’d spoken. When he got impatient enough, he added: “And what is it that you’re wanting of me, Miss?”

His gaze was directed into the shadowed corner of his cell. He had already dismissed me with his body language without even bothering to look at me.

Insulting.

This was not how I wanted this to go.

I felt my hands tightened slightly over the tablet computer I was holding, and I took a deep, calming breath, forcing my fingers to unclench. I’d been prepared for this, too, I just had to remember that I had. The warden had mentioned that he had uncanny insight when she had been signing the permission forms, granting me clearance to speak with the man dangerous enough to have a whole corridor of the jail to himself.

“How could you tell I was female?” I challenged, if only to try to get him to turn his face to me. I didn’t like being ignored. Especially not by people like him. Alright, so I hadn’t said anything right away and I probably should have, but most people would at least afford me the courtesy of eye contact. “And how do you know I want something from you?”

“Your footfalls.”

“I’m not wearing heels,” I countered.

“But your stride - short legs, with that distinctive gait caused by a woman’s wider hips. Purposeful, so you’re comfortable in your position. Authority, or backed by some. Not heavy enough boots to be a guard, and no distinctive scent of gun oil. My lawyer used to wear only Manolo Blahnik, before she stopped visiting me, so you’re not her. Your shoes are cheap; they squeak slightly. If you were a politician on a tour, there’d be others with you, and your shoes would not squeak. Therefore, you are here for some personal reason. You want something of me, or else you wouldn’t be here at all, and it’s something likely to make you - or me - uncomfortable to discuss, or you wouldn’t be alone.” He sighed and shifted over onto one shoulder, dropping his hands to his side and turning his face to the wall. “I assure you, Miss; whatever it is, you cannot embarrass me any more than I already have been in my considerable lifetime. I am now quite without shame. So ask, and then do me the very great favour of going away.”

Jesus.

I felt like all the air had been drained from my lungs,  like I had been the one who had just delivered that speech without a breath. I forced myself to inflate them, and resisted the urge to whistle, blinking under his steamroller pronouncements.

“Right. Wow. They told me you were a regular Sherlock.” It wasn’t flattery - more of an attempt to get him to open up more. Say something else. Look at me.

He didn’t look. He just snorted. “Ha. Except that I exist. The Great Detective was a character invented by an admittedly logical though  inextraordinary man and is therefore as constrained by the imagination of his creator as I am by these bars. Doyle was a supremely analytical man, but he was no genius himself. The conundrums he fabricated and their equally fictional solutions are - heh - elementary.” He chuckled slightly at his own cleverness, but it was a sort of hollow, half-dead sound. Like he was laughing because he thought he should, and not because he wanted to. “So I say again: ask what it is that you wish to ask, and then go away.” He sneered, and I only knew he was sneering because of the way he added: “Please.”

Okay. So this was going to be a little more work than I had expected. But that’s alright. I was a psychologist, wasn’t I? Not the therapist kind, but I knew the human animal all the same. I could do this. I just needed him to look at me.

The need seized me in a way I didn’t expect. Didn’t know what to do with, except to give into it. But that wasn’t what he Did. He as one of Them, but the things he Did wouldn’t account for this feeling. It was all me.

So I gave into it. Challenged again. Pushed. “Right. Blunt. Just like the text books said.”

“Textbooks. Pah.” He made a snorting sound in the back of his throat, flopping his free hand as if waving away a bad smell. His shoulders curled tighter. The tips of his fingernails appeared around the curve of his upper arm, pulling furrows into his electric-orange sleeve.

For a pregnant moment, I just watched the shift of his hair - dark brown, thick, curling slightly at the ends - against the prison jumpsuit collar. The juxtaposition between the colours was stunning, distracting like a shifting pile of leaves on the lawn in autumn, oddly magnetic. Pretty.

“Your questions?” he prompted peevishly when I’d been staring too long again.

“Right,” I repeated, a verbal reboot, my brain finally chugging over from buffering to operational. “Er, I’m, ah, I’m writing my PhD thesis on Vigilantism, and I thought… that is, if you don’t mind… I have some, well, like you said, questions. A list.”

“And I may have some answers,” he rejoined, waving one pale hand through the weak light. “But why on Earth should I gift any of them to you, Miss…?”

I didn’t see any point in withholding my name from him. It wasn’t like he could do anything with it, not in solitary confinement, not with his sentence so long that I’d be long dead of old age before he ever saw the outside.

And besides, I was planning to publish the paper, so it’s also not as if he couldn’t get his hands on a copy later and read my name on the cover if he wanted to.

And lying was something you could read in a person’s body language. He’d read so much in just my walk; I would never get what I wanted if I lied to him about something as inconsequential as my real name. Especially since he would probably know exactly who I was if he’d just look at me.

“Rachel Belanger,” I answered.

He rocketed upright, the crown of his head ricocheting off of the steel support rods of the bunk above him. Startled by his sudden, vicious movement, I couldn’t help the little jump back. I was reminded unpleasantly of a cobra thought dead suddenly rearing up and striking. Only a cobra that - when he finally turned his face to mine - looked miffed and ever so slightly embarrassed, like it had also accidentally bitten its own flickering tongue.

“Ow, bloody… damn!” he said, rubbing the top of his head. One of his eyes was screwed shut, pain-summoned tears turning dark lashes into wet spikes in the outside corner. The other eye - so dark it was nearly black, shot through with yellowy mud-brown flecks - focused on me accusingly.

Like it was my fault he wailed his head off the frame, or something. It kind of was, I guess, because it was my name that surprised him. Maybe I should have had the warden introduce me like she’d offered, after all.

He rubbed his head a bit more, and then both of his eyes and his mouth dropped wide.

“Recognize me, do you?” I asked, feeling sardonic and peevish. It was the verbal equivalent of an eye roll, and it had taken me the better part of my teenage years to perfect it. But it was perfect. It would never have worked so well on my mother otherwise.

He said nothing, didn’t rise to the bait, I felt the wave of frustration crest. He was finally looking but he wasn’t… wasn’t what? The verbal eye roll had never failed before.

A furrow gathered between my eyebrows, the one that made me look exactly like a brunette version of my mother, I could feel it. “I was afraid you might see it. Look, I’m aware of your history with all that stuff, but honestly, I’m not here about that. This really is for my research.”

“Oh, Rachel,” he breathed, and stood slowly, eyes never leaving my face. Slowly, shuffling as if he was an old man, he approached the bars.

Well, he was an old man. Even if he didn’t look it. He was probably around a hundred years old, near as anyone in the system could figure, but he’d kept his personal history well shrouded. If he had indeed been a child when photography was young, there wasn’t any evidence. The first visual records Rachel was able to find were of him his late twenties, just before the outbreak of World War Two.

But he appeared to be in his his early thirties now, slight crow’s feet digging in and getting comfortable beside his eyes, frown lines bracketing a thin-lipped but mobile mouth. His hair was still dark and thick, if flat and ill cared-for. His voice rough with disuse, but still that rich, compelling tenor that had been described in hundreds of newsreels and newspaper interviews before.

He stopped right in front of me, forehead touching the bars just so, hands wrapped around the two directly between us. His posture was relaxed though. He didn’t grip the bars in white-knuckled fists or lean his head against the cell door as if yearning for freedom. He just accepted the steel’s silent offer of support and stood there, breathing. Existing.

Drinking in my face and exhaling wonder.

“Oh, it is you.” His focus dropped down to my lips, then back up to my eyes, quick and only partially involuntarily. Clearly I wasn’t the only one who found my conversation partner strangely magnetic. Or maybe he just recognized the shape of my lips, too. He waited to see what I’d do.

I took a decided step backward.

He burst into laughter, quick and dark. It echoed, slapping against their bare concrete and metal cocoon, ringing along the side of my head, ticking at myears.

“Now you fear me,” he said when he had calmed himself enough to speak.

“Shouldn’t I?” I asked. There was a tremor in my voice that I didn’t expect. I wasn’t scared of him, not really, but I was finally unnerved.

His behaviour was… odd. Yes, there was the counting, the deductions, but more that that he was… wrong in some way. He was strange. He moved like the weight of the years he’d lived were literally tugging on his spine, but looked like he should be in the prime of his life.  He spoke like a gentleman, a remnant of the early part of the twentieth century, and yet he was as blunt as any person my own age. He was in a jail cell and couldn’t hurt her, and yet he behaved as if he held all the control.

“I don’t know,” he said, eyebrow arched. Challenging me back.

“You are The Professor,” I pointed out.

His shoulders immediately slumped and whatever amusement had been dancing in his gaze was extinguished. He looked so completely miserable for half a second that I actually regretted putting it the way I had.

“I don’t like that name,” he said. “Not at all.”

“Well, it’s not like you’ve got any other.” I refused to let him make me feel bad about it. It wasn’t my fault.

“Of course I do,” he said. He flicked a look up at me through his eyelashes, a startlingly coy and innocent gesture. It was almost little-boy in its blushing innocence. Had he done it on purpose? Was he was trying to play me? And if he was, to what end?  “I had parents. A normal childhood. Of course I have a name.”

I didn’t know how to respond to that. Of course I’d never envisioned him as having parents. As a child, yes. But as part of someone’s family?

Never.

“Sure,” I said, because I felt like I had to respond somehow. “Of course.”

He raised those dark, dark eyes to me, lids narrowed, expression inscrutable. Was he studying me again? Weighing something? Finding me lacking somehow? Or was I in turn reading to much into it? Something flickered in those yellow flecks of his, and he straightened to his full height, squaring up.

“Olly.”

I couldn’t stop the involuntary gasp. I sucked in a breath, bottom lip fluttering against my teeth.

He told me, I thought, brain suddenly filled with hysterical warning lights. He told me. I didn’t dare say anything, stunned that he had chosen to confide this, his one last great secret, to me. Would he give me his family name, too?

No, he just remained silent, assessing my reaction, gaze darting over me face and cataloguing, calculating.

“Why would you tell me that?” I finally asked, unable to stand the harsh quiet. “Me of all people, knowing who my mother is? Was. Why me?”

“It seems…” He rolled a word around in his mouth, as if testing its ripeness before letting it escape: “Appropriate.”

My fingers tightened on my tablet and I forced myself to relax them. Again. Nerves this time? No, anticipation. Confusion, yes, but also…

This was exciting.

“Thank you, then. Olly,” I repeated softly. Then I jerked my chin at the door that was between us and the guard. “You know, I’ll have to tell them.”

“Of course you will,” he allowed. His stance relaxed a little, hands back on the bars. A carefully constructed artifice of pleading. I don’t know how I knew it was artifice, why I could see through it so easily. But I knew. “But can you hold onto it? Just until… until we’re done? Keep it just for yourself, for now?”

I hesitated. Making a promise to break a rule now, at the start of their relationship, meant that he might attempt to extract bigger promises later, to break bigger rules. On the other hand, the point of this was to build the relationship itself, and if a little white lying was what it took...

“Of course,” I said. “And Olly’s short for, what… Oliver?”

He raised his head again, searching for something, boreing. Whatever it is, he didn’t find it, and that seemed to disappoint him. He turned away, putting his back to me. It was either cowardice or a show of arrogance. He rested his slim shoulders against the bars between us, another faux show of contemptuous relaxation. But his hands on his elbows, crossing his arms over his stomach, the white knuckles? He was upset by something. Protecting himself. Closed off.

He shook his head slightly. I was momentarily enchanted by the play of his fine hair across his day-glo collar. “I’m certain your mother could have deciphered my legal name, should she have been bothered to try. It is not that great of a secret, no matter that I’ve destroyed my original government records.”

“But you never told the courts. The cops didn’t know. Your own lawyer.”

“You’ve done your research, brava,” he countered. He folded his hands at the small of his back, long fingers cupped in in my direction. I resisted the inane urge to reach through the bars and meet them halfway. His palms were calloused and scarred - half a century, maybe more, of laboratory work had left a map of nefarious deeds etched into his flesh. Acid and scalpels and gunpowder.

I cleared my throat instead, and took another little step back to separate myself from him more, if only mentally. Then I called herself ridiculous. Relationship, trust, they were what I was here for. “Why tell me?”

“I don’t know, Rachel. Perhaps it’s because I’ve always felt that intelligence ought to be rewarded. Perhaps it’s because you started it.” His voice was heavy with meaning that I couldn’t parse.

“You mean, coming in here alone?” I tried to clarify. “There’s a guard at the end of the hall. And the warden gave me an emergency buzzer.”

He chuckled again, nearly soundless. More of a puff of breath than a laugh. “We’ll call it that if you prefer, Rachel—” He lingered over my name, caressing the vowels, and I couldn’t suppress the way it made my spine shiver a bit. It wasn’t sexual attraction. It was… awareness. Of being the presence of something more than oneself. The coolness of the room had already made my skin pebble with goosebumps, but now they tightened. The hairs on my arms stood straight up and the nape of my neck prickled.  “You said you had questions? A list?”

“Right. Right! Yes!” I said, and blinked a few times to force myself not to lose my focus. There was a purpose to all the banter.

“There’s a chair by the light switch.” He waved one hand to the left, indicating further down the hall where a metal folding chair leaned against the wall. It was covered with a visible layer of dust. He must not get many visitors, I realized. Even his lawyer had stopped coming, the one who wore the ludicrously expensive shoes; he had said so himself.

I dragged the chair over to his cell and settled down in front of him, unfolding the keyboard I’d rolled into my pocket. As I waited for it to synch up with tablet I’d perched on my knees, I studied the line of his back. He didn’t seem tense any more. Not even really miserable. He just looked… comfortable. Like my presence didn’t scare him, or annoy him, or confuse him at all.

Like he… liked me. God knows what he’d read off my face, and my clothes, and my posture to cause the sentiment.

It’s possible he did like me. I had no way of telling, short of asking him. And I’d rather save my questions for answers that I needed for my paper.

Dear god, I thought. Imagine, someone like The Professor - Olly - liking you.

“Ask away, my dear Rachel,” he said as soon as my tablet chimed its readiness.

“Right, well…” I cleared my throat and read my first question off the screen: “You’ve been charged with various crimes ranging from plotting acts of terrorism to first degree murder, but would you actually consider yourself a —?”

“No, no!” he interrupted, making me cringe back as his voice rang into the empty corners of the hallway, bouncing across the ceiling. His fists clenched by his side and they shook, digging white indents into his flesh. “Ask me your real question, Rachel. Ask me the one I can hear spinning through that grad student brain of yours. Stop being so damnably intellectual and follow your heart.”

I looked down at my screen, confused. “These are my real questions,” I protested.

“No. Those are the questions pre-approved by your ethics committee. But you didn’t decide to sit for Vigilantism to ask what I think about my past actions. You can read all that in my court transcripts and my Wikipedia entry. You’re not here for character analysis and motivation dissection. You want my story. You want to know why.”

He couldn’t have stoppered up the breath in my throat any more effectively if he had actually reached through the bars and wrapped his fingers around my neck.

“How…” I began, the word crumpling up behind my teeth, heart slamming against my ribs. I cleared my throat and took a deep breath and tried again. “How do you know that?”

He chuckled again and slid down the bars and plopped cross-legged into the dusty, cold cement floor in front of my feet. “I know more than you think, my dear Rachel. I always know more than anyone thinks I do. I know exactly what you want of me.”

I had no idea how to answer that. What to do? I asked myself, staring down at my - yes - pre-approved questions. Boring, useless questions. I had these answers already. I’d already culled them from the court transcripts and the records and the things they’d found in his lairs when he’d been arrested.

No one, least of all me, had actually expected him to talk to me. These were all things that they’d said I could ask because no one had thought I would get to ask anything.

I tapped my fingers along the side of the tablet casing, one tap per second, echoing the tick of my wristwatch as I thought this over. His own finger followed along, making the bars of his cell chime with the gentle percussion of his thumbnail.

Right.

Fuck the committee. This wasn’t an opportunity I was going to throw away that easily. Even if it cost me my PhD.

I had been handed and opportunity that no other researcher, journalist, lawyer, person had. Olly had chosen me. I didn’t know why, but I wasn’t about to waste it.

“I have voice recording software on this thing,” I finally said. “Can I turn it on? And then we can… I don’t know. Start from the beginning?”

“Of course,” he wuffed. “Yes. Of course you would ask that. Okay, okay,” he agreed, descending into cryptic muttering for a moment before shaking out his shoulders and clearing his throat. “I think this is appropriate. If I was going to tell anyone, it ought to be you. It’s fitting. Very well then. Turn on your recorder, Rachel.”

So I did.

[realmofextremepossibility]

Bare Witness

So I finally finished my fic for the Unsexy Files. It only took me like forever and a day because I am utterly incapable of writing anything quickly. @contrivedcoincidences6 gave me the episode Sleepless and this fits right in between the two final scenes. It also fulfills the @xfpornbattle prompt #1: voyeurism. I don’t really write serious non-intentionally terrible smut, so hopefully this isn’t entirely awful. 

Shoutout to @baronessblixen for her constant handholding and soundboarding and never-ending insistence that I write things and being willing to read all of my nonsense before I unleash it on an unsuspecting public!

------

FBI Headquarters

Washington, DC

He observes the figures at the other end of the hall, file boxes obscuring his presence, two stolen reports tucked in his jacket. He knows it’s wrong; he knows he shouldn’t be watching. But he can’t look away. The sallow basement lights cast flickering yellow shadows over their features, yet they remain captivatingly ethereal.

Mulder’s hair is mussed in its perpetual state of casual disarray. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about running his hands through it, fisting his fingers in that fluffy duckling down. The black suit conceals the long planes of Mulder’s body, his characteristically garish tie trapping the curve of his neck beneath crisp white cotton.

His gaze shifts to the diminutive partner who had so dismissively declined his proffered hand when they’d met.

Scully’s eyes flit between Mulder and the looming shadows of the corridor, her unwavering loyalty and dedication obvious even from afar. Her hair shifts softly around her face, a gleaming copper frame of her renaissance beauty. A prim cabled sweater beneath a terracotta jacket does nothing to distract him from the curves he knows lie beneath.

He is no stranger to the bullpen rumors of the Spookies’ close talking personal space violations, but witnessing it in person is something else entirely. It is intoxicating, magnetic, otherworldly, as if they float on their own plane of existence. They are two planets orbiting each other, each trapped in the other’s inescapable gravitational pull. Pieces of hushed conversation float back to him.

“…broke into my office…my files, my computer…the report was already gone.”

“Someone…stealing both our copies…”

The guilty weight of the folder seeps through the starch of his dress shirt and settles in his chest. Scully stares up at Mulder, her pink tinged lips forming shapes he cannot decipher.

“…closing down the X-Files…beginning…never been in greater danger.”

“…trust him?”

Mulder glances again down the hallway and sighs, fear and conflict marring his features, trapped in the furrow of his brow. He turns back to Scully and leans into the wall, his hand supporting his weight beside her head.

“I don’t know…” Mulder traces her fine jaw with the back of his other hand, achingly gentle, as if her porcelain visage might shatter before him. “But I trust you.”

Mulder’s hand continues its path and settles on her shoulder. His thumb rests against her pulse, a tangible reminder of her existence. Scully brushes the hair back from Mulder’s forehead, smoothing over his hairline as if examining him for invisible wounds. The tension in Mulder’s shoulders visibly lessens at the familiarity of her care.

“…admitting you miss me, Mulder?” She thumbs the scruff of his jawline, her lips curved in a teasing lilt.

Mulder closes his eyes and leans into her touch, turning his head to press a kiss to her palm.

“Yeah…guess I am…basement office…awful lonely…”

There’s something so intoxicating about witnessing a level of intimacy not meant for outside eyes. Something about the way they look at each other, the raw intensity of their gaze, a mix of longing adoration and animalistic fervor, like they might devour each other whole if given the chance. An hot flash of unexpected jealousy courses through him, roiling in the pit of his stomach, churning white-hot with something even more unexpected.

Arousal.

Scully sides her hand around to fist in the soft hair of Mulder’s nape and pulls his face down to hers. Their eyes close as their mouths meet, sliding against each other, softly at first, an aeonian reacquaintance with a long missed place. Tongues flick and battle and soothe, tracing shapes as a topographer maps the precise texture of a landscape.

He shifts to relieve some of the pressure of his tightening pants and finds his hand palming the crotch on its own accord. He wonders what Scully tastes like, wonders how the plush skin of Mulder’s bottom lip would feel between his own.

Scully suckles Mulder’s lip, pulling it into her mouth before sinking her teeth into it. She tugs on that obnoxious tie to draw her partner even closer.

His fingers twitch in jealousy at the slew of his own missed opportunities to wrap his hand around that silk.

Their mouths remain in sync as Scully’s hands fumble at the knot, stripping it from the pointed collar before pushing his suit jacket over his broad shoulders to an inky puddle on the floor and taking the shirt buttons to task. Mulder stills her eager hands and pulls at her coat, the growing impatience evident in his slacks, leaving the buttons abandoned with just four undone.

His hips thrust restlessly into his hand, increasing the heated friction of the fabric trapped between his cock and palm. He presses his lips together to silence the whimper of pleasure that threatens to leak from them.

Her legs quiver as Mulder’s hand disappears under the fabric of her skirt, the muscled sinew of his arm rippling as her head lolls back. Mulder leans to draw his open mouth across the newly exposed column of her neck and his tongue laves swirls along the pale skin. Her fingers clench in Mulder’s hair and rake streaks down his back, the white cloth bunching under her nails.

Scully gasps and the tenor of her rhapsodic moan echoes in his cock.

Scully’s moan pitches into a whine as Mulder withdraws his hand. Even in the dim flickering light, he can see the arousal shining on Mulder’s fingers as he brings them to her lips. Scully sucks them into her mouth and Mulder’s tongue follows.

His tongue flicks out to brush his own lips, certain that he can taste her.

They pull back just long enough for Scully to yank her sweater over her head, bearing the soft swell of her lace-encased bosom to Mulder’s eager mouth. Mulder kneels and peels the lace cup aside just enough to release a pert rosy nipple to taste.

He’d watched that mouth shuck sunflower seeds for days on end and his suspicions about the talents of Mulder’s tongue are confirmed as he watches Scully writhe under its strokes. He undoes his belt and thrusts his hand into his pants in a desperate bid to relieve the throbbing ache trapped inside. He squeezes his own cock, pulsing against his palm in time to his own racing heartbeat.

Mulder’s name tumbles a bit too loudly from Scully’s parted lips and he rises, sliding his pants down to his thighs along the way. She reaches for him and wraps her small hand around his girth. It’s Mulder’s turn to moan now as she circles his tip with her palm before smoothing the length of his shaft. His long cock gleams in the low light, his own slick catching in the ridges of flesh.

His hand smoothes over his own hot skin, thumbing the underside of his head on each upstroke and spreading his precum on the way back down. The illicitness of his vantage point spurs him on. It’s wrong, so wrong. But fuck, it feels so good.

Mulder rucks Scully’s skirt up and hoists her against the wall in one fluid motion. She gives a squeak of surprise as her arms instinctively circle his neck. Her legs twine around Mulder’s waist, his erection bobbing just beneath her entrance. Keeping one arm securely around her partner’s neck, she grasps him again and trails his swollen head through her folds.

He bites his own lip to keep from moaning aloud and watches Mulder finally buck his hips and sink into what he can only imagine is hot wet heat. He clasps one hand over his mouth and the other around his weeping cock, timing his strokes to their thrusts.

Their audible sigh at the long awaited skin on skin contact is shotgun loud in the silence of the basement. Their spooky bond of unspoken communication takes over into a personal space violation of the highest order. Foreheads pressed together, they move as one being and she sheathes him over and over again.

He braces himself with one hand against the wall as he fights the urge to close his eyes against the sensations; he wants to keep watching them, wants to see their faces when they come, wants to witness them falling apart in each other’s arms. It is the sound of Mulder’s monotone growl that drags him to the brink.

“God…Scully…so close…”

Mulder traps his hand between their bodies, the catch in her breath signifying he has found exactly the right place. Her shuddering gasps echo off the tiled floor.

“Mulder…love you…”

Scully’s bitten lip confession and Mulder’s slack jawed oh of release are enough to send him over the edge, spurting over his hand and splashing against the file boxes. He muffles his cry in the shoulder of his jacket.

He know it’s wrong; he knows he shouldn’t be watching. But it won’t be his biggest betrayal.

-

“Reassigning them to other areas seems to have only strengthened their determination. Scully’s a problem. A much larger problem than you described.”

A stolen folder atop a conference table, a stubbed cigarette, a plan caught in a plume of smoke.

“Every problem has a solution.”

[caranfindel]

Fic: I focus on the pain (the only thing that's real)

Written for the Celebrating Sam event (thanks to @spnlittlebro and @ohsamtumbles for this marvelous event!) The prompt was “field surgery.” This was supposed to be from Sam’s POV, but Dean kept taking over (as he so often does when I try to write Sam), so you get both sides.

Pairings: None (gen)

Warnings: Language, pain

Also available on LJ, DW, or AO3

Side A

Like many of the stupid things Sam does, it happens too quickly for Dean to stop it. Once minute he’s on his ass in the damp slippery grass, fallen like a goddamn amateur, watching the spinthaak advance and hoping he can get off a shot before it rips his head off. The next minute Sam’s charging between him and the spinthaak, close enough (too close too close too goddamn close) to shoot it right between the eyes. Dean sees its tail twitch forward before it goes down and he rolls out of the way, because he knows what’s at the end of a spinthaak’s tail. He hopes to god that Sam got out of the way in time. But a strangled cry of pain puts his heart in his throat.

Sam’s on his knees, pawing at his chest, and in a second Dean’s in front of him. He tries to pull his brother’s trembling hands away to check for blood, because a spinthaak has pretty big fucking claws, too. “Sam. Sam! Did it get you?”

“I’m okay. Kill it.” Sam bats his hands away and waves toward the spinthaak’s corpse. He clutches his chest again and sinks to the ground with a groan.

“It’s dead,” Dean says. “You got it. You got too close, you moron! Where did it get you? Did it sting you?”

Of course it did, of course it did, because nothing but a spinthaak’s sting would put him in this much pain. Sam’s curled up on the ground, writhing, whimpering, and Dean doesn’t want to think about what it takes to make his brother fucking whimper.

(But he already knows. He’s had John Winchester’s voice murmuring in the back of his head all morning. Spinthaak venom. Just a tiny bit in each quill, but it’s one of the most painful things a human being can ever experience. Knew a fella got stung in the finger, said he’d have shot his own arm off if his friend hadn’t been there to stop him. But the pain isn’t what takes you out. The venom is a paralytic. The quill burrows its way to your core if you can’t yank it out fast enough, gets to your heart or your diaphragm and boom, you’re gone. No antivenin, no CPR. Your only hope is to get that quill out before it’s out of reach. And you’ll be in too much pain to get it out yourself. That’s why you never hunt a spinthaak alone.)

He grabs Sam by the shoulders and rolls him onto his back, pushing his jacket and shirts aside, and gently prods his skin, looking for an entry wound. There it is. Deceptively small, a slightly swollen red pinprick right below his collarbone. Jesus fuck, it’s already so close to his heart, and he knows it’s getting closer, the deadly quill burrowing deeper beneath the surface. It’s got to come out, now.

“Fuck.” He runs his hands over his face. “Okay. Okay. I have to cut the stinger out. It’s gonna reach your heart if I don’t. I’ve gotta do it here and now.”

Sam doesn’t answer; he just keeps making wounded animal noises and rocking back and forth. Dean doesn’t even know if he can hear him, but he keeps talking, to reassure himself as much as Sam. “No time to get the kit.” He digs for his pocketknife and lighter. “We’ll do this old school. It’ll be fine, okay? You’re gonna be fine.” He holds the blade in the flame for a minute. It’s not enough, he knows it’s not even close to enough, but he can worry about infection later. Don’t worry if you can’t swim; the fall will probably kill you.

“All right. Here we go.” He straightens Sam again, presses him flat against the ground. “You gotta hold still, man, okay? Sammy? Can you do that? You gotta hold still for me.” Sam nods and then screws his eyes shut and bites off a scream as he’s rocked by another spasm of pain. Shit, he’s going to bite his tongue in half. Dean yanks off his belt. “Sam. Sam! Open your mouth. Bite on this.” He jams the leather between Sam’s teeth, takes a deep breath, and begins probing the wound with his knife. “I’m sorry, man. I know this is hot.” Sam shudders and gasps, clenching fistfuls of grass, panting as Dean pushes the knife further. “That’s it,” Dean murmurs. “Keep breathing. You’re doing great. You got this.”

Sam’s legs start thrashing, pushing against the ground. “Please, Sammy, you’ve got to hold still,” Dean sighs. He throws a leg over Sam and straddles his body, resting on his thighs, his feet hooked over Sam’s lower legs. Sam’s eyes fly open, wide with terror, and he clutches at Dean’s arms. “I’m sorry,” Dean says. “I have to keep you still. Okay?” Sam nods again and Dean takes his brother’s hands and places them on his own knees. “Here. Hold on.” Sam’s fingers dig into denim as Dean goes back to digging for the quill. “It’s okay,” he says. “You’re gonna be okay.” There. There it is. Something solid at the tip of his knife. Sam pushes his head back into the ground and shrieks around the belt, squeezing hard enough to bruise Dean’s kneecaps as he works his knife below the quill to guide it back up toward the surface.

Suddenly Sam reaches for the belt and wrenches it out of his mouth. “No gag,” he pants. “Please.”

Gag? Sam thought he was fucking gagging him? Jesus. Dean keeps prodding at the quill, easing it out. As he leans closer, he can hear Sam whispering something that sounds, maybe, like not back there, not back there and ah, fuck.

“Doing good, Sam,” he says, partially to reassure Sam but mostly to drown out what he’s whispering because Jesus fuck, Dean cannot think about that, cannot think about what memory Sam might be reliving, back there, held down and gagged and in excruciating pain. “Almost there. So close.” Sam covers his face with his hands and lets out a long, drawn-out moan as the end of the poison quill surfaces. “There you are, you fucker,” Dean mutters. He has to resist the urge to grab the quill and yank it out of Sam’s flesh. Don’t squeeze the end, John Winchester’s voice barks. That’s where the venom is. You’ll squirt it right into him.

“Okay, okay.” Dean can reach the dark center of the quill now, and he gingerly grasps it. Watch it, son, it’s going to be slippery from blood. He eases it out and sits up, trembling with relief. “Shit, Sammy.” He holds it up for inspection - an inch long, with a barbed tip and bulb at the end the size of a sesame seed; such a tiny thing to be responsible for so much agony. “Look at that son of a bitch.”

But Sam’s still keening, still breathing in ragged gasps, still clutching at his chest. “Oh, god, it’s still burning, it’s burning, Dean, it’s still in there.”

There’s another one. But it’s okay. Dean can do this. He stops to scream “fuck!” up into the sky, then takes a deep breath. He can do this. “Okay. Okay. One down, one to go. It’s okay. It’s gonna be okay.” He uses his shirttail to wipe the blood off Sam’s chest (Sam’s heart hammering against his hand, galloping out of control) and plants his hands on his upper arms (quivering, slick with sweat) to hold him down and keep his hands out of the way. “I’m sorry, Sammy. You gotta try to hold still. I can’t find it. Where does it hurt?”

“Everywhere,” Sam moans. “Oh god, get it out, get it out, please, Dean.” His breath is ragged and shallow; his lip is bloody from where he’s bitten it, and his whole body is shaking. Dean struggles to keep him steady with one hand as his fingers run lightly over Sam’s chest, looking for the second entry wound. After a lifetime he finds it, a tiny swelling hidden inside his tattoo and fuck, that’s so much closer to his heart and Sam’s whispering not back there, not back there because apparently he has to convince himself he’s not back in Lucifer’s fucking cage and Dean’s running out of time and he doesn’t think he has the strength left to keep restraining his delirious, struggling little brother.

“Sam,” he says sternly. “Sam. Listen to me. He likes it when you squirm, Sam. Don’t give it to him. Don’t you do that for him. You stay stiff as a board and let him go fuck himself. You got that?”

Sam stares at him in terror again, then takes one long, shuddering breath, closes his eyes, and stills.

“There we go.” Sam’s still trembling but not kicking, not thrashing, not fighting him. “It’s okay, it’s okay.” Dean inserts the knife and cuts down further, and when he finally reaches the quill he can’t think about the bulb of venom, he can’t think about grasping the center of the shaft; he’s got to get this fucking thing out of his brother right now so he whispers fuck, Sam, I’m sorry and grabs it and and he pulls. Sam cries out, kicks and thrashes, then his eyes roll back in his head and he goes limp.

~~~~~~~~~

Side B

There’s a pinpoint of pain, needle-sharp, tiny but intense, and then another, and then the points of pain expand, spreading fiery, white-hot hurt across his chest. His legs buckle and he crumples to his knees, clutching at his chest, trying to put out the fire but he can’t, it’s inside, it’s under his skin and lapping at his flesh. He wants to call out to Dean but Dean’s busy, Dean’s finishing the spinthaak, so he tries to bite it back but it comes out as a whining scream, and then Dean is at his side, wide-eyed. “Sam. Sam! Did it get you?”

Sam pushes him away, waves toward the spinthaak, or at least where he thinks the spinthaak must be. “I’m okay,” he gasps. (He’s not okay.) “Kill it.”

“It’s dead,” Dean says, with a quick confirming glance over his shoulder. “You got it. You got too close, you moron! Where did it get you? Did it sting you?”

Sam’s on the ground now, he thinks, but he doesn’t feel anything but fire - every nerve in his body is throbbing, tethered to his chest, to the fire charring his ribs. “Oh, god,” he moans, as Dean grabs his shoulders and rolls him onto his back.

Dean pushes Sam’s jacket and overshirt aside and pulls up his t-shirt. He gently prods at his chest and his fingers are cold, so cold against burning skin. “Fuck. Okay. Okay. I have to cut the stinger out. It’s gonna reach your heart if I don’t. I’ve gotta do it here and now.”

(Oh yes god please get it out here and now please.)

“No time to get the kit.” Dean releases Sam to dig for his pocketknife and lighter, and Sam curls back into himself and god, it hurts so much, it’s like flaming spikes are being hammered into his flesh. Dean’s still talking, keeping up a continuous patter of reassuring white noise as he runs the blade through the flame of his lighter. “We’ll do this old school. It’ll be fine, okay? You’re gonna be fine.”

Dean pushes him flat against the ground. “You gotta hold still, man, okay? Sammy? Can you do that? You gotta hold still for me.” It’s too much, it’s too much like being restrained (tied up strapped down chained) but Sam nods because it’s not Lucifer, it’s Dean, and Dean will take care of this, except being held down hurts so much and Sam screams again, trying so hard not to scream, bites his tongue, bites his lip.

“Sam. Sam. Open your mouth. Bite on this.” Something is shoved into his mouth; it tastes like dirt and blood and fire and brimstone and it’s firm but yielding when he bites into it, not slippery, nothing like his own intestines, nothing like his heart or liver or a red-hot iron rod or any number of things that have been shoved into his mouth.

Dean’s hands are like ice on his chest; his flame-purified knife is an icicle compared to the fire consuming Sam from the inside. Cold fingers pry inside him, peeling him apart, groping, searching. Sam squeezes his eyes shut and he can’t open them, can’t can’t can’t because if he does he’s going to see Lucifer rooting around inside of him, pulling him to pieces with long, cold fingers.

His legs start kicking, trying to crawl away from the pain, because Sam’s brain knows (thinks) this is Dean but his body is screaming no, no, get away and then something heavy is holding him down and he can’t move and oh god it hurts and he’s afraid to look but he does and it’s Dean, it looks like Dean but that doesn’t mean anything, doesn’t prove anything.

“I’m sorry,” Dean says. “I have to keep you still. It’s okay.”

It’s Dean and it’s okay except oh fuck, it’s not okay, he’s on fire, he’s burning up on the inside, his blood is molten lava spreading the fire though his body and someone’s cold, cold fingers are poking inside of him and the gag between his teeth tastes like hellfire and ash. He yanks it out of his mouth and says “No gag. Please.” Dean doesn’t argue and that proves it’s Dean, it’s not Lucifer, because if Lucifer wanted him gagged, he’d fucking be gagged, so it has to be Dean, even though Sam’s burning and the fingers inside him are ice and oh fuck everything hurts. But Sam’s not back in Hell, he’s not back there, not back there.

The icicle pierces him further and Sam keeps trying not to scream and trying not to push Dean away because Dean’s saving him, Dean’s cold hands and icy blade are going to put out the fire, and Sam reminds himself that he’s not in Hell, he’s not in Hell. Then the frozen fingers are gone and Dean crows triumphantly but it can’t be, it’s not gone, Sam can still feel the fire spreading through his body. His hands are free now, and he reaches up to his chest and tries to claw the pain out. “Oh, god, it’s still burning, it’s burning, Dean, it’s still in there.”

Dean screams “fuck,” icy palms planted on Sam’s chest. “Okay. Okay. One down, one to go. It’s okay. It’s gonna be okay.” He swipes at Sam’s skin with his shirt, wiping away blood, icy fingers prodding, poking, in search of an entry wound, asking where it hurts, but it hurts everywhere, from the tips of his hair to his toenails, his whole body is in agony. He tries to crawl away from the pain again but someone (something) traps him, holds him down, demands his attention.

“Sam. Sam. Listen to me. He likes it when you squirm, Sam. Don’t give it to him. Don’t you do that for him. You stay stiff as a board and let him go fuck himself. You got that?”

He opens his eyes and he can see him now, Dean or something like Dean, towering over him, blocking the sun. If it’s Dean (it has to be Dean oh please God) he needs to do what he says. If it’s Lucifer it doesn’t matter. Sam takes a breath and his fingers dig into the earth at his sides and he locks it all down, no kicking, no fighting, because someone has set him on fire and someone is dissecting him with ice and someone keeps telling him it’s okay, it’s okay and someone wants him motionless and maybe they’re all Dean, he doesn’t know any more but he’s not back there, he’s not back there, if he keeps saying it then it will be true, and then Dean says I’m sorry and there’s a white hot explosion in his chest and he kicks out and screams and he’s sorry and everything goes dark.

…

When he comes back, it’s to a more familiar set of pain. Rough ground and small stones underneath him, the dull ache of muscles that had been clenched in agony, the sting of a bitten lip, the sharper sting of alcohol on a wound, the low throb of a jaw long clenched in pain, and the sudden stab of a needle, of Dean stitching up his wounds.

“Hey.” His voice is dry and ragged, and he’s shaken by a spasm of coughing before he can say anything else.

Dean startles at the word, and quickly sits him up with a hand supporting his back, pushing a bottle of lukewarm water to his lips. “Shhh. Don’t talk. Drink.” Sam’s mouth tastes like blood and dirt, and he spits out a mouthful before draining the rest of the bottle.

“All right,” Dean murmurs, easing him back onto the ground. “Let me finish up here. You okay?”

“Mostly. You?”

“Fan-fucking-tastic.” A stab of the needle again, as if for emphasis.

“You didn’t get hurt?”

“Only my pride. Can’t believe I let that thing knock me on my ass. And I can’t believe you jumped in front of it, you dumb shit.”

“Someone’s gotta save your candy ass.”

“Yeah, well. Don’t let it happen again.” Dean continues stitching in silence, head down in concentration. When he speaks again, he doesn’t look up.

“Look. I’m sorry.”

“For what?” asks Sam, confused.

Dean looks up now, eyes narrowed. “How much of that do you remember?”

(He remembers everything.)

“I remember I was in a lot of pain. I remember you doing whatever you needed to do to save me. I don’t remember you doing anything you need to apologize for.”

“Okay.” Dean nods solemnly at the ground. “Okay.” He stands up and offers Sam a hand. “Come on. Let’s go burn this fucker.”

Sam takes his hand, climbs slow and stiff to his feet, and begins the process of forgetting that his brother knows what appeals to the torturer.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

If you think you’ve read this before, you’re not wrong. What can I say? Apparently, Sam being in pain and being unable to tell if he’s topside or in Hell is my happy place. (I am so messed up.)

I apologize for taking liberties with the spinthaak, if you happen to be familiar with spinthaak lore.

The title is from “Hurt,” which is awesome whether it’s performed by Nine Inch Nails or Johnny Cash.