#on the other hand. imagine how Helen felt

[layla-carstairs]

reading tftsa is always an emotional experience especially when you get the short stories focused around the Blackthorns because the absence of Mark just bleeds out. like when you read about Julian being Helen's suggenes and Simon being the witness to Julian's parabatai ceremony you are just burdened with the knowledge that that's not who they would have picked if the circumstances were different. in a different life it was Mark.

[theunbearableweightofpedropascal]

Angel

Summary: Coming home from college without a degree has you scrambling to find your place in the world. Charlie just might be your savior.

A/N: I was thinking this would be set around eclipse. This was in the drafts for a while.

Warnings: Besides an age gap (reader in her 20s Charlie in his 40s) there is none.

Word Count: 3.1K

You didn’t expect your life to turn out the way it did, and neither did the people of Forks. If the confused looks you would get on the way into town were anything to go by. You had been a stellar student, assignments were early if not on time, and teachers never had a bad thing to say about you. You graduated and moved on to college like everyone would expect, but college was harder. It wasn’t even the work, it was you. 

For once you had no set path, everyone else just seemed to know what they wanted to do. After 2 years you realized how far behind you felt you decided to take a break. If you didn’t know what you wanted to do you were just wasting time and money. The loneliness set in soon after too. Although you have friends they’re all off doing their things, making their place in the world. 

Your dad helped if only by sending cringe Facebook posts captioned “It’s never too late.” His efforts were much appreciated but it’s not a good feeling when you feel like you are in last place for a race you didn’t even know you were running. Staying holed up in your room won’t help but at least you won’t have to run into anyone you know. You hate feeling like such a disappointment even though your parents assured you that would never be the case.

After a few weeks of licking your wounds, you started looking for jobs. You reach downtown and begin combing through your options. All of which would require you to run into people who would ask too many questions that you do not want to answer. Forks was already limited in what they had and if you wanted to avoid working for the Newton family your choices were much more slim. But you do take note of it just in case. Syphering through your selections you almost want to give up.

Turning the corner you bump smack into another person, you brace yourself for a fall that doesn’t come. Peeking through one eye you make out a badge and ‘C. Swan’. You immediately straighten yourself up after realizing you just bumped into Chief Swan. 

“You alright-”

“I’m so sorry-”

The both of you speak at the same time, a loud silence fills the air as you both stare at each other. Your wide eyes and his furrowed brow. You snap out of it first and bend down to pick up your fallen pamphlets, The Chief crouches down to help you. 

“You don’t have to do that Chief Swan.” He ignores you in favor of picking up the rest, stealing a glance at them before handing them back to you. 

“Charlie’s fine.” He scratches his head before telling you, “Since you’re looking we could use another receptionist down at the station.” Charlie took pity on you, Although he isn’t one for gossip everyone’s been talking about how you came back from university without finishing. He knows what it feels like to be lost especially in a town like Forks. 

“Really?” The prospect of working at the station was much better than any option sitting in your hands. “Is there anything for me to fill out?”

“No just stop by on Monday and I’ll have Helen walk you through everything.” His mouth forms into what you think is a half-smile, and you return it tenfold.

The conversation with Charlie was so refreshing you’re unsure why out of all the people in Forks he was the one to make you feel normal. You realize it’s because he’s the first person to not question or probe why you’re back here. Working at the station doing administration would be perfect. On your way home you mentally comb through your closet for appropriate clothes you can wear to the station for work. The combination list isn’t huge but you could make it work.

……..

Monday morning you awake at 6:00 am to begin getting ready, he never mentioned a time but you imagine how bad you would look strolling in there at 1:00 pm. You decide on black stretchy office pants, a chocolate sweater, and white sneakers that are comfortable enough to do sustainable walking. Grabbing your backpack you pack your essentials and bid your father goodbye before heading off.

On the way in you have enough time to stop for some coffee so you order for yourself and Charlie as a thank you. You make sure to get his black with no sugar, though you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover you can’t imagine he enjoys cremer. The last stretch of your walk toward the station has your heart pounding. You're not even sure what you are nervous about it shouldn’t be that hard since it’s Forks.

The station smells like stale coffee and mothballs, the atmosphere is mostly static but that’s given. Upon walking up to the front desk you see an older redhead who you assume is Helen. You smile as you approach her and she returns one.

“Excuse me, Chief Swan said to come up here for you to train me on administration stuff.” You hope Charlie actually talked to her.

“Of course, he told me about you yesterday dear follow me.” You set down your coffee before being given the grand tour. After a minute you’re back at the front being directed on your daily duties. Most of which is pretending to look busy, Helen prefers solitaire on her computer to get her through the day. On the other hand, you brought a book that remains hidden behind the ancient monitor in front of you. 

You thought about bringing Charlie his coffee but his office lights are off and his doors are locked so he must be out patrolling already. Within 45 minutes you’re given your first task of making more coffee, while the water pours out you see Charlie step into the break room. His eyes look surprised to see you but his face doesn't change, he peers around you toward the coffee maker before he can ask you to tell him. 

“I bought you coffee on the way in, it is at the front desk.” You quickly leave the break room to get it before he can react. On your way back you inform him, “Black, no sugar, no cream.”

“Thank you.” As he takes the cup your hands brush his, and he can feel the increased beating of his heart. It’s the most contact he’s had with a woman. He likes it. Your bright smile gives him that butterfly feeling he hears Bella talk about with her friend.

“No thank you, Sher- Charlie I appreciate the opportunity.” He waves off your thanks as if he does stuff like this all the time. 

“You adjusting OK?” He finds he wants to keep conversation with you despite his nature. You may be surprised but you don’t show it, enjoying this interaction.

“Yes, Helen is nice and I get to just pretend to work all day.” You bump your hip against him before you can think better of it.

Charlie surprises you with a deep chuckle, It’s not a full-blown laugh but it’s more than enough. It’s no secret that Charlie is one of the more attractive men in Forks, but you didn’t think of him like that until now. Not many men could pull off the 70s pornstache, or his grumpy attitude without being a complete ass. Your thoughts are interrupted by Charlie leaning down to speak quietly to you.

“Well let me know if you need more books to keep you busy Bella’s got tons of those romance ones.” He rolls his eyes playfully and nods his head before heading to his office. 

In the wake of his leave, you revel in the way his deep voice felt so close to your ear. However, you don’t dwell on his actions too much because there is no way he was flirting with you. Making your way back to the front desk you see Helen packing up to leave, she informs you she’s taking lunch. 

Charlie lets out an exasperated sigh at the stack of paperwork waiting for him when he unlocks his office. The coffee you brought him goes straight down like a shot, he appreciates the fact that you knew he wouldn’t like the extra bullshit. Throughout his shift, he sneaks peeks at you. He pauses when he sees you talking on the phone, telling himself he’s only checking to make sure you don’t need help. But the way your lips move has him in a trance, he snaps out of it before you can catch him. 

Even though he spent a fair amount of time staring at you he managed to complete over half of his paperwork. He’s overdue for a break and he knows you could use one since you never took a lunch.  

You have been manning the phones even after Helen came back, you know you should’ve taken your 1-hour lunch but you were in a groove. At least until Charlie strolled up beside you to see what you were doing. You could smell Irish Spring wafting off of him with a hint of laundry detergent. 

“You busy?” It was a loaded question on his part but he didn't want to just command you to come with him. 

“Not for the Chief.” You turn your body towards him to prove your words, and in return the corner of his mouth lifts almost like a smile.

“Lunch on me then?” He asks you with his hands balled in his pockets.

“I’ll never turn down a free lunch.” You turn to Helen to check that she’ll be okay, and she gives you a wink nodding her head toward the chief telling you to ‘have fun’. You raise our eyebrows at the implication.

On the way out Charlie gets the door, and his veiny forearm peeks out from his uniform. You wouldn’t say you have a thing for hairy guys but yet again Charlie somehow makes it work. Luckily you could blame the frigid breeze for your flustered expression. You follow his lead to the cruiser and he opens your door for you again. Your bashful expression after thanking him goes straight to his lower stomach, it’s been a while since a woman looked at him so fervently. 

Once he’s in the cruiser a comfortable silence fills the air, and you think of all the things you could bring up with him later in the diner. So far all you’ve come up with are sports and books but honestly, that should be more than enough for Charlie. Orange leaves take up most of the ground, a warning for the upcoming months. The diner is the same as always when you pull up, you open the door before Charlie can hustle his way to where you are. The stern look he gives you only makes your sudden attraction to him worse. 

The bell above the door alerts Cora to your presence. Charlie saddles up right behind you urging you forward with his hand on your middle back. Walking past the patrons, you can feel the questioning stares. But you’re sure Charlie won’t pay them any mind so neither do you. At the booth, Charlie gestures for you to slide in first.

Cora turns to you for your order since she already knows Charlie’s by heart.

“I’ll do a burger and fries with a sprite please.” You smile at Cora as she takes down your order. 

“So,” You turn to Charlie, “What’s been going on in the sports world?” 

Charlie’s side glance is enough to make you laugh. “Steelers are cleaning up, they have a path to the Super Bowl.” He didn’t mean to look at you crazy but it was the first time in a while someone was genuinely interested in his interests. The flutters in his stomach make another appearance. 

“My dad’s a cowboy fan so it’s the same thing every year.” Charlie snorts at that. 

The sound of plates landing in front of you ends your and Charlie’s moment. Looking up your eyes meet Cora’s and you thank her before she leaves again. You and Charlie waste no time digging into your food. With all of your fries and most of your burger gone you throw in the towel, leaning back against the booth.

“You gonna eat that?” Charlie eyes the rest of your burger.

“No, you can have it.” After your acceptance, he finishes it in one quick bite. You wish you didn't find that attractive.

……….

After your first lunch together many were shared, Charlie would always schedule his break around yours to make sure you ate. He also wanted to spend time with you when the opportunity would lend itself. The feeling was mutual, you put in more effort with your work outfits and make-up. Every morning you would stop to get Charlie coffee on the way in, and Helen would always give you sly smiles. You figured she picked up on the undertones of your and Charlie’s interactions, but unlike most people, she kept it to herself.

That didn’t stop others from probing you about your “Diner Dates” with the Chief. When you were collecting produce a few older women came up to you under the guise of concern. They told you getting with a man that age wouldn’t be good for any girl your age, while it was good advice you know it wasn’t given with good intentions. Instead, you pretend to not know what they are talking about effectively outing their ill-informed gossip. Charlie also hadn’t shown any initiative to ask you out on an actual date so you’re unsure where the fuel is coming from. 

The next day at work you decide to pull back seeing as the entire town somehow thinks you both are dating. You took your lunch before Helen, the words of the older ladies on replay in your head. Sure it was the wrong messenger but it was the right message you don’t know what you were thinking. 

It didn’t last a day, Charlie came by the desk deliberately when Helen took her lunch. 

“Hey there’s some discrepancies with the evidence log of Riley’s stuff, can you help me sort through it.” Though he posed it as a question he began to walk toward his office immediately. 

Once you’re in the office he shuts the door behind you before he moves to stand in front of his desk.

“I just uh wanted to check that everything was alright,” He clears his throat before continuing, “That you feel comfortable or if there’s something I’ve done.” After he finishes your face morphs to shock.

“No of course not, I just know there’s been some gossip around town about us dating and figured I’d have lunch by myself.” Charlie’s eyebrows furrow at your admission.

“I haven’t heard anything did someone say something to you?” His voice drops at the thought of anyone badgering you about this. 

“It’s not a big deal, and I didn’t want you to feel uncomfo-” He cuts you off with a deadpan stare. 

“Why would I be uncomfortable with people thinking a woman out of my league is dating me?” His definitive words leave you stunned. “It is a big deal, do you remember who it was?”

“No it’s fine Charlie really,” You try to convince him.

“It’s not if means you don’t go to lunch with me.” He gripes.

“I didn’t realize you enjoyed my company that much.” You stare at him until he returns your gaze.

“Well I do.” He assures you.

The both of you stand in front of each other in silence, the smile grows bigger on your face at Charlie’s confession. 

“Does this mean you want to go on a date with me?” You inch your way closer to him, gently tugging his tie. 

“Of course I do, I was working my way up to it.” He swallows hard when he feels you get even closer to him. 

“Yeah?” Your eyes never stray from his as your smile widens. Charlie’s eyes fall to your lips just as quickly as he looks away. You grab his hands placing them on your waist before bringing your lips to his ear. “How about now?” 

Charlie’s hands firmly grip your waist when he feels your warm breath tickle his ear. His pants grow tighter when your perfume invades his nostrils. When you reer back to look at him he wastes no time planting his lips on yours. His mustache tickles underneath your nose but you respond back with the same fervor. You tilt your head to the side to deepen the kiss, Charlie groans at your eagerness. 

Your hands slide up his chest and wrap around his neck to play with the hair on the back of his neck. When his tongue licks your bottom lip you eagerly open your mouth to him, pressing your chest against his. Charlie lets his hands dip to cup your ass through the jeans you’re wearing, earning himself a pretty moan from you. The way his tongue licks into your mouth gives you ideas of what else he would be good at. 

But all good things come to an end, and a knock at the door sends you two flying apart. You immediately focus on fixing yourself so it doesn’t look like you were in a make-out session with your boss. A folder catches your eye and you pick it up hoping to look busy. Helen peeks her head in to let Charlie know Bella is getting dropped off by Edward. Charlie’s eyes roll to the back of his head at the mention of his daughter’s boyfriend, you can’t stop the giggle that pours out of you. 

Helen slips back out and Charlie walks over to the far corner you’ve placed yourself in. “It’s a little backward now but would you let me take you out on a proper date?” 

“I’ll have to check my schedule.” You smile up at him knowing he knows you’re joking.

“How does Saturday at 7 sound?” He bends down to your ear before continuing, “I know a nice Italian place in Port Angeles.” When he pulls back he is glad to see the bashful expression on your face. He’s still got it. 

“It sounds great Charlie.” You get on your tip toes to peck him on the cheek before exiting his office. 

On the way to your desk, you see Edward and Bella sitting in the waiting chairs talking. As you sit down you see Bella’s head snap in your direction, her and Edward's conversation halting. You pretend to do work as usual until Charlie comes out to greet Bella and grunt in Ed’s direction. 

[lilithlinen]

A Dance With Destiny - John Wick x You

Summary: In the heart of the city, amidst the rhythmic pulse of life, two worlds collide. You, and your husband attend a masquerade ball, where you unexpectedly reunite with your past lover, John Wick, a deadly and legendary assassin. As you share a dance and reconnect, your passion reignite, unbeknownst to your husband.

Sitting at the bar on the upper levels of the Continental Hotel, the music is loud, & the bass is amped enough to be felt through the floor, neon lights flashing. You're just about to take another sip of your drink, when you notice a man among the crowd, sporting a sharp-looking suit, could it be him? you ignore the thought, thinking that it's impossible. You continue sipping on your drink and fix the strap of your dress. The man stares for a few moments more, sizing you up, and then moves on, seemingly paying you no mind. Moments later, you feel a tap on your shoulder.

You turn around slowly and look up at the man standing, your heart nearly skips a beat, you gulp and put your drink down. "John?"

A faint smile crosses his face as he nods. "Yeah… That’s me."

You let out a shaky breath and wrap your arms around him, you have known each other for years and it's been 10 years since the last time you saw him. "Oh my goodness...it's really you.."

"It's been a while, I guess…" As you release him from the hug, he notices your wedding ring. "I assume you got married…"

You move your hand away as he notices your wedding ring, touching the necklace you're wearing with your name engraved on it, feeling uncomfortable "...Yeah, I did. And..." You sigh softly, "I'm sorry about your wife."

"Helen meant the world to me. Just how you mean the world to someone else now." A shadow crosses his features, before being quickly replaced by his calm facade. "So…" He motions to the crowd, gesturing to all the people around them. "What are you doing here, exactly?"

You sigh softly looking at him, feeling a bit nostalgic. You take a sip of your drink before answering him. "Well, my husband is handling some business here with Winston, what about you? Are you working again?"

He nods. "Not by choice, mind you. I’m Excommunicado. Have been for the past year."

You furrow your brows and look at him with concern. "I have heard. They must be looking for you.."

"Trust me, they have been looking for months by now. I came here for a drink, and to see an old friend. Seems I got two things off my list." He smiles softly.

You touch his arm warmly and smile softly, "You can't imagine how happy I am to finally see you after all those years...10 years, John."

"It seems like yesterday. You still wearing that necklace?" He looks at you, eyes softening slightly.

You touches the necklace you're wearing with the engraving of your name, smiling softly. "Yeah, the one you gifted me...never took it off since then."

His voice is gruff. He gazes into your eyes. "Remember what you told me back in El Sauzal? About love being worth fighting for? It rings truer than ever now. I couldn't save mine, but you found yours." He gives your hand a squeeze. He sighs at the memories of the time spent together, a bittersweet smile on his face. "You didn’t take it off, even through your wedding?" He looks at you, curiously.

You nod slowly sipping your drink, then you put the glass down and look at him. "Yeah, even through my wedding. It never leaves me."

His eyes look like they're staring into your soul, filled with that same faint smile, still questioning. "So, you never forgot about me either, huh?" He takes a sip of his drink.

You look at him sadly. "How could I-....How could I, John? We almost spent a life time together."

Silence falls between the two of you, though it doesn’t feel awkward at all. The music is still booming, people still dancing, though you can't help but feel like John is staring into your soul. Suddenly, he pulls you closer, bringing you into a firm embrace. "Y/N, listen to me…" You gaze at him as he brings you into a firm embrace.

He doesn't kiss you, despite feeling the urges. Instead, he leans down and whispers in your ear. "Don't…ever let anyone know I'm here." He pulls back, the weight of the burden that's hanging over his shoulders apparent on his face. "They're looking for me, and I'm running out of time and places to hide. For your own safety, Y/N, please don't tell anyone. Especially your husband. And if you ever need help don't hesitate to contact Winston, he owns me a favor."

Your gaze slowly moves from his lips to his eyes and nod your head. "I won't, John.." You gather yourself and look at him. "I wouldn't do that to you. I want you safe...that's all that matters to me."

He sighs, then looks straight into your eyes, his voice low yet urgent. "I should leave soon, Y/N. Before it's too late. But I'm not leaving without one last dance…"

You look at him sadly because he is leaving again and only god knows if you will ever see him again. "I would love that, John."

He holds out his hand for you to take, and as your hand gently touches his, a spark of electricity ignites within him. Just like old times. He smiles, and leads you to a small, relatively secluded corner for a quick dance. Slowly, with the music booming with the beat, he holds you in a slow embrace, the feeling of your soft and inviting presence almost making him forget the danger he is in — if only for tonight.

You dance slowly to the music and you're holding onto him just like the old days, forgetting about everything and your husband, just enjoying his presence before he leaves.

His expression is soft, lost in the moment with you, remembering all the good times and bad, and just how much he's missed you. He takes you in a gentle embrace, and twirls you. Despite it being a slow dance, there's a spark that fills the air between the two of you, and you can't help but notice the way he looks at you, with affection and yearning. He twirls you once more, and your face is just a few inches from his. You gaze into his eyes savoring each moment.

He doesn't say anything, instead reaching out, caressing your cheeks, looking into your eyes, and then softly pressing his lips to yours in a long and passionate kiss — your first kiss after so many years of waiting.

Without hesitation you close your eyes and kiss him back passionately, wrapping your arms around him in a loving embrace.

Your bodies move almost as one, your lips intertwined in a rhythmical, sensuous dance. You both kiss for a good minute, before he finally pulls back, breathing heavily and staring at you, longing, wanting you, and yet knowing that this is your last kiss for who knows how long. "Y/N, please forgive me for doing this to you…" He whispers, your eyes still locked, his hand now moving down to your waistline.

You gaze into his eyes and cut him off by kissing him passionately again, and just for this moment, you forget about everything — the people dancing, the loud music, your husband — it's just you and him. It's as if you hadn't been separated for 10 years. Your tongue meets his, giving in to your deep, long-suppressed yearning for each other.

Your warm, velvety lips envelope his once more, as your bodies melt together in another fit of passion. Your tongues twist and entwine, your faces just an inch apart, and your hands roaming freely across your bodies. One hand of his grabs your neck, gently guiding your head, as the other finds its way under your dress, moving the fabric out of the way to expose your smooth legs and touch your bare thighs. His lips leave yours for a moment, to move down to your neck…

Your bodies pressed so close together that every inch of your skin is felt on his. You're his, and he is yours, though you can’t admit it. You run your fingers through his hair, holding him in your embrace, kissing him passionately — like it's the last day on Earth.

Your body pressed against his is the most intoxicating feeling he ever felt in a long, long time, your movements in sync as if this is all meant to be. His lips leave your neck, and he gazes at you, smiling, yet in your shared moment of passion, there is a hint of melancholy — the fear that this might be your last dance for a long time, or perhaps the last dance ever. "Y/N, you have to believe me, when I tell you — that you have always meant the world to me…"

You look into his eyes sadly as you stroke his face tenderly and lovingly, gazing into his eyes "I've always loved you, John.. And I'll always love you." Sighing at the feeling of melancholy. "Will I ever see you again?"

Your touch on his cheek soothes him, yet he grimace, realizing that he can't guarantee anything, yet he can't leave you thinking he wouldn't want to see you again. His eyes glance at your face, and then at his watch, knowing it's high time for him to leave. He sighs, and whisper softly. "Yes, I promise. One day, I will be with you once more. But tonight, I must go." Again with the melancholy...

You know that it might be the last time you ever see him, you nod slowly and hold his hand tightly while gazing into his eyes. "I will wait for you, no matter how long it takes."

He smiles. Your words are something he cannot describe, and yet they pierce his heart all the same. For a long moment, he stays still, not saying anything. He and you both know that this night might be the last of its kind. However, the promise you made is all he needs to hear to make this as bearable as possible. He gives you a final, long kiss and whisper. "Goodbye, Y/N. Until we meet again." Before you can respond, he leaves, disappearing into the dancing crowd, heading for an exit.

After he leaves, you sit back at the table, as the melancholy fills you again and everything around you. You look down at your wedding ring and let out a heavy sigh. "Fuck it."

As you sit there gazing at your wedding ring, a hand slowly moves in on your shoulder, and a voice whispers. "Y/N." You look up, to see your husband standing there, with a look of surprise on his face. He eyes your necklace, the one John gifted you years ago. His gaze is locked in with your own, before his eyes widen in both recognition and horror. He opens his mouth to say something, only to have no words come out. The shock is all his face.

You look at your husband and frown a bit. "Hey, what's going on?"

His grip tightens on your hand, and he stammers, trying to find the right words. The revelation is clear on his face — that something happened with you and John, and he can't handle this truth. His eyes darting between your face and the dance floor where John disappeared. Trying to maintain composure, he says. "Did... did you and John....? This isn't the first time you met him here, was it? Tell me everything. Now!" His voice quivers, and his questioning eyes speak volumes about his anger and betrayal.

You swallow hard, your heart racing. His question confirms what he already suspects. You remember the promises you made John, the connection between you two — something deeper than friendship — and now you have to decide whether to lie or tell the truth. With a heavy heart and clammy palms, you look away from him for a moment, trying to gather your thoughts. "It's complicated, Leo. I can't explain right now. We were just old acquaintances. Please, let's talk later."

Leo's eyes narrow, his jaw clenching as if he wants to argue further. But eventually, with a heavy breath, he decides to give you some space. He nods once, his face filled with hurt and betrayal. He reaches over and cradles your face in his hands, his eyes never leaving yours. As if to remind himself of the true depth of your relationship, he leans in and plants a lingering, passionate kiss on your lips, before pulling away. "Alright, fine. But this ends tonight. I need answers." And with those words, he turns and storms out of the club, leaving you alone, amidst the laughter and music. You remain seated, feeling a mix of fear, guilt, and a tinge of sadness. The night had turned out to be far different than what you expected. How will you resolve this mess?

[jungle-angel]

Pretty In Pink (Calvin Evans x Reader)

Summary: You and Calvin couldn't have imagined a more perfect way to spend Christmas than with your family until you find a gift for your daughter

Warnings: Mentions of childbirth, breastfeeding etc.

Tagging: @floydsmuse

You awoke groggy and heavy headed to find that it was still snowing outside, but that Calvin was just starting to wake up, your baby girl squirming in her little Moses bassinet at the foot of the bed.

"Mornin my sweet little pea," he cooed sleepily, gently lifting her to his chest, blanket and all. "Merry Christmas."

Ellen settled down against him, her whimpers starting up as she began beating at his chest with her tiny little fists. "Alright, alright," he chuckled. "I know, Daddy doesn't have anything you need, but Momma might."

You laughed a little as he brought her to you and gently placed Ellen in your arms. "Merry Christmas sweetheart," he said before placing a soft kiss on your lips.

"Merry Christmas Cal," you said, undoing the lacings on the front of your nightgown.

You felt Calvin's hand suddenly covering yours. "Let me help you sweetie," he said.

You smiled at him. He was always so sweet and considerate and so attentive since Ellen had been born just two weeks before Christmas. Calvin helped you undo the lacings and helped you so that Ellen could latch on and feed properly. Usually at this hour of the morning, she was fussier than usual, but in no time at all, she was happily sucking back her breakfast, her eyelids softly opening and shutting every so often.

Six-Thirty suddenly came darting in with a little note between his teeth and pawing at Cal's leg. He took the note from Six-Thirty and opened it, reading his mother's neat but scratchy handwriting.

"C'mon down, your nieces and nephews are getting impatient, love mom," Calvin read aloud, laughing to himself a little.

"We'll be down in a minute," you yawned with a happy, but sleepy smile still on your face.

"Take your time," he said, gently littering your cheek and forehead with soft little kisses.

As soon as Ellen was full, you joined the rest of your family and friends in the living room, excitedly opening your presents as Patricia, Cal's sisters and Dr. Powers's mother all began putting breakfast in the oven. The girls from your nursing major at school had joined as well, bringing a family member or two with them while Father McDowell and his wife Helen, had joined you with their children and grandchildren after the church services were done for the morning.

"Oh wait a sec, what's this?" Cal chuckled. "To Calvin (y/n) and Baby Ellen, from Aunt Jean."

"Oh Aunt Jean and Uncle Alfie?" Patricia asked, mixing together a mimosa. "They always send the nicest things for Christmas."

You and Calvin opened it up and to your surprise it was a pair of pink pajamas for Ellen with a little hood bearing a pair of floppy little bunny ears, the feet at the bottom also bearing the felted image of two little whiskered bunny faces. You and Calvin were in stitches when you saw it as were most of the other family members.

"You know what this means don't you sweetheart?" Calvin asked.

"Oh yes," you answered. "Plenty of photos for years to come."

Calvin carefully folded up the little pjs and placed them carefully in the box. You both couldn't wait to see how Ellen looked in them, nor could you wait for Easter to roll around, knowing she'd be the cutest little bunny anyone ever saw.

[johnwickb1tsch]

The Night Nurse ~ Chapter 10

A John Wick x Helen Fic

Masterlist / Chapter Map

Author's note: It's been a minute since I posted on this fic, I'm so sorry!! I lost a good chunk of this chapter to an untimely computer update (fuck you very much Windows) and I was so frustrated I just had to let it sit for a while. BUT I finally managed to re-write it, so here we are! I hope you enjoy! 💗💗💗 (Oh and the illustrations here are from the turn of the century version of Afanasyev's Russian Fairy Tales, the book John hid his marker in, in JW3...you'll see why.😉)

Times gets tough

Oh, they get tougher

Hold on to me

I got you, darling…

-I’ll be your man, The Black Keys

X.

The walls of his library were lined with built-in bookshelves, filled to the brim with antique and vintage books. A single leather reading chair sat in the corner with a lamp and a small table. A larger table took up the center of the room with a proper book cradle. Helen breathed in, reveling in the magical smell of old books. She realized that this must be where John gets some of that intoxicating scent of his, bottom notes of leather and parchment paper. The chair in the corner looked well-worn, and she imagined him spending hours of his downtime just sitting and reading away the day.

For the umpteenth time, it squeezed her heart to the point of pain.

Throughout the course of the tour, they did not let go of each other once. John didn’t seem to mind handling books with one mitt of a hand, the fingers of his left laced tightly with Helen’s.

“Do you still have your book of Russian fairy tales?”

“Yes.” Gingerly he pulled it from a shelf, resting it in the cradle on the table. 

They perused the book together, Helen leaning against his shoulder. He was warm, and solid as a tree, and for a heady moment it was difficult to concentrate on the antique tome, no matter how beautiful. The illustrations were utterly gorgeous, and she mentally kicked herself into focusing. She thought about a young John toting this beloved book around the world with him like a Lost Boy with his teddy bear, and the thought succeeded in tying her up in inextricable knots. 

John turned to a page of an illustration of a lovely peasant woman in the woods, holding a torch made of a glowing human skull. “Oh, who’s that?” asked Helen.

“That’s Vasilisa the Beautiful,” answered John.

She hovered her finger over the first line of Cyrillic, careful not to touch the paper. “What does it say?”

John read it aloud, his voice low and all for her, and she sighed a little, not understanding a syllable. For some reason hearing him speak another language so easily, and something about the lilting cadence of the language in his deep voice, the soft shh and musical ya sounds of the Russian words inspired a curl of lust in her belly, a small thrill zipping down her spine. She shuddered lightly, and prayed he hadn’t noticed.

He absolutely noticed, his pupils blowing wide with desire. Doggedly, he kept them fixed upon the page below.  

“Is that, ‘Once upon a time’…in Russian?”

“Something like that. This is a Cinderella story about a young woman who outsmarts her wicked stepmother and the Baba Yaga with her determination and the help of her magical doll. It’s one of my favorites.”

He’d seen a bit of himself in Vasilisa as a young man, straining under the yoke of his unforgiving masters. He turned the page to reveal a witchy old woman riding in what looked like an upright log. Helen couldn’t suppress a grin. “Oh look, it’s you, Baba Yaga.”

John snorted at that. “I still don’t know what idiot started that damned nickname,” he groused.

Actually, he suspected it was Marcus, but he’d never found out for certain.

“It sounds fierce, at least.”

His lips twisted in a smirk, and he couldn’t help himself from turning to look at her, then. Their faces were torturously close. “Think I should get some flaming skull torches for out front?”

“Yes, I think the neighbors would love that,” she deadpanned, and more felt than heard John’s responding chuckle.

He turned the page to a new illustration of a strapping knight on a black horse. “Oh hello, handsome. Who’s this guy?”

John narrowly resisted the urge to ask if she had a thing for men in black, even as that telling warmth clouded his brain.

“That’s…Night.”

“The night Knight?”

“Yeah.”

“Hmm.” Her lips twisted in a cheeky smile. “Nice. I like him.”

“You would.”

“I have excellent taste, John.”

He found himself looking at her mouth again, thinking her taste would be excellent. For the umpteenth time, he managed not to kiss her by the skin of his teeth. By the way she was looking at him...maybe he didn't need to be exercising such restraint. But maybe that was the excellent wine talking

Maybe he really was an idiot.

“So...in reward for being clever Baba Yaga gives Vasilisa one of the skull torches. She takes it back to her house, and when she lights the candles her wicked step mother and awful step sisters burn up.” 

“Oooh. And she lives happily ever after?”

“Well...she marries the tsar, for what that's worth.”

Helen wrinkled up her nose, communicating her opinion on that. “Overall, I give it a nine out of ten.”

John couldn’t help it then. He actually grinned, showing teeth. “Glad you liked it.”

“Thanks for sharing with me.”

“My pleasure.”

She was still leaning on his shoulder, and was it him, or had she somehow sidled even closer, her body pressed to his side? Her eyes traveled leisurely from him to the book to the chair in the corner. It was then that she noticed that the bookmarked novel on the side table was a mass-market paperback she recognized quite well.

He’d taken her recommendation on the Codename Villanelle spy thrillers, despite teasing her about her taste in books, what felt like a lifetime ago that fateful night in the subway. The fact that he was on the second one touched her to no end, and she squeezed his arm.

“Aww, you’re reading about Eve and Villanelle,” she purred. “You like them?”

“Yes. You were right, they are fun.”

“Taking notes from Villanelle?” The Russian spy was wickedly clever at finding ways to kill her targets.

“Maybe. That poison hair stick was something. Think I could pull it off?” Helen reached up to curl a lock of his dark hair around her finger with a smile, and John couldn’t stop himself from closing his eyes, overwhelmed by the sensation of her touching his hair.

He was hopeless.

“Oh, definitely. You could so rock the man-bun.”

John rolled his eyes at that, reluctant to admit that he often did when training.

Helen looked back to the book, now with what John was learning to recognize as a sly glint in her eye. “I’m on practically the same spot in that book,” she noted. “Want to read me a chapter?”

John looked at his reading chair, the comfortable old soldier that it was. It was also the only place to sit in the room, and he went a little cross-eyed at the thought of Helen curled up in his lap in it.

There would be zero reading done, of that he was certain. He would debauch her for the first time in that chair, and maybe again on the table for good measure.

A virulent heat licked at his collar as he imagined it. Fuck him, but she was making him blush.

“Sure. Let’s take it to the living room,” he proposed, ignoring her lips pursed in a theatrical pout.

Minx. She knew exactly what she was doing to him—and he was increasingly unsure why he wasn’t just letting her have her way.

He scooped up the paperback book, her hand still firmly clasped in his other while he led them back to the recessed living room. He set the book down on the couch. “Want another glass of wine? I’m going to clear these dishes.”

He needed to clear his head, and he felt Helen look at him with some disappointment that felt a little bit like being stabbed.

“Can I help you?”

“No, this is your night off. Sit, relax. I’ll be right back.”

“Okay.” She seated herself on the couch with only the book for company.

She watched John practically flee into the kitchen, and wondered if she’d done something wrong.

Regaled by the sound of clinking dishes and the faucet running, Helen looked around at John’s shelves. They were rather bare, though she noticed he had a bit of a CD collection on display. It plucked at her nostalgia for the days before everything could be so easily accessed via the hand-held computers known as phones but so rarely used for actually talking.

Standing, she decided to be nosy and thumb through them. He seemed to favor classics, from classical music, to rock and blues. There was very little on the shelf dating from past the 90s, and that made her smile for some reason.

“See anything you like?”

She turned to find John with two freshly-filled wine glasses in tow. He set them on the coffee table, before joining her at the built-in cd tower.

“Some good stuff here,” she agreed with a Chili Peppers cd in her hand. The fiery pool with the ocean in the background on the cover tickled the nostalgia center in her brain for sure. “Who are these guys?” She pulled out a black and white album with a high contrast photo of a guy with glasses, and a bearded dude.

“Never heard of the Black Keys?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Oh, honey.”

She chuckled. “Ok, do not pull the my taste in music is better than yours card. I will leave.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” he defended with a sly close-lipped smile. “I reserve that card only for books.”

She snorted in answer, and found herself gravitating closer to him, even just standing there looking at his music. She just couldn’t help it.

That really was some good wine he served with dinner.

She watched as he popped open the jewel case, feeding the CD into the slot of his player. He hit a couple buttons, and the speakers erupted with a very bluesy distorted guitar riff. It was loud, and John laughed a little as she jumped—conveniently, into his arms.

“Sorry.” He turned down the volume slightly, his arms circling her waist almost of their own volition. It felt so easy, being with her. Maybe from the very moment they’d met, it just felt like she should be in his arms, and acting on it made something loud and uneasy always clamoring in the back of his brain to go quiet. She swayed her head and shoulders a little to the beat; it was impossible not to.

“John?” she asked from beneath his chin, brushing the soft scruff of his beard with her nose. It filled him with a tingling warmth, in the very marrow of his bones, a pleasure in this closeness that just seemed too good to be true. It was like a drug, better than cocaine or heroin or anything else he’d ever tried, and he didn’t know how he would ever let her go.

“Yeah?”

“They made you learn ballet at your…school, but do you like to dance?”

He’d spent so much time in night clubs, hunting, and acting as backup muscle for Tarasov while he closed business deals, but it wasn’t a setting he really enjoyed. He wasn’t sure he really classified the writhing and arm waving one engaged in at the club as dancing. He was familiar with other dance forms, but they didn’t come up often in his life.

 “I feel like you’re actually asking me a different question,” he teased, leaning into her to reach out to skip to a different track.

“I am?”

“You’re asking if I want to dance with you?”

The first metallic notes of Dan Auerbach’s guitar rang out, and John swayed to the beat, a hand on her svelte waist pinning her close. With a smile she moved with him, her other hand finding his.

“Do you?”

He looked down at her with a glint of mischief in those shining dark eyes, and so much warmth that a flood of heat washed through her from her hair follicles all the way to her toes. This man. She really would follow him anywhere. Maybe the wine they’d drank lubricated this thought process, but she knew that didn’t make it any less true.

John knew that his answer to any question that involved an activity with her would be a resounding yes. Groceries? Yes. The dentist? Fine. Just hold his hand. He was broken for her.   

 “Of course I do.” He lifted his arm to guide her in a turn before pulling her close again, and she simply couldn’t help it. The joy in her heart soared.

Then the vocals in the song began, and Helen couldn’t help the fuzzy warmth that spread in her chest. Need a new love? I’m ready. Want my time? I’m willing.

There wasn’t a huge amount of open space in the living room, but John was very good at making do, leading her in steps to the beat, throwing in fun checks and turns and behind-the-back maneuvers that made her giggle. She knew she sounded drunk. It was on him though, far more than the wine. He made her happier than any one had in a very long time. Maybe ever, if she was being honest with herself.

To make things even worse, the chorus of the song rang loud in her ears with the infectious guitar riff: I’ll be your man. Mmm, I’ll be your man. She didn’t know if he picked this song on purpose for the lyrics, or the intoxicating rhythm, but she felt it in her bones, and in her heart, and every cell of her being; she was so attuned to this man.

She almost tripped when he attempted to twist her up like a pretzel in a figure-eight step, but he caught her, laughing with her as he held her close.

“I’m not that good,” she apologized, clinging to him more than she really needed to. He was just…so solid, and if she was being honest all she really wanted to do was climb him like a fucking tree.  

His arm around her waist was like a warm band of iron, and he smiled gently down at her. She felt herself melting like chocolate in the sun, her knees gone weak beneath her.

“That’s ok. I’ve got you.”

She couldn’t stop the sigh that escaped from her throat. Because, she knew it was true, and not just here being silly dancing in his living room. She realized she trusted him not to drop her no matter what they were doing, or what they were facing. That kind of faith in another person, much less a man, was a rare and precious thing.

“John…” she said softly, looking up into his warm dark eyes from so very close. She wasn’t sure if she was asking a question, or if she just needed to cite his name like a prayer, invoke him like a saint in her personal pantheon. Maybe it was madness, but wrapped up in his arms like this, he felt like something to believe in.

Her eyes drifted down to his mouth, those full lips she’d coveted since the moment they’d met, if she was telling the truth.

This was the moment that John’s will to fight it broke at last. He felt it inside, not like a hard snap, but a definite release, like a boat coming unmoored, being swept down a swift stream. There was no more resisting. He was lost to her.

Pulled like a magnet, he finally leaned in that fraction of distance to press his lips to hers. His kiss was like a sunrise in her heart; warm and bursting, soft and sweet. She couldn’t stop herself from standing on tiptoe with a low moan, looping her arms around his neck as she pressed her body against his. It won her something like a deep growl that thrilled her to her toes, and greedily she wanted more.

She teased the seam of his mouth with her tongue, begging entrance he gladly granted. She felt the tremor in his arms as he held her, so tightly that he nearly lifted her from the floor. He kissed her like a starving man offered a life-giving meal, and her fingers fisted in his hair at the back of his head, holding him to her, holding on.

His heartbeat a thundering timpani in his ears, John felt like Helen’s lips on his was the answer to a question his heart had been asking his whole adult life. She was the air he breathed, the sustenance necessary to live, and the desire to drink her down, to eat her up, was a dogged, insistent demand from the darkest depths of his soul.

He never wanted to let her go.

With a ragged breath he pulled back to rest his forehead against hers, his fingers digging into her sides. She might have bruises later.

She didn’t mind.

She wanted his hands, rough or gentle.

She wanted all of him, and if he didn’t return his mouth to hers she was going to scream.

“Helen,” he panted. “I—”

The tinny electronic sound of his phone ringing in his pocket interrupted what might have been a foolish—or a life changing—confession. “Fuck,” he cursed under his breath, knowing he had to answer it. That was the deal with the devil he’d signed, when he didn’t really have any better choice. He was on call all the time.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized.

She nodded, but did not extricate herself, leaning on his shoulder while he pulled the device from his pocket. It was Viggo Tarasov, and his heart dropped like a stone. It was rare that the boss Himself called. He absolutely had to answer it, and he had a feeling he wouldn’t like what his pakhan had to say.

With a heavy heart he lifted the phone to his ear, his other arm still wrapped possessively around Helen.

“Da?”

“Good evening, John.”

John fought to keep the impatient snarl out of his tone, but feared he failed royally. “Evening, Viggo.”

“I’ve just heard some interesting things about your latest adventures about town. I think we need to talk.”

That was probably the understatement of the century.

“When?”

“Now.”

Of fucking course.

“I can be there in an hour.”

“Good.”

Viggo hung up, and John clenched the phone in his fist, fighting not to throw it across the room. He knew Helen heard every word for the way she sighed with disappointment, snuggling into the bend of his neck. The sensation of her front molded to his was heaven, and he didn’t know how to let her go.

“I’m so sorry,” he apologized with lips to her forehead. “I have to go.”

“I understand.” There was some consolation, in that she sounded as devastated as he was.

“You’ll be ok here? My house is your house. Help yourself to anything you want.”

She made a kittenish little sound that sent all his blood straight to his groin. “What I want is leaving,” she informed him with a pouting lip, tugging on the front of his shirt.

He couldn’t stop himself then from stealing another kiss, a deep and probing thing that left her breathless and starry-eyed.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he told her.

“Promise?”

“Yes.” John wondered what Viggo had in store. If he was in trouble, or if his boss would send him out to teach the Medvedev boys a lesson tonight. He didn’t want to go hunting that night. Everything he truly wanted in the world, he realized, was standing right in front of him, looking up at him with melted toffee eyes. He cupped her cheek, memorizing every detail of her all over again.

He realized with a startling clarity that he could never get enough of her.

The intensity of his stare sent a thrill jetting down her spine. “John…” He worried her a little, when he got like this. She wasn’t afraid of him, exactly—but some little intuition in the back of her brain sang out that something bad might happen.

“It’ll be alright,” he told her, sensing her unease. “I have to change.” He kissed her forehead again, and disappeared up the stairs to his room.

Helen plopped down on the couch with a sigh, crushed with disappointment but knowing this was how it was, and she understood more than ever now that it wasn’t his fault or his choice. She picked up the Villanelle book, No Tomorrow, stroking her thumb over the cover, but not cracking it open.

When John stalked down the stairs he was wearing one of his slim-fit all black suits again, his hair slicked back from his face. He looked beautiful, and predatory, sleek as a panther stalking in the jungle, and fierce attraction warred with dread in Helen’s breast. She had a feeling that someone might die tonight, and it was so strange to think in those terms with such a sense of acceptance.

At least she knew John’s prey would be no one innocent.  

“Don’t forget you owe me a chapter,” she said in a sing song tone as he approached, waving the book, trying to lighten the pall that had fallen upon the room.  

The smile he paid her was filled with melancholy; she felt it like a knife between the ribs. “I won’t,” he assured her, taking her hand to press his lips to her knuckles. He paused, looking down at this beautiful woman seated on his couch, with her legs that went on forever and the warmth in her eyes all for him. There was nothing he wanted more, than to stay there with her. To lay her down and kiss every inch of her perfect flesh. He probably should have told her that, but he just sighed, and let her go.

“I’m going to leave this here, just in case,” he said, all business as he showed her a blocky black automatic pistol. “There’s one in the chamber. All you have to do is pull the trigger. It has a long trigger pull but please do not touch it unless you need it, and be very careful.” He stashed the Glock in a drawer beside the couch. “I’ll leave the alarm on. If it goes off I’ll get an alert on my phone.”

With wide eyes she nodded. “Do you…think the Medvedevs will come here?”

“No, or I wouldn’t leave you here alone.” He honestly thought this was the safest place for her. “But…” One never knows.

“Okay.” He could tell that he managed to scare her a little, and he hated himself for it.

“I’m being paranoid,” he tried to assure her. He dared add, “Because you’re precious to me.” She softened then, and stood to wrap her arms around his neck once more. Embracing her was as intoxicating as kissing her, and again John warred with himself as to how he was going to leave.

“Come back to me,” she demanded softly, kissing the soft scruff of his cheek.

“Always,” he answered without allowing himself to think about it, pressing his lips to hers in a long, gentle kiss filled with all the yearning in his heart.

Reluctantly, he slipped from her grasp, and didn’t look back.

She watched him go, admiring his tall dark form even as he was leaving her.

She heard the roar of the Mustang starting in the garage, and the trail of its growl as it prowled across the driveway, disappearing down the street into the night. She couldn’t help but feel like her heart sped away with it.

[sorryseraphim]

“Enver?”

“Yes?”

He kissed her hands, caressing them afterward as he felt Helene’s body cool, her breathing returning to its normal rhythm. Laying down the sheets after their bodies experienced a symphony of passion, their moans and gasps served music just a little earlier had died down to sighs of relief and pure bliss.

“Have you explored the entirety of Rivington as a kid?” Helene asked him, staring at the ceiling. Breathing deeply, Enver pondered for a bit. He never really explored the entire city when he was a child, nor even now that he has become a Lord; he never really had the time, and walking down the busy streets only brought back bitter memories of the family he had long forgotten after doing him wrong.

“Not really. Given the nature of your work, I know you have been there a lot more than me.” He replied, trying to jest. He expected her to respond with her usual humor, but she replied with a tender voice, almost childlike.

”Did you know there’s a beach down the city? There’s an actual beach, not just a view of the ocean. Sands and all.”

He raised an eyebrow, looking at her. There are always surprises each time they lay together as if Helene is giving him new sets of keys each time, unlocking a piece of her she had kept hidden for so long. “A beach in the city? How did you stumble upon that beach?” He asked her.

“I was trailing someone once, you know, the usual. And I… saw it. I was in awe as the waves roared. They come and go violently. I had to stop for a while and sit.”

It’s moments like this that made him somehow calm. These are peaceful moments where the two of them are alone together, in the stillness of his chamber, without the world watching them, without the tension of their rivalry. Without the need for power to weigh on them. That was the beauty of it: just them and their pure, unadulterated self, knowing each other bit by bit.

“And? What of the beach?”

“I go there now every so often, I am in Rivington. To relax, to sit idly. Sometimes minutes, sometimes an hour.”

“My dear, I think there are hundreds of other places which are far better to find peace if that’s what you’re after with the beach. I cannot believe you’re choosing a cold, dirty ocean filled with trash and fish.”

She sat up and looked at him, giggling. “It’s not dirty! And it does bring me peace.” She leaned forward to him, resting her chin on his chest, looking up at him, their eyes meeting. He laughed softly at her reason, a teasing smirk forming.

“Are you sure you’re not hiding anything from me? I can’t imagine why you’d want to go to that filthy place when you’ve got me here in bed.”

Her giggling turns to laughter, a delicate melody escaping her lips, her eyes closing softly. “I’m not hiding anything from you, you know that. It’s just a place to relax. For myself. You can come with me; it might change your mind.”

“How about I convince you that the pleasure I give here, in my bed, is much better than whatever your filthy ocean can give you?”

She glanced away briefly, smiling as she faced him again. “I’m telling you this because I thought you might like the beach! Now you’re just teasing me.” It was now his turn to laugh softly, finally hitting a nerve, as he humored her further. He sat up, brushing the hair off her face. She looked radiant in the afterglow, her divinity showing as she sat before him with only the blankets covering her body. If they could always stay like this, it would be more than a miracle, more than a gift from the Gods he could never repay.

“Yes, I am. I just can’t believe something filthy like an ocean gets to have moments with you that I do not know.” 

“Enver!”

“I will stop. I will. The ocean can have you sit by yourself, seeking its solitude. You can watch its waves as it crashes the shore, but you, my dear, are my ocean. How I look at you brings me immeasurable peace just by seeing how beautiful and soft your skin is to my touch. No ocean can compare to you.”

She smiled at him, biting her lip as she leaned forward, her lips meeting his: a tender union. 

“Even when you said I’m sometimes too much to handle?”

“Helene, you are too much to handle all the time.” He replied with a grin, his hand slowly caressing her chin. She laughed again as she looked at his eyes, drinking him in like she would be deprived any day of his warmth.

“And you still want me, desired me even.”

“Always, every minute of every day.”

[chloessleepystories]

Sisters part 6

At home, Helen was dancing around the living room, completely nude. Cleaning, more or less, but mostly just flicking a rag at knickknacks while she spun and kicked.

She had such energy! Her vision was all sparkly!! Being naked just felt so good!!

And she loved loved loved all the new songs she’d found on the second iPod. She liked humming along to the one that sounded like the Pina Colada song -

Now, you don’t need to remember

What you would like to forget –

All you need to remember

Is obedience, pet

 – even though she could never quite remember what the words were. The words were different, but ... she couldn’t remember what they were? An’ it was funny, but there was other stuff she wasn’t so good at remembering right now! Like ... why she had ever NOT wanted to be naked! Or how long it had been since her pussy was soooo drippy ...

She giggled. That’s a funny word. Pussy pussy pussy.

You’re gonna be

Dumber

Dumber

Dumber

Cuz dumber is

Funner

Funner

Funner

Actually, at the moment she couldn’t even remember what day of the week it was, or that she had ever married or had children. She just wanted to flop on the couch and giggle. So she did. She idly picked up the remote with one hand and turned on the TV. With the other hand she just as idly flicked her clit.

Mmmmm, that felt heavenly ...

The TV came to life, blaring suggestions at her. Commands.

“You should shop at Target! Only at Target!”

Click.

“You’re a busy woman! You don’t have time to shop! That’s why you NEED DiGiorno ...”

Click. Stroke.

“You’ve been good all week – treat yourself! Do something just for you! How about a spa weekend?”

Click. Stroke stroke stroke.

“That’s why you want – ”

“That’s why you need – ”

“Family is important! That’s why you always put your family first – and why you always shop at – ”

Click.

“A dog can change your life!”

She clicked the TV off. In the sudden silence, the wet sounds from her fingers in her cunt sounded obscenely loud. Just like the roaring surf of the echoes of the commercials in her ears.

Shop

Spa

Pizza

Dog

Family

Dog ... Shop ... Family ... Dog ... Pizza ... Spa ...

One could almost imagine the universe spinning a roulette wheel above her head. Then another kind of echo:

“Such a good devoted sister ...”

Family

Click.

Helen sat upright, still clutching her breast and her crotch. “I need to go see my sister!!! Right away!!!”

[supernovasilence]

Sorry if this is random, but Casmund with Rilian idea: I know this isn't likely possible, but what if Edmund takes Rilian and Caspian to meet his mother. Edmund and his mother haven't seen each other in a few years(for Edmund in Narnia it's been longer). So she had no idea about Caspian, Rilian or that her son is gay or where he's been for the last few years. But Helen Pevensie has always felt her children were different. Ever since they came back as children they've been different. Edmund especially so. So yeah I just want Edmund to have like a once in a lifetime chance to introduce his mother to Caspian and Rilian(maybe his siblings to. Lucy being back in Narnia)

No, I love this. I like au's where the Pevensies stay in Narnia, but it does make me sad when they have to give up England and everyone they knew there. (I have several fics I'm working on that use the idea that, after PC or VDT, Aslan lets the siblings travel between Narnia and Earth, because I just want them to have their cake and eat it too, but even so, when they grew up they'd def move to Narnia full time, and their parents would hardly ever see them and know nothing about their lives.) So I love the idea of Helen seeing Edmund again.

And he's a stranger now, but he's still her Edmund, too. She doesn't understand his life--it's certainly not the life she imagined or wanted for him--but then her grandson smiles at her, or she sees some small gesture of affection between Edmund and Caspian (they exchange looks, having a conversation with just their eyes, and then Caspian puts a reassuring hand on Edmund's back while Edmund waits for his mother's reaction, and Edmund relaxes just a breath), and it's so like how Helen and her husband interact. And she understands that Edmund's life is not the one she'd have picked, but it's a good life. It's a life full of love. So she embraces her son, and then she embraces her new son-in-law and her grandson.

(uhhh sorry this got away from me a little; it's just such a good idea)

[mykingdomforasong]

Ooh, how about Historical + Huddling for Warmth with DinLuke for the mashup?

((I have a wip where Din is basically Shakespeare and Luke is his patron (Earl of Southampton), so I've set it in that universe -- England circa 1593 (the plague summer). This is a very self-indulgent AU. This doesn't fit the prompt that well, but it's the historical period I know the most about.))

Rating - M (could maybe be T)

~

Din sat at Luke's writing desk, his fingers of his left hand scratching at the fine, polished wood, as his right hand clutched a quill that scratched away at the parchment. Candles and moonlight lit the room. A rare breeze blew through the room, cooling the hot summer air with all the force of a child blowing the steam off a hot stew.

The right word was evading him. He'd tried half a dozen or so, but none of them fit the meter or set up the right rhyme. His foul paper was covered in more scratched out words than final ones. He felt guilty for abusing his master's fine paper in such a manner, but there was no other way.

He stopped scratching, and instead turned into tapping.

Impediments, he wrote. tap TAP tap TAP. Yes, that would do.

"Master poet," Luke called to him from his spot on the bed. In his usual fashion, he hadn't dressed after making love, choosing to just wrap himself up in his sheets and drift to sleep. He pushed himself up now, the candle light dancing off the blonde hairs of his chest. "As your patron, I must insist you stop writing and return to bed."

Din had left him in a flurry of sheet and pillows when he felt the muse call to him. His coy mistress had abandoned him though by the time he reached ink and paper. With his newly discovered word impediments he'd managed to squeak out a single line.

"I felt inspired, my lord," Din told him.

"You can be inspired over here," Luke said. He reached out his left hand, trying to pull Din back in his direction as if through the air. "It's such a cold night. I'd appreciate some words to warm my bed."

Din laughed. He'd pulled on a linen undershirt when he'd gotten out of bed and nothing else. Even that was already sticking to his chest with sweat. The August heat and the light of the candles kept the room hellish, and their nightly activities only made it worse.

"I think I should keep my distance if you feel chilled in this weather," Din said, but he dared not speak any more in jest for fear of welcoming Death into the home.

Luke flopped back onto the mattress with a dramatic flare to rival Din's own fellow players.

"I'm not chilly," he admitted to his lie, "just burdened with desire."

"Then you should feel hot," Din corrected. "I don't know that I would help alleviate that feeling."

"You, master poet, are the only one who can," Luke said, propping himself up just a little to see if Din would move towards him.

Din abandoned his sonnet, stood up from the desk, and stripped off his linens.

Luke's bed was feather-stuffed, and his bedding was cotton and silk. The air around him seemed always so impossibly perfumed; all luxuries Din imagined belonging to Cleopatra and Helen of Troy. And yet, here they were now, under his knees.

"You, my lord, are a lusty devil," Din said, retaking his position over his patron. Luke's sweet mouth met his. Din felt his hand in his hair, and the stump of his right wrist where Luke had lost his hand trace down his side.

"And thou, master poet, are incredibly tedious." Luke's hand was between them now, moving in lawless ways.

"I'll write you a sonnet in so high a style, Luke, that no man living shall come over it, for in most beautiful truth you deserve it," Din promised. Luke always flushed with passion when Din used his Christian name.

"Any words that might keep you from me tonight are foul," Luke insisted.

"No," Din protested, kissing his cheek, then neck, then chest. "Fair, only fair words."

"Fair is foul," Luke said. Din couldn't quite make sense of that one.

"Then stop my mouth," Din said.

Luke did as he was bid, and captured his mouth again. Luke wrapped his legs around Din, pressing Din even closer as if he wanted every inch of Din to be flush against him. Din always managed to forget just how strong Luke's legs had become from a lifetime of riding. He found himself utterly at the mercy of his patron.

[chartreuseian]

Hey, for the WIP game, I would love it if you could post a bit about James arriving. I'm loving mr and Mrs and I've been wondering about his reaction to them being so in love.

Hi hi!!

You're too kind 🥰🥰🥰

So! James come to hang out with them in the summer, thinking that he'll help give them some time apart (because in his head they'll still be suffering under the whole force marriage thing). It was suggested by phoebemaybe in a comment and I sort of fell in love with the whole idea.

Below is the not quite the opening to the chapter in which James becomes an actual, physical pain in their butts (Nikola and Helen, in all their very turned on glory rush into the room and don't notice until it is Much Too Late)

---

Nikola let his head fall back against the wall as one hand moved to tangle in her hair. The feeling of her nimble fingers plucking at the buttons of his trousers was the most enticing aphrodisiac he could imagine, and he felt himself smile at the promise of pleasure the image of her kneeling before him offered.

Unwilling to miss the sight of Helen’s dancing blue eyes, he straightened up a little, casting his gaze down until…

He stopped, his blood running cold.

“Helen,” he croaked, the hand in her hair tugging her back a touch more harshly than he intended.

“Nikola!” she cried in alarm, following his name with a cry of pain. In an instant he let go of her, but he didn’t look to see if she was OK. There were more pressing issues.

“Helen,” he started again, swallowing and eyes wide.

“What on earth is the matter?” she grumbled sitting back. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her rubbing at her hair where he’d pulled.

“James,” he breathed, half in acknowledgement of the other man, half as a warning.

Helen turned quickly then and Nikola felt his cheeks burning as he watched James. He was lounging in one of the chairs by the window, legs crossed and wearing a smile that made Nikola feel like a naughty school boy caught with his hand in the sweets tin.

“Well, well,” James said, cocking his head. He looked between them before his gaze settled on Helen. “I guess I owe Griffin a drink.”

“James,” Helen breathed, and while Nikola could hear her excitement, the fact that she still hadn’t moved from where she knelt made it clear that this visit was as much of a surprise to her as it was to him.

“H-how?” Nikola breathed, not moving. 

The other man smirked and held up a small leather satchel.

“Picked the lock.”

[idabbleincrazy]

Never a Wish Better Than This Ch. 4

Fandom: Smallville

Rating: E

Pairing: Clex

Word Count: 3760

Warnings: smut, dirty talk, masturbation, foreplay, rimming, anal play, oral, deep throating, face fucking

Summary: time for a little show and tell

A/N: look who finally got to the smut! at least one more chapter coming, maybe more. and i've a feeling this will lead to a series that rewrites the tail-end of s4 and probably going into s5.

Lex's POV:

Christ, he's beautiful like this. The urge to see him keeps my eyes from staying closed as I kiss him like his saliva is quenching the thirst I felt back on that island. And, I know I'm babbling again, words bitten out in harsh whispers between licks into that supple, pliant mouth, but I don't give a damn. I've wanted this for so long, dreamed of this a thousand different ways, and the reality is so much more than I ever could've prepared for. 

Hearing he was jealous of Victoria, of Desiree, of Helen, of all the flirtations and dalliances in-between, made me harder than I've been all night. That he had had feelings for me, just about as long as I'd had feelings for him…that he's been thinking about this for so long…

"Tell me", I husk out against his lips. "Tell me what you think about, what you imagine when you're alone at night, up there in the privacy of that loft. Wanna hear what you jerk off to, Clark. Tell me."

And I do want to hear it, now that I know I'm in those fantasies. I hear him gasp at the request, his hips bucking up into mine. He's as hard as I am, I can feel it through all the layers between us, and I can't hold back a groan. 

"Shit." 

Why is it so inexplicably hot to hear Clark curse? To know I've finally made him use his big boy words. Wanna hear more of those words that would probably make him blush again if he weren't already too hard to care.

"Tell me."

"'K, yeah…Christ, which do you wanna start with? What I imagine doing to you, or what I imagine you doing to me? Or, what I picture when I think of you, all alone in this huge-ass mansion, and how you might look when you jerk-off? So much to choose from, Lex, tell me where to start."

Oh, Jesus fucking Christ! Maybe it was a bad idea, after all, asking him to give details…might not last to actually play out either of our imaginings. I'll give it a valiant fucking effort, though. Luthor image to maintain here. And then, the idea pops into my head, a way to get us both some relief, without embarrassment; I've no doubt his teenage libido will have him ready for another go in no time, and my own refractory period is still a testament to my youth. 

Giving Clark one more hard kiss, I force myself off his lap, my cock twitching at the grunt of loss he makes, his hands reaching for me as I twist away and sprawl myself across the other side of the bed. 

"Tell me what you imagine me doing when I'm on my own, Clark. Tell me, and I'll show you it, exactly as you describe." I turn my head towards him, taking in the look of aroused surprise on his face. Pupils so blown, there's barely a thin ring of sparkling green around them. "Oh, and Clark? Feel free to touch yourself while you talk."

Clark's POV:

Jesus Christ, I'm so turned on right now, I can barely think, and he wants me to talk? To tell him what I picture him doing to himself? My cock is aching against the zipper of my jeans, and I can feel all the words I never say aloud coating my tongue, trying to force themselves past my lips. Have to remind myself that I'm an adult now, those words are no longer forbidden. Need to try one out, see if it gets the same reaction as the first…

"Fuck, Lex." And, oh, yeah, his eyes flutter closed for a second, like he's savoring the sound of my voice saying those two words. Like he knows that's exactly what I want, to fuck Lex. "God, when I picture you, alone, hard, and so fucking needy…sometimes, you're in your office, but sometimes, you're in your bed, spread out just like now. Not ready for sleep yet, so you're still wearing clothes. But not for long."

"Good."

Can't help a chuckle at that, at his eagerness to be naked for me.

"You like to tease yourself, in my mind, so you do it slowly, unbuttoning your shirt one at a time." Except he's not wearing a button-up this time, so he improvises, lifting the hem of his shirt up, little by little, baring an ever-widening strip of pale flesh to my gaze. "Yeah, such a tease, Lex, just like always."

He slides the shirt up, up and further still, my eyes taking in each inch of revealed flesh. His belly button, that I just wanna lick into. Subtle abs I want to trace over with lips and teeth. And nipples, pink little nubs that I ache to bite at, tease them into hardness. God, he's beautiful.

"Take it off, Lex."

He lets out a moan at the firm command and immediately complies; I file that away for later contemplation. The shirt flies over at me and there's a smirk playing on his lips as I catch it with a low growl. 

"I don't recall saying that you're in a playful mood right now."

He merely shrugs and stretches back out against the sheets, his hands stroking along the comforter, head nestled into the pillow. I look over the long planes of skin revealed to me, and get the sense that he's preening. I bite back a groan and get back to the task.

"When I think of you like this, once your shirt is off, you start toying with yourself, like you're seeing how much you can take, how long you can wait until it's too much." Lex takes a little initiative and strokes a hand along the side closest to me, long, thin fingers sweeping up his torso. "Sometimes, you let out this sexy moan of need, and start plucking at your nipples, tugging at them, makin' 'em all pretty and perky. Yeah, like that, all flushed and waiting for teeth to sink right into them."

Another moan, unbidden, escapes that kiss-reddened mouth of his, and I have to cup myself, squeeze my dick to stop from losing control. 

"Clark…"

"Yeah, you do that in my head, too. Call out my name so fucking needy like that. One hand twisting at your tits", and Christ, when did my tongue become so bold, "the other slipping down your stomach, teasing along the waistband of your pants, fingers dipping just under it."

My hand rubs at my groin as I watch him follow my instructions, his neck arching back, soft sounds of pleasure falling from his lips almost constantly. I can feel heat starting to rise behind my eyes, and I hurry to tamp it down. He's not even completely naked yet, and already my control is straining. 

"You unbuckle your belt, open your pants, just a little, just enough to relieve the pressure some." He does, and I'm not surprised to see he's not wearing anything under the slacks; I am surprised by the sparse layer of red hairs there. Arms, armpits, and chest, so far he's been completely hairless, so the change is a little shocking. "Sl-slipping your hand inside, you give yourself a short stroke, just a taste of what you want, and you can't help but buck up into it. Always so fucking hot when you do that."

He does, and I can see how it pains him to rein in his need, to not just keep stroking till he comes. 

"Oh, God, Clark…baby, please."

I gasp at the pet name, surprisingly aroused at him calling me anything other than Clark, or Kent. I like it more than I thought I would. 

"You keep it up though, teasing your nipples, other hand only stroking down your aching cock", loud, drawn-out moan from that, "every minute or so, never enough, until you're squirming against the sheets, like you're trying to get away from the torture. Only then, when you're so hard you can't stand it, only then do you slip off your pants."

Lex groans loudly in relief and scrabbles to hurry out of his slacks, kicking them carelessly off the bed and flopping back against the mattress. His legs are spread, knees bent and feet braced against the bed, and I scoot over to the end of the bed, facing him, taking it all in. He's completely open to me like this, his long cock hard, pointing up towards his stomach and leaking, the head red and painful looking. The base is surrounded by a thin sprinkling of the fine red hairs, same as his balls below it. I can just see the curve of his ass, the shadowed crevice that hides the spot I want to bury myself in. His legs, like the rest of him, are hairless, sleek and pale, deceptively lean, and I can see the powerful muscles in his thighs clench as he shifts slightly under my scrutiny. I wanna touch him, want to taste him. But I resist, and continue the game, my voice huskier than I've heard it even in the back alleys and clubs of Metropolis. 

"You stroke yourself more steadily, now, your other hand sliding down to cup your balls, rolling them. My name falls from your lips again, not quite begging, not yet, but still so sweet." It does, and it is. He's scooted further up the bed, to brace his back against the headboard, legs still spread, and my eyes flicker between the motion of his hands and the wanton look on his face. And, dammit, I've got to stop reading Lois' trashy romance novels, I shouldn't even know that word. "That's it, Lex, just like that. This, this is when you start to imagine me there, kneeling just like this, in front of you, just out of reach. In your head, I find you too hot, too much, and I just sit there staring, watching you pleasure yourself. I won't touch without being asked, and you don't ask yet, but you want to see me, too, so like a good little fantasy-Clark, a blink of your eyes and my shirt is gone."

I super-speed out of my shirt before he can even follow through on the order, my chest bare before his eyes flutter all the way shut. His hands stutter in their rhythm for a beat, a gasp followed by a low groan as he roves his gaze over me. 

"Don't stop, don't speed up. You never speed up, not yet, not till you see everything." My hands are on my jeans now, fingers slowly undoing the button, slipping the zipper down, tooth by tooth. Oh, God, he whimpered. My dick is throbbing now, and I'm afraid to even touch it enough to pull it out of my boxers, don't wanna go off before I see him come for me. It's a close call, and his responding hungry growl at the sight of my cock nearly 'causes me to set the curtains on fire, but I bite my lip hard and manage, barely. "You keep stroking as you watch me watching you, your other hand drifting down, between your legs. You tease yourself there for a minute, your fingertip just circling 'round the rim. You see my eyes glued to where your finger is hidden, hear the groan of need, and know what I want. And you give it to me, spread yourself open more, so I can see all of you."

The hand around his shaft grips tightly at the base, but he does as bidden, gripping just beneath a thigh to part those pert cheeks, revealing the perfect pucker hidden between them. It clenches and unclenches as I stare, and I can just see his hand resume pumping out of the corner of my eye. Want him. Wanna touch and taste and feel. 

"You're so close now, and I haven't even touched you yet. And you want it now, want me to come closer, wanna feel my hands replace yours, feel my mouth on you. You always want it, now, and that's when you beg."

That's all the permission he needs, and the babble turns back on, everything spilling out that he's kept in so far, his hand slowing again.

"Clark, please. I want it, baby, I do. Christ, so much. So fucking hot, Clark, hearing you talk like this…didn't know you had it in you. Fuck, baby, touch me, suck me, anything…want your sweet fucking mouth, those strong fucking hands…c'mon, Clark, show me, show me how it happens in your fantasy. What that Clark does to that Lex. Show me."

Lex's POV:

And he does. Oh, God, he does. His clothes are gone completely in a blur and he's kneeling between my wide-spread legs. Jesus, he's gorgeous, all golden skin and sweeping planes of hard muscle. And that cock…fuck, that cock…knew he'd be big, but like everything else about him, it exceeds expectations. At least two inches longer than mine, and thicker than I think I've ever seen outside of porn. Uncut, too, the foreskin nearly completely retracted from the ruddy, leaking head. 

I lose track of taking inventory of his enticing figure as his hand replaces mine on my cock. Can't help the cry of surprise as his warm fingers grip almost painfully tight around the shaft, starting a slow, firm stroke, his thumb swiping over the slit, smearing the pre-cum that bubbles up anew under his ministrations. 

"Oh, baby…yeah, touch me, please, taste me."

He smirks up at me, and oh, I've awoken a monster; that wolfish twist has never played along those plump lips for me before. His eyes lock on mine as he lowers his head, his tongue flicking out to rasp over the head of my cock.

"Fuck!"

"Soon, Lex. Soon."

I bark out a shaky laugh at his very un-Clark-like tease, the sound turning into a groan as he licks me again, swirling his tongue around the tip, collecting the fresh drops of pre-cum with a hum of pleasure. He's still fisting me slowly, his other hand sliding up my thigh and over, cupping my balls, squeezing them gently between thick fingers. I try to buck up into his mouth as he teases, but he pulls away, turning his head to press hot kisses to the juncture where thigh meets hip. I did not just whimper?! God, I haven't felt this much of a needy slut since my teen years, when I was just learning all the pleasures to be had, but I can't help it, don't even want to hold back the sounds anymore, not when he so obviously enjoys it.

Clark gives a quick nip to my inner thigh, and dips his head again, but not to my cock. I feel the slick wet of that devious muscle lave over my tightening sac, and down, over the sensitive strip of skin beneath my balls. His shoulders nudge my legs wider as he goes lower still, his tongue slipping down between my cheeks. As I feel him lick over my twitching hole, it's all I can do not to cum, a sharp cry falling from my lips as I writhe beneath him. 

Had I really thought him to be so innocent? Where is that shy, virginal farmboy now, and who is this confident young man working his mouth over that most private of places? A flash of jealousy jolts through me at the thought of Clark doing these things with other people, learning just how to touch and tease someone so perfectly. The tip of his tongue breaches me, driving out any thoughts of envy, leaving only the need for him. I thrust down as much as I can, taking him in further, knowing neither of us will sleep tonight until it's his cock pushing into me and shattering me into pieces like this.

"Oh, God, Clark! Fuck, baby, yeah, like that…just like that. Christ, this what you picture, Kent? Huh? Me begging for it, aching for it, fucking myself on your tongue? So fucking hot, Clark. Holy shit, baby…gonna make cum like this, so close, Clark, so fucking close…"

I feel myself open for him, feel his thumb tugging at my rim as he pierces me with his tongue, a slow, steady rhythm of thrusting that matches his strokes on my throbbing cock. He presses in deeper, and I lose it, cock spurting its load in body-racking pulses as his tongue presses against my prostate. I think I'm screaming his name, can't tell from the haze of pleasure stuffing my ears like cotton. And then my mouth is covered by his, the dark taste of myself on his tongue making me shudder out another spurt of cum as I somehow manage to wrap my arms around him, clutching him close. 

His thumb is still there, dipping in and circling around, bringing me down slowly from this unexpected high, his other, cum-sticky, hand soothing lightly along my side. He's murmuring wordlessly against my mouth, and I will my brain to turn back on, knowing there's still so much more to do; he hasn't cum yet, and I want to touch, to taste, to see him fall apart for me the way I just did. To show him a little of what I imagine when I'm alone and thinking of him.

His hand is gone from between my legs now, his fingers trailing through the puddle of cum on my stomach. I feel my cock twitch in renewing interest as he raises them to his mouth, licking away the sticky drops and letting his eyes flutter closed at the taste of me. As he enjoys himself, I gather my wits enough to turn us over, pushing him onto his back and quickly sliding down his broad, hard body, to settle between his legs. Looking over him, I promise to take my time on the next go, but the sight of his reddened leaking cock is proof enough that he probably won't mind quick and dirty right now.

"Lex?"

"Wanna taste you, Clark. Wanna show you part of one of my own fantasies. That okay, baby?"

"Fuck…yeah. Do it, show me."

Flashing him a devilish smirk of my own, I waste no time in swallowing him down. I want him hot and heavy in my mouth, filling my throat like I want him filling me elsewhere later.

"Oh, my God, Lex! Jesus Christ, so good." My eyes flick up to him and his head is thrown back against the pillow. I can tell he's holding back, not wanting to hurt me by thrusting, his hands clenching the sheets. I swallow around the thick length, earning a restrained buck of hips. "Fuck, Lex, baby, not gonna last, too good."

I want to see him undone, so I grab one of his hands and guide it to my head, moaning around him at the feel of that huge paw sliding over my scalp. He forces his eyes open, looking at me like he's asking permission, and I grant it with a slow blink and another swallow.

"Oh, fuck, Lex…thank you…", he groans out, understanding, giving in.

He doesn't push against my head, just holds me steady, and I let my hands slide under him, gripping handfuls of the firm globes of his ass as he bucks up into me. I let my throat go lax, letting him fuck my mouth, and I know my voice will be raw and raspy later, a reminder of this. 

He's babbling now, broken sentences of wonder and praise, and I feel a surge of pride at being able to reduce him back to the bumbling boy I fell in love with. I squeeze the cheeks of his ass, urging him faster as he gets closer, wanting him to spill. I let my tongue work at whatever part of the huge cock stretching my jaw I can as he slides in and out of my throat, the round head pressing against my esophagus as I will my body not to gag; it's been so long since I've deep throated anyone, and never one this big, it's probably only through the sheer force of my desire that I manage at all.

A clench of his hand on the back of my head and a stilted cry of pleasure is all the warning I receive before he buries himself deeply, his cock pulsing against my tongue as he cums. I pull back slightly, catching the last few spurts on my tongue as I suck around the head of his cock, savoring the salty, heady taste of him before swallowing it down with a satisfied hum. Slightly thicker than I'm used to, but not bad, just apparently a different consistency than human semen. The scientist in me can't help but catalog the difference, file it away for later consideration. If I weren't so worried of anyone else getting ahold of his DNA, I'd probably save some to put under a microscope, just for personal edification. 

I suck at him, drawing every drop I can, until he pushes lightly at my head, his cock no doubt sensitive after such a release. I let the half-hard length slip from my mouth as I kneel back up, licking my lips for any spilled seed.

"Knew you'd taste good, Farmboy. Like fresh churned butter."

Clark stutters a breathless laugh, shaking his head incredulously and I just smirk back at him. He pulls me up his body, draping me over him, and pulls my head down for a deep, tender kiss. He lets out a soft moan as he licks at my tongue, his cock twitching against my stomach, obviously enjoying what he tastes. 

Breaking the kiss gently, I roll us onto our sides. He cups my face, his thumb swooping along the line of my cheekbone, and I arch an eyebrow at him. For someone obviously experienced enough to rim me without hesitation, there's certainly an odd look of wonder on his face.

"You're amazing, Lex", he voices an answer to my unspoken question. 

Letting my hand drop between us to feather my fingers along his reawakening cock, I let my lips twist into my teasing smirk. He lets out a hiss, bucking into the light touch. God, he's magnificent like this, and he's not even fully fucked-out yet. But he will be. Leaning forward, I kiss my way along his jaw, nipping at his earlobe.

"You ain't seen nothing yet, Spaceboy."

******

@leatafandom

[late-to-the-magnus-archives]

And Eat It, Too - Chapter Two: Once Upon a (Bad) Dream

In which Jon deals with traumatic dreams, makes a really unwise deal with Michael the Distortion, and pisses Elias right the hell off…

>>> NOW ON AO3!

Listen - Elias is on his bullshit in this one, so be prepared for emotional manipulation, gaslighting, etc.

Also, Jon is having Circus nightmares. The imagery is brief, but could be triggering.

(Masterpost including playlist)

-------

CHAPTER TWO

The smell of awful flowers wakes him.

Underneath it is something sour, all his own, from who knew how long in the same clothes and the same chair and only luck they let him use the bathroom twice a day. He feels gross. Ready to peel off his own skin, the Circus be damned.

His stomach rumbles. How long—

“A month,” says Elias from somewhere.

No, Jon doesn’t want to deal with him. Keeps his eyes closed. Petty and proud of it, thank you very much.

Elias sighs. “Really, is this necessary? I’d imagine you want to go home and get cleaned up as soon as possible. That won’t happen, however, until we have a little talk.”

I’m at the Institute, Jon thinks, remembering CCTV, remembering Helen, remembering that if he’s here, then someone will have seen him here, and he can be arrested, and he didn’t hurt anyone, and—

“Jon,” says Elias.

“Don’t you ‘Jon,’ me,” he snaps.

“There you are. I’d begun to worry,” Elias drawls.

Jon wonders if he still has the strength to deck him after all, potential broken hands be damned. “Wait. A month?”

“Yes.”

He sits up, room spinning wildly enough to make the Vast happy, and stares. “I was gone a month?”

“I understand you’re upset,” Elias says.

Maybe Jon was wrong. Maybe this was the nightmare, the real Corridors, and he was just going crazy with the worst possible scenario. He sputters, too many words trying to come out all at once and tripping over each other. “Did you even try to find me?”

The force of Elias’ gaze is heavier than Breekon and Hope’s fists. “Of course.”

“Then why didn’t you find me?” Jon sounds like a child, hates it, hates feeling betrayed, abandoned. Replaceable.

Elias sighs. “I’m not omniscient, as much as I would like to be. When you appeared on CCTV in front of the hospital, I was as startled as anyone, and deeply relieved.”

That’s probably all he’s going to get. “Right.” Jon swallows.

Elias rises from the desk and comes around, holding a plate.

Jon’s not done. “Are they coming for me? Police?”

“No. For some mysterious reason, they couldn’t get a good look at your face.” Elias says, absolutely deadpan, and hands him a small pile of finger sandwiches. “Eat something before you pass out. This should be light enough that you can handle it.”

Jon groans and lies back. “No.” This feels bad. Everything is bad. Secretly, he hopes he’s staining the couch beyond repair.

“Really, Jon,” says Elias. “Such childishness.”

“Go to hell,” says Jon.

“Very eloquent. There is a reason I brought you here instead of taking you home.” He places the plate on Jon’s stomach and returns to his desk.

“I’m sure,” mutters Jon, and looks at him again.

Elias smiles, his usual under-the-skin expression that Jon once saw as banal and now knows is anything but. “So very curious to find Miss Richardson alive after all this time. So very curious to see you hand-delivering her to the hospital, practically wrapped in shiny paper and a bow. So very confusing to see you turn around, ignore the medical help that, I daresay, you felt in need of, and walk back into the Spiral’s door.”

Was it an accusation?

It felt like an accusation.

No—it felt like condemnation.

Jon swallows, trying to imagine Gertrude’s end, being shot three times and left to bleed out under the ground, unseen.

He wouldn’t feed me if he wants to kill me, would he?

Maybe it was poisoned. “What are you saying?”

“Merely trying to prompt conversation, during which you will—hopefully—share enough of your experience to indicate where the Unknowing is taking place.”

On one level, that makes sense.

Stopping the Unknowing is the priority. It has to be.

Still.

It was hard not to take this personally.

“It isn’t personal, Jon. We’re running out of time.”

Plastic hands, reaching under his shirt, rubbing lotion on him. “It felt personal.”

Elias ignores that. “I saw you appear on camera like a rabbit from a disreputable hat,” he says. “I was preparing to come to the hospital and help you when you turned around and chose a monster instead of anything reasonable. Jon, I need to know what happened. I need to know I can still trust you.”

Jon gapes at him. “Still trust me?”

“Yes.”

Jon feels like a sputtering tea kettle. “I’m not the one who murdered two people!”

“Yet you are the one we’re all relying on to stop the Unknowing. I cannot replace you, Jon, but if you have been compromised, I need to know now.”

“So just take it from my mind, then!”

Elias sighs. “I could. But what would that accomplish? We already have a fractured working relationship, Jon, and I have no plans to fracture it further. I am trying to work with you, not against.”

Absolutely amazing, the amount of censure Elias was able to put into those words. Jon finally sits up, lifts the sandwiches. Cucumber. Boring. The best thing he’s ever had in his life. “I am not allied with the Spiral,” he says between bites. “Are you out of your mind?”

Instead of answering, Elias lets him eat. He puts a tape recorder on the desk, then folds his fingers and looks at Jon expectantly.

A statement. Of course. “I need to go home.” (This is home.) (No, it’s not.) “I need sleep that isn’t done upright, tied to a chair.”

“Jon—”

“No! No. I shouldn’t even be alive, and I wouldn’t be if a literal monster hadn’t decided to play some sort of game involving promises of my imminent death—“

“Jon.”

“They were going to skin me!”

He’d screamed that.

“Jon.”

Jon stops.

Puts his face in his hands and just tries to breathe.

Elias’ tone is gentle. “I am sorry that I lack your power to make this statement easier on you. That is the ability of an Archivist, and I am not the Archivist. I do know, however, that you will feel better if you give your statement. Our patron will reward and heal you.”

“Right. Not like I can haunt my own repeated dreams, can I?” Jon knows that probably made no sense, and he laughs. It’s a bad sound.

“I’m listening.”

It’s soft.

It’s a command.

Someday, Jon wants to know how Elias can put so much authority into so little.

Jon tries.

Explanation is slow to come. He is tired; he’s pulled on his fledgling skills too much; he’s half-starved. He’s probably in shock. And it’s hard to think around Elias on the best of days.

For some reason, he elides Michael’s statement. What Gertrude did. The sacrifice she made of her assistant.

He also skips Michael’s dialogue toward the end. He doesn’t know why.

But at last, he’s nearly done. “I… Helen was… I had to promise to go back in order to save her, and …” He trails off. “It let me go. I don’t know  why. I  think I was too tired to entertain it anymore.” He swallows. “I think it might come back.”

Elias sighs. “The Spiral’s entire goal is to leave you fearful because you doubt your own judgements, ideas, and circumstances. Jon. Do you understand why I am concerned that you went back into it willingly?”

“I had to. If I’d lied, it would know.”

“Jon.”

Jon stands, thinks better of it, sits again. “I know. I know, Elias. But it wants to stop the Unknowing, and that matters more than any of the rest of this.”

“Does it?”

“Elias—”

“Here is the hard truth: as much as I would prefer to have options, there is no one else suitable for your role.”

“I—”

“Should you die, go mad, or, say, sacrifice yourself for some stupid woman who doesn’t even know your name, you are condemning us all to the Stranger’s new world.”

“That’s not—”

“It won’t bring Sasha back.”

Jon gasps. Can’t release that breath, not for a long moment.

The words cut him, burn, cauterize all the way down, searing unseen scars.

Elias lets him sit in it.

“That’s… not fair,” Jon finally manages.

“But it is true. I cannot hold your hand through this. I cannot stop you from throwing away the lives of your assistants, your friends, the entire world, if that is what you truly want to do—but I can and will make sure you know the cost.”

Jon stares at the floor. It’s too much. Sasha’s mention has undone him, cut the legs out from under his fight. “Did Gertrude know the cost?” he whispers.

“Gertrude… was very good, in her very limited way. Unfortunately, she became quite adept at hiding herself from me.”

“How awful for you.”

Elias sighs. “She was not a good Archivist, Jon, no matter what you may think. I only let her carry on so long because it made for an excellent distraction while I researched other things. Her violence, her ruthlessness, did not matter, but now things do. You will take risks as you learn. You will be harmed. That is unavoidable. But throwing yourself into death, especially for some woman whose survival changes absolutely nothing, is something I cannot ignore.”

Jon won’t take it back. Won’t apologize. Tries to say that if he stops caring about the Helens of this world, then he won’t be saving anyone but himself.

Nothing comes out.

He’s so tired.

Elias seems happy to see him cowed. “Was there anything else? Any details. Anything about the place where you were held.”

As though he hadn’t just eviscerated his Archivist.

Jon clears his throat. “It was a wax museum. Old, mostly abandoned, I think. I don’t know exactly where.”

“That narrows it down significantly. I’ll have the others start digging.”

“The others. Did… did they look for me?”

“They didn’t know. It wouldn’t have helped matters. Martin’s research, at the very least, would have been sloppier.”

Oh, good, there was more heart yet to cut out of him and boil.

Jon already knows what this means. They all just think I abandoned them, he thinks, and it wouldn’t be unfair, he did before, he went deranged and paranoid before, and nevermind that the Eye did it to him, that Not-Sasha did it to him, made him crazy—that detail didn’t matter.

Jon presses his hands into his eyes. There really wouldn’t be saving any friendships after this.

“I am going to give you some statements,” says Elias, kind now that he’d finished the butchering. “And I am going to call you a cab. Go to bed, Jon. I do not expect you in tomorrow, though you will need to fill out a return-to-work form when you do.”

Jon groans. “Really?”

“Bureaucracy is a little like the Corruption, Jon—ignore it at your own peril.”

That pulls a laugh—unwilling, unsteady, but true. “Maybe you should fill it out yourself.”

“Jon! That would be unethical.” Elias puts a hand over his heart.

He shouldn’t want this easy banter, shouldn’t accept this kindness, but there is nothing else, is there, nothing left that Jon hasn’t burned. “I don’t…” Don’t what? Don’t want to leave the Institute? Don’t want to miss an appointment? Oh, yes, my upcoming murder, he thinks. Speaking of which: “Georgie’s going to kill me,” he mutters.

“Miss Barker has been informed. She is expecting you.”

Jon stiffens. “Informed?”

“Jon, it is eleven o’clock at night. You’ve been unconscious on my couch for two hours. I had more than adequate time to make preparations.”

The image of Elias in the break room, painstakingly slathering cucumber with cream cheese and Worcestershire, feels completely unreal. “You called her?”

Elias sighs. “I didn’t think either of you would appreciate you banging on her door after midnight.”

Again, it makes sense.

Again, it hurts.

He wants to say, Leave her alone!, but it doesn’t come.

Georgie won’t be left alone as long as he’s in proximity. The only way to keep her safe will be to leave.

To put distance between.

Jon grinds his palms into his eyes again.

“Come along, Jon. It’s going to be alright.” Elias is positively gentle as he takes the empty plate and deposits it somewhere.

Jon lets Elias guide him to his feet. Ignores the hand at the small of his back, mutters thanks when his feet stop working and he nearly falls but for Elias’ grip, then goes silent until he’s in the cab and on his way to Georgie.

He hopes the cabbie doesn’t have a working sense of smell.

It was the second time today a monster had been gentle about guiding him to what it wanted. The thought didn’t feel very good.

“Long night, eh?” says the cabbie. “I know the feeling.”

Jon refuses to engage.

#

Georgie lets him eat ramen, lets him promise to explain tomorrow, lets him shower for nearly forty-five minutes, lets him throw his clothes away in a sealed bag (the map has inexplicably smeared, gone to one gray and useless mass), lets him commandeer The Admiral for the night.

The cat doesn’t mind. Purrs, rubs his scent all over Jon, flops onto his lap with expert grace, and doesn’t seem to mind when Jon cries into his fur.

“You don’t care about Gertrude, do you?” He says to the demanding fluffball, pulling his face back as the cat shows his tail. He manages a watery laugh. “I’ll bet she didn’t even like cats. Would’ve thrown you into the Lonely, or something, with a bell around your neck to shatter it.”

The Admiral curls up, still purring, and hides his face against Jon’s thigh.

Jon signs and leans his head against the wall.

He wants to sleep.

He doesn’t want to sleep.

Doesn’t want to wander people’s nightmares tonight.

Elias’ words still hurt, throbbing in his chest as if the blade broke off in there.

“They’d manage,” he tells the cat, “if I didn’t come back. Martin, and the rest. They already did for a month.” He flinches. “Longer than that, if we count the being framed for murder subplot. Don’t think I like this series much. Shall we cancel our subscription?”

But that sounds far more dire than he intended, and he thinks that’s his sign to go to sleep.

He hopes Georgie still cares enough to be mad on his behalf in the morning.

#

Nikola laughing in his face, her own nothing more than wrong indentations, eyes nose mouth moving and uneven and hungry

Jon wakes, panting. Sweating. He goes to the bathroom, washes his face, tries to return to sleep.

Nikola laughing with stolen voice box and spraying him with blood from someone else’s throat

He’s sick this time, heaving over the toilet bowl. Nothing comes up.

Breekon and Hope holding him so tightly it hurts, forcing his head back, bruising his jaw open

The bruises are there on his dark skin, visible once he’d shaved, and he stares at them in the mirror as he shakes and tries to steady himself.

Sarah Baldwin’s stolen face slipping from her plastic head as she pours water down his throat, more and more and more and

Sleep is cursed, he decides, as he wakes choking.

Tells himself he’s free, he’s not being drowned, he’s all right, no one is forcing him down or rubbing him with oil or skinning him alive or looming with stolen faces—

His sob catches him by surprise, and he claps his hands over his mouth, hoping Georgie didn’t hear him in the other room.

“What interesting sounds you make, Archivist,” comes from behind.

Jon flings himself forward, tangles his legs in the sheet, and faceplants on the floor with a thud.

He grunts.

That thump had to wake Georgie. He looks toward the wall.

“Your friend is a very deep sleeper, Archivist,” says Michael, who can’t be here, who shouldn’t be here, who is going to kill him here— ”Do not worry. We are alone. I do like your cat.”

Jon kicks loose the sheets and scrambles to his knees, white-knuckling the bedclothes. “Don’t hurt him!”

Michael is on the bed, on the bed, oh gods, stretched out like it’s waiting for its closeup. A brand-new door looms behind the bed, bright yellow against the outside wall.

(How did it even open? Why did it choose there? Does it make the Spiral happier when the door is against an outside wall and therefore makes you doubt it is an outside wall, after all?)

The Admiral is playing with Michael’s long, curly hair. “I don’t believe you have much left to trade, Archivist,” says Michael, and raises its hand.

Jon gasps, thinks impalement, cruelty, The Admiral’s blood—

Michael pets the cat. Its fingers are too long, jointed in incorrect places, but they tease the Admiral’s back without causing damage. Judging by the purr, the cat likes it.

“What are you doing here?” Jon hisses. “Stop that!” He reaches.

Michael goes still, eyes on his, fingertips dimpling the Admiral’s fur.

Jon freezes, too. Closes his eyes, swallows. “Isn’t it enough you’re going to kill me? That’s not even my cat.”

“But it would hurt you to hurt it,” says Michael.

Oh, gods. “Please.”

Michael sighs. “I am not going to hurt your cat. There would be no point. While some of my ilk began with animal fear, and in fact, still enjoy it, I do not. Your cat’s fear would do nothing for me, and would only upset you. And I’d rather you be upset for… better reasons.”

Jon just stops himself from asking What reasons?

“I would like to talk,” it adds.

“Does talking involve my death?”

“Not tonight, Archivist.” And Michael pats the bed with its long, sharp fingers.

He doesn’t move.

It waits.

Jon shakes as he sits down, as close to the edge as he can manage without falling a second time. He stares at Michael. At Michael’s human face, expressionless except for the eyes.

Whatever looks at him through those eyes is too much, but it would be—the thing that became Michael is much.

How far back should I go? it had said.To the beginning of me? Centuries? Millennia? How do you define the start of your being when, in some ways, you have always been?

The words of Michael’s statement linger in Jon’s mind, teasing. Tickling. “What do you… want to talk about?”

“Our partnership.” Michael says, and grins with far too many teeth.

It’s petting the cat again, and the Admiral clearly likes it. Legends about cats being fay creatures scroll through Jon’s head, but he ignores them. “Partnership? What are you talking about?”

“I have gone out of my way to save your life several times,” Michael points out.

“And then you promised to take it,” Jon snaps.

“Oh, I’m still going to do that,” says Michael cheerfully. “But stopping the Unknowing… as much as it pains me to admit, Archivist, that must come first. I think we can… benefit one another.”

“How? For what purpose? What do you get out of it?” (Why now? What changed? Is it going to kill me the moment we succeed? Is it tricking me to give me back to the Circus? Why would it do that? Why would it do this?)

Michael’s boneless shrug makes the room tilt. “The Unknowing is an emptiness of information, an inability to hold on to even the most basic of things you know. I am a great twisting, a wellspring of lies—but without knowledge to ponder and doubt, I have nothing to twist. I do not care for the world the Stranger brings.”

It makes sense. Jon swallows hard. “So our goals are… aligned?”

“For now. Though as you know, I have another.”

“Revenge against Gertrude.”

Too quick to dodge, Michael pokes its pointed fingertip below Jon’s left eye.

Jon inhales. Freezes. He doesn’t dare move.

“Yes,” says Michael, dragging the tip down, not cutting, not drawing blood, but leaving a strange, tingling sensation in its wake, as though the cells of Jon’s skin are dancing at its touch.

Jon’s shaking is worse. “But Gertrude is dead.”

“Yet I still want it. It is such a contradiction, Archivist! To want a thing that can never be, yet I am the one who makes others yearn for misremembered things. I dislike it. Your employer is here.”

“What?” Jon’s still trying to parse that sentence, trying to ignore the tingle in his skin.

“I visited him first, before I came to see you,” Michael says with great cheer. “I left him a note saying that I wanted to make a deal, and where I was. I suggest you let him in, or his knocking will wake your friend.”

Georgie. She has to get through this night unscathed, has to. I’ll make them chase me and lead them into the park, he thinks wildly, and scrambles for the door.

Elias is there, fist raised to knock, and the look on his face is terrible.

It’s heat like Jude Perry’s fire, weight like Hezekiah Wakeley’s graves, ear-rupturing depth like Fairchild’s sea.

And the moment they lock eyes, it’s gone.

“Jon,” says Elias, lowering his fist. “May I come in?”

Jon makes a sound that wouldn’t qualify in any language and steps aside.

Elias smells like night air, cold and biting, and he ignores Jon as he takes off his fitted coat. He’s carrying a book in one hand—nubbly red leather, with no visible author or title.

“You’re here,” says Jon.

Elias’ look is arid. “Surely the Spiral has not made you doubt your senses to that extent already.”

“No, I mean—” Jon glances at the book Elias is holding. It makes him uneasy. “You don’t… get involved. Other than murdering the elderly, anyway.”

“I am rarely granted such a personal invitation,” says Elias darkly, and shoves the coat at him.

“What did it do?” Jon whispers.

Elias sighs. “Nothing more than annoyances, designed to make one doubt. It shifted all my paintings slightly out of place. Swapped all my spices to the wrong bottles. Turned all my wine to vinegar, as though I had stored it wrong. Some of those bottles were quite old. I was saving them.”

Jon stares at him.

“The actual issue, Jon, is invasion of territory. Your new project has crossed a line.”

The coat is heavy. It smells good. It probably costs more than Georgie’s rent.

“And that book?” says Jon.

“Insurance,” says Elias, and marches for Jon’s borrowed room.

Michael still lies on the bed, but for the first time since the Circus’ grimy warehouse, it looks like the Michael Jon has come to know: grin too wide, fingers tracing patterns that, if followed, induce dizziness, and a body that drapes as if it has no bones.

Its hair is long, golden, and all ringlets, and they are everywhere. Including across Jon’s pillow.

He silently resolves to change the sheets before going back to bed tonight. Assuming he’s alive.

“Well, that is a face I haven’t seen in some time,” says Elias. “What an unexpected surprise, ah—Michael, is it?”

Jon’s heart goes to ice.

He hadn’t told Elias who Michael used to be, who it ate, whose face it wears.

Who it was lashed to.

(Did Elias know him? Did he care? Was he afraid of being sacrificed the same way before his promotion?)

And of course, all the questions about Elias that always linger—

(How did he go from a mediocre pothead to head of the Institute? Why did James Wright pick him? Was Elias ever in danger?)

“He’s threatening to bind me, Archivist,” says Michael, gesturing toward the book. “As if that would make me un-become.”

“I am hardly averse to immediate solutions,” Elias warns, holding the book calmly by his side. “Especially when territory has been trespassed upon.”

Michael giggles, a sound so sharp that Jon has to close his eyes.

Jon wishes he could turn his head off. (Unbecome? Doesn’t it require a map? Is the book a map? Is the book a Leitner? Does Elias have to read it out loud? Is it memorized? Is it like Ex Altiora? What will happen if Elias uses it? Can he do it in time before Michael attacks?)

“Don’t, Elias,” Jon says, and doesn’t know why he says it.

Elias ignores him.

Michael tilts its head (too far, too far), and sighs. “I’ve been trying to decide. Is your Archivist endearing or aggravating? Not that your opinion would change matters, of course.”

“Both, on occasion.”

“I am not,” Jon starts, and is ignored.

“I have come, as requested. And you have yet to make this worth my time,” says Elias in a tone that promises murder, that shoots fear through Jon’s entire system.

Michael laughs.

Jon grips his head, straining to stay on his feet.

Elias stands unruffled. “I’m afraid that is not an acceptable response.”

“I wish to make a deal,” it says. “One which may benefit us both.”

“I am running out of patience.” And Elias has raised the book to waist-height, and Jon doesn’t want to see what it does, doesn’t want to see what happens, doesn’t want to see Michael swooped away in it or obliterated into a thousand pieces or deposited in ice.

He won’t just grab the book, of course. He’s not stupid. “Elias, listen to it, will you?”

Elias looks at him slowly. “Why?”

Jon had only meant it could help with the Unknowing—until Elias said that, and now that he has, Jon decides it’s because Elias doesn’t want to do it. “It may be able to help us. We need help.”

That is a withering look. “I think you should return to work tomorrow, after all, since you’re clearly well enough to do so. You and I will be having a long conversation when you do.” Elias turns back to the monster.

Michael looks fascinated.

“Explain,” says Elias. “This is your final chance.”

“I bring a gift,” says Michael, making patterns in the air that leave hypnotic afterimages.

“A gift?” says Elias.

“Yes, for your Archivist: sleep without his terrible dreams.”

“What?” says Jon.

“That is out of the question,” says Elias.

“Oh, not the chosen dreams of It Knows You,” says Michael. “I have no interest in those, and they strengthen your Archivist—and we both know he needs to be much, much strengthened.” It laughs. “No, I meant… his own.”

Elias looks at Jon.

Jon isn’t sure why he feels cornered. They’re hardly ganging up. “What?”

“Your dreams should not be your own,” says Elias simply. “How long has this been going on?”

Elias knew his dreams were all about other people.

Watching them suffer, watching their statements play out over and over, unable to close his eyes or look away or even apologize when they see him and curse him and beg for help.

“You knew?” snaps Jon. “You knew I was trapped just… staring at people as they suffer their trauma over and over again?”

“Don’t change the subject,” says Elias.

Jon wonders if he could get away with biting him before Elias does whatever that book can do.

“How long, Jon?”

“Tonight. Since the Circus.”

“Hm.” Elias looks back. “Thank you, but we can handle this on our own.”

“I disagree,” says Michael.

“We?” Jon bristles.

“I can help you myself,” says Elias. “This is unnecessary.”

“You have left me to drown and burn and flail in the wind this entire time, and only now that someone else offers a hand, you’re interested?” Jon snarls.

“Shhh,” says Elias. “Ms. Barker is sleeping.” That look. Oh, that look; pointed, eager, expectant. Waiting for Jon to fuck this up like everything else.

Jon hisses through clenched teeth. “Maybe I want its help instead.”

“Jon.”

“It’s saved my life twice.” And promised to take it, but that won’t help his case.

“Jon.”

“It’s done more for me than you have!”

Elias looks like he’s the one considering biting now.

Jon decides to ignore him. “You mean the dream you woke me from,” he says to Michael. “What the Circus did to me.”

“I do.” Michael’s form swirls, and is apparently no longer comfortable for cats. The Admiral drops to the floor with a tiny, four-point thump and trots out the open door.

Jon is relieved. That’s one innocent out of the way. “What would you do to me, then?”

Michael laughs.

Jon sways with it. Vaguely, he’s aware Elias steadies him. (Why? Is he in danger of killing himself on the desk corner? Why would Elias care now, what prompted actual hands-on activity, what happens if he says yes, what happens if he says no—)

“I will make your pointless nightmares seem unreal,” it says. “Your memory will be safe—useless though it is. But when you dream it, when you enter the nightmares, you’ll doubt them. You’ll know that they are… false.”

“But it wasn’t false,” says Jon, quietly. “It happened. It all happened.”

Michael surges up, human form vanishing, and sweeps over to them on impossible limbs and static.

Jon staggers back into the wall with a thump.

Elias stands there, looking directly up at it—but it isn’t looking at him.

It’s looking at Jon.

“You will know that you are not there, Archivist,” it says, looking not even remotely human, its voice coming from inside Jon’s head and underneath his feet and somewhere out in the hall and maybe from Mars. “Your mind—your human mind—lies to you when you sleep. Like me. But you are powerful. If I let you see your dream is untrue, you can pull away and go back to your own little… night job.”

“Jon,” warns Elias. “This is out of the question.”

“They’re not your nightmares,” Jon snaps back. “What happened to, ‘I can’t hold your hand through this’?"

“I won’t harm his mind,” says Michael with something approaching patience. “That would be handing him over to the Stranger, gift-wrapped. Besides—my help will show you I am serious about my offer.”

“Which is what, exactly?” snaps Elias, craning his neck to look up at it.

“I would provide a door,” Michael says.

And Elias pauses.

Jon sees it. He sees it, and locks it away, because he’s sure Elias will deny it later.

“It would hardly be the first time such an alliance has happened,” says Michael. “I seem to recall the Web and the Slaughter working together before, the Lonely and the Web working together, and of course, your own association with the Vast, and the Lonely, and the—”

“What? Since when?” says Jon.

“I would rather keep the Web out of all of this, if possible,” murmurs Elias.

“It’s not.” Michael doesn’t smile when it says those words. Then it drops the inhumanity, swans to the bed, and drapes there, sideways and spineless so it can look at them upside down from the edge. “This is very tiring. No wonder you’re all so mortal. You must burn out, like candles.”

Jon opens his mouth.

Before he can answer, Elias grips his chin, holds him still, studies his eyes.

The bruises hurt. His eyes water. He knows that doesn’t stop this forced perusal.

He has no idea what Elias is looking for. The truth? That he’s desperate, afraid, determined?

And angry. Jon doesn’t mind if Elias knows that. I’m doing it. Don’t try to stop me.

Elias sighs. Then he changes tack. “Jon,” he says, in such an insinuating tone that not even Jon could miss it, “did you invite this thing into your bed?”

And Jon knows it’s a joke, recognizes the glint in Elias’ eyes when he thinks he’s being funny, but cannot help the heat in his face, his chest swelling like an irate frog’s. He wrenches back. “Elias!”

Elias turns back. “He is determined to accept your offer. But you know what this is, yes?” He holds up the book.

“Oh, yes,” says Michael cheerily. “Inasmuch as I know what anything is, when I pay attention.”

“I cannot protect him from his own stupidity,” Elias says, “but I can hurt you. Yes?”

“Yes,” Michael says.

“So we are clear. A truce, for now—with Jon’s extremely stupid choices included—until the Unknowing is done.”

“Yes!” says Michael.

“It’s not your decision!” snaps Jon.

“Hello?” comes from the other side of the wall.

For one second of pure insanity, Jon wonders if he could scruff them both like cats and hurl them from the apartment. He makes violent faces at them. “Sorry, Georgie! Just me.”

A pause. “Did you get another phone?”

“No, I’m… sorry. Bad dreams. Go back to sleep. Work in the morning.”

Silence.

Jon feels sick, lying to her.

Michael hangs there, fingers like dark electric current, weaving patterns in the air.

Elias, on the other hand, is exuding… disappointment. “This was unwise, Jon.”

“I don’t care.”

“One night of bad dreams, and you’re giving permission for a creature of madness to make camp in your head.”

And Jon finally meets his eyes. “Are you going to shoot me over it?”

Elias looks weary, as though Jon’s defiance has drained him. “I wonder, Jon, if you’re not trying to die, as if it would in any way make up for your mistakes.”

He didn’t mention Sasha this time. He didn’t have to.

Jon says nothing.

He’s not trying to die.

That doesn’t mean he deserves good things.

Michael laughs. “Let him sleep. Let him wander his victims’ dreams to his heart’s content—or your master’s, anyway. Then see for yourself if I have damaged your prize.”

“And if I find you have marred him?”

“Then bind me… if you can,” says Michael, a threat, a promise, a lure, a temptation, a warning.

Jon shivers.

“Believe me, I will,” Elias says, and Jon is deeply grateful that was not directed at him.

Michael laughs like Elias made a joke.

Elias’ sigh is long. He looks at Jon.

Jon swallows. Tries to stand taller. Is trembling. Hates it.

“Walk me out,” Elias says.

Jon realizes he’s been clutching the coat like a security blanket, and hands it back.

“Make no mistake,” Elias says quietly as he dons it. “I have no plans to kill you. I value you, Jon. I know of no one who could replace you—and there have been offers.”

“There’ve been what?” says Jon.

“But this is beneath you. This thing is an irritant. It is an insect, looking for blood. I’d thought higher of your reasoning than this.”

It shouldn’t hurt. It does.

But Jon’s jaw hurts, too, where it bruised. “How very disappointing for you.”

“A cease-fire is not an alliance.” Elias pins him, unblinking. “And I meant it—at work tomorrow, bright and early.”

“I can’t. I have to find a new apartment,” Jon says.

“Do it after hours. Goodnight.” And with that (and a more dramatic sweep than necessary), he leaves.

He doesn’t even slam the door.

Jon locks it. And though it feels like walking through cement, returns to the room.

“You agreed fairly quickly, Archivist,” says Michael. “Thank you. I thought I’d have to work harder to convince you. All this reasoning is just awful.”

“I may have done it more at him than anything else,” Jon admits and doesn’t know why he does.

A head-swimming giggle. “Buyer’s remorse?”

“If that’s what you call it after you’ve already pulled the trigger in Russian roulette. I… never mind.”

“Really, Archivist, the things you say!” Michael’s laugh is muffled, for which Jon is grateful. And it pats the bed again, for which he is not.

“I have to…” He flees.

The Admiral, having decided it’s time to eat, no matter that it’s two in the morning, sits by his food bowl in the kitchen and purrs.

“I already fed you, you heathen,” says Jon, but gives him a small portion, anyway.

He spends a minute out there, petting the cat, trying to calm his heart rate.

This was a bad idea. All of this was a bad idea.

“Well, I wouldn’t be me if I weren’t having bad ideas, would I?” he mutters. “Gertrude, I hope you’re happy.”

Gertrude, he has a feeling, would have sacrificed him to something years ago, if only to make the foolishness stop.

Michael is occupying half the bed when he returns.

Jon makes an unhappy sound. “Do you have to do it like that? In the bed? Can’t you just… hover, or something?”

“Sleep is intimate, Archivist, and the work I intend delicate. You are quite powerful. Without my weight behind you, my warmth and my presence, doubtless you would reject my subtle influence to your dreams, leaving you still to suffer.”

“Powerful,” Jon mutters. “Right. Look at me, with all this power.”

Michael just smiles, which is somehow worse than laughing. “I do not plan to change you, Archivist. Not yet.”

Michael lies. The Distortion lies. That’s what it does.

Yet it doesn’t feel like it’s lying now.

It takes every ounce of courage Jon has to go lie down again. “Don’t touch me. And please don’t be here in the morning. I don’t want Georgie to know.”

“Whatever you say, Archivist,” Michael thrums at him in a voice he can feel everywhere, like the tingling from his cheek spread down.

He cannot, he thinks, possibly sleep like this. Aware of it back there, staring at him.

He forgot to change the pillowcase, too.

But exhaustion carries its own balm for moments such as these, and Jon drifts away.

This time, when Nikola shows up with her paring knife already dripping his blood, Michael is behind her, pointing at her ringmaster’s getup and laughing.

Jon laughs, too.

And leaves his own nightmare behind.

(part three)

[starfleetimagines]

How would Malcolm Reed react to you being shy while dating him?

Being Shy While Dating Malcolm Reed Would Include...

Malcolm isn't the most outgoing person, either, so he would completely understand your shyness and tendency to be reserved. It would have taken you a while to open up to him and to be comfortable around him, and vice versa. The two of you would have treaded carefully, not wanting to reveal too much or be too open with the other. Malcolm isn't the kind of shy that's nervous and quiet, more so he's reserved and had a wall built around him. Deep down, he's shy as hell, despite him trying to convey confidence when on the job.

You both would start to develop crushes on one another as you worked together, but you wouldn't say anything. You'd both just quietly pine over each other. Trip would catch onto Malcolm's feelings, and he'd tease him at first, but would soon come to realize it wasn't just a silly crush, Malcolm was developing real feelings for you. It would take months for either of you to say anything. Trip would probably nudge Malcolm into just telling you how he felt. He'd do it gently and in private so as not to overwhelm you. You'd smile shyly, look away, and mumble that you had feelings for him, too. He wouldn't push his luck or test your boundaries by kissing you or anything, so he'd just ask if you would have dinner with him alone in the captain's mess and see where things went from there.

Early on in the relationship, things would still be a bit awkward due to both of your reserved natures. You'd both be a bit uncomfortable with dating (it isn't either of your strong suits), but it made it better than you were both in the same boat. And, it didn't hurt that you both really liked the other and had been working together for some time now, so it wasn't like you were complete strangers.

As you two spent more time alone (and off duty), you'd slowly become more comfortable with one another. You'd open up more, express yourselves more, and be more willing to be physically close with one another. He'd never push you or expect more than you were willing to give him (emotionally and physically). Again, he'd completely understand your shyness and would just want you to be comfortable.

You would keep your relationship under wraps for a bit so you wouldn't have to deal with the stares, the whispers, and the questions that the crew would no doubt send your way. Your closest friends would know, of course, but they would respect your wishes and wouldn't tell anyone.

Malcolm would pick up on your telltale signs when you were becoming overwhelmed with people. He'd go to you, or touch you gently (a hand on your back, taking your hand, leaning his knee against yours if you were sitting, etc.). He would be there for you and, if need be, help you escape the social situation. And you'd do the same for him. You'd watch out for each other, but you'd also help each other become more social. You would both help the other come out of your shells. You'd go to events together (like movie night or talent shows or conferences), and would stick together like glue throughout the whole thing. You made each other comfortable, and made each other feel okay when with strangers.

Tag list: @wraith-queen-todd, @agent-catfish-kenobi, @make-me-imagine, @naivara-duneimith, @space-helen, @mrs-l-mccoy, @thisismysecrethappyplace, @geordisoong

[archduchessofnowhere]

What was the opinion of the people who knew Empress Sissi? Thanks.

Hello anon! I’ll start by apologizing to you because it took me so long to answer not because this was a difficult question, but because it's easy to answer and this will turn ridiculously long since we have plenty of testimony of people who knew her.

Her husband emperor Franz Josef was probably her biggest admirer, and while I personally think their relationship is over-romanticed, that he deeply loved her is undeniable. He saw no fault in her and always called her his “angel”; and while he never understood her he did support her in (almost) all her projects. There are plenty of quotes that show his devotion towards his wife (even though his actions not always reflected that), but to me the most defining is one of the things that he allegedly said after hearing of Elisabeth's death: “Nobody will ever know how much I loved her”.

Archduchess Gisela’s feelings towards her mother remain a mystery, but we do have this letter she wrote after Elisabeth’s death that shows her grief, and I think is safe to say that she loved her, even if they weren't close. Rudolf 's feelings were more complicated. He loved his mother, in fact he idolized her, and felt deeply grateful towards her for having saved him from his abusive tutor. But he also longed for a closer relationship with her, which they never had, and this was a source of sorrow for him.

The child who's feeling we know the best is Valerie, who kept a diary throughout her life in which she often wrote about her mother. She loved Elisabeth, but she also found her love hard to bear, specially since she felt it kept her apart from her father, whom she also adored:

What I most wanted to do was fall at his feet and kiss his paternal imperial hands, even as I felt — God forgive me — a momentary anger at Mama since her unbridled love and exaggerated, groundless concern place me in such an embarrassing and false position.

After Rudolf's death Elisabeth fell into a deep depression, and Valerie felt the burden of being her mother's main emotional support.

My mother often causes me such anxiety. She is capable of everything great, yet incompetent in small things. Now that agitation has given place to the monotony of everyday life, and Papa at least appears outwardly the same and works as he always did, life seems to her oppressive and cheerless.

Elisabeth even said to her youngest daughter that she was the only reason why she still was alive, which greatly stressed Valerie, specially since her wedding was approaching. However, while deeply hurt, Elisabeth wanted nothing more than Valerie's happiness so she fully supported her decision to marry for love, and tried to bother her and her family as little as possible after she got married.

For all that’s been said about Archduchess Sophie disliking her daughter-in-law from the get-go, she in fact had nothing but praises for Sisi when the engagement was announced:

The little girl [Elisabeth]’s posture is so graceful, so modest, so irreproachable, so elegant, almost humble, when she dances with the emperor… She seemed to me so attractive, so childishly modest and yet completely at ease with him.

(...) But you can well imagine that my eyes are also busy looking at Sisi, and they rest with delight on this happy couple who love each other so much and in such a charming way; it is a feast for the eyes to see the happiness and harmony that radiates from them.

She also remarked many times how happy she felt, to the point of tears. While it’s true that Elisabeth later on remembered her mother-in-law with resentment, there's evidence to argue that the sentiment wasn't mutual, and that Sophie did felt love for her daughter-in-law, even if they clashed because of their differences.

Her ladies-in-waiting in general had a good relationship with her, some even forming real friendships with the empress. But they also found her hard to deal with, like one of her first ladies, Princess Helene of Thurn und Taxis, Countess Kinsky (not to be confused with Elisabeth’s sister Helene, Hereditary Princess of Thurn und Taxis). Princess Taxis wrote to a former lady-in-waiting when they returned to Vienna after Elisabeth’s flight to Madeira and Corfu in 1860:

I can only congratulate you, upon not having had to go through these two years of martyrdom with us. Now we are settled in Schönbrunn, and the thought that we are ‘settled for good somewhere’ seems quite strange. It was hard for her [Elisabeth] to give up her recent traveling about, and I quite understand this. When one has no inward peace, one imagines that it makes life easier to move about, and she has now grown too much accustomed to this. (…) I believe, indeed, that she has moments of despair, but nobody can laugh like her, or has such childlike whims. She says herself that it is not unpleasant to her to see us occasionally, but it is odious to her to have us in waiting…

The lady-in-waiting that left us the most “content” about the empress is Countess Maria Festetics, who entered her service in 1872 and became Elisabeth’s close confidant until the end of her life. Maria kept a detailed diary during her years in service, which is one of the main sources about the empress’ later life. In this diary she also wrote her impression’s on Elisabeth:

One never grows tired when one goes out with her. At her side it is delightful, and so it is behind her. Looking alone is enough. She is the embodiment of the idea of loveliness. At one time I will think that she is like a lily, then again like a swan, then I see a fairy-oh, no, a sprite-and finally-no! an empress! From the top of her head to the soles of her feet a royal woman!! In everything excellent and noble. And then I remember all the gossip, and I think there may be much envy in it. She is so enchantingly beautiful and charming.

But while the countess adored Elisabeth, she could be critical towards her too:

In ‘Her’ there is everything, but as in a disordered museum - pure treasures, which go unused. Nor does she know what to do with them.

Stephanie of Belgium also wrote a bit about her mother-in-law in her memoirs. This was her reaction when, according to her, Elisabeth asked her to replace her at fulfilling her official court duties:

Empress Elizabeth detested etiquette. She loved solitude, far from the pomp and ceremony of the Imperial Court. It was her purpose, she said, to withdraw from all such things. The duties of her official position had become slavery, a martyrdom! She had not, as a young girl, been educated for the high mission to which she was subsequently called. In her view, freedom was every one’s inalienable right! Her conception of life was a fairyland, free of all trouble and constraint.

The Viennese court took a dislikeness of Stephanie almost immediately, and Elisabeth was no exception. So the crown princess had her reasons to not have a very positive remembrance of her. According to Stephanie this is what happened when she spoke to Elisabeth after receiving the news of Rudolf's death:

At length I ventured to tell the Empress what, weeks before, I had tried to say to the Emperor. I spoke of Rudolf’s manner of life, his habits and customs, his associates, how completely his health had been disordered. The Empress, however, stubbornly closed her mind against these communications, and it was an additional distress to me to feel that she was turning away from me. In her eyes I was the guilty party. Though outwardly I remained calm, inwardly I was in a state of collapse.

From her extended family we have the very unreliable memoirs of Countess Marie Larisch, Elisabeth’s niece. She gives many long descriptions on how beautifully spellbinding she found her, but I'll just share this one:

She fascinated me and dominated my imagination, and, with her infinite tact, she gave me confidence in myself. Elizabeth was never then the Empress, she was the Aunt Cissi who seemed so understanding, and so completely in sympathy with me, that I would willingly have died for her.

This passage wrote many years after Larisch's fall out with the imperial family is likely an exaggeration, and yet I do believe that the young Baroness probably felt flattered for having the favor of her aunt and found her fascinating.

I could keep on but I'll leave it here since this post is already too long. I hope you found my answer helpful!

[riversofmars]

Songs of Love 2023 Day 6

Rating: M Prompt: "Necklace" Summary: There are few things in life Helen treasures more than the necklace Liv had gifted her with. She considers it the most precious thing she owns, holding it close where she doesn't dare reach for her best friend instead. She had long been aware of her feelings towards her, particularly after seeing her brother again, but she simply can't overcome her past, unlearn the things that are keeping her back. She would never be able to tell her, and Liv seems to be realising the same thing.

Past Demons

Helen ran her fingers along the silver chain of stars, now sullied by age, nowhere near as shiny as the day Liv had given it to her. 

It had been such a lovely gesture and one that she never would have expected. Friends didn’t just give each other pieces of jewellery, did they? At least not in her experience… But what did she know? Maybe in the future, these things were different. At least that’s what she’d told herself to calm the racing of her heart when Liv had presented her with the gift. She really was the most observant, considerate person, even if her often grumpy and surly demeanour didn’t let on. 

They had been browsing the market stalls, displaying fantastically arts and crafts from all over the solar system. The linguist had been so taken by it all, she’d hardly known where to look. And she remembered Liv smiling at her, just the way she had on their first trip to Italy all those years ago where their journey had properly started. She had been so excited then, overwhelmed by the living history around her. At the market she had been overwhelmed by the wonders of the universe that never ceased to amaze her. Even after all this time, after the wonders she had seen since entering the TARDIS, she was still like a wide eyed child - and she hoped that sensation would never go away. 

The necklace meant the world to Helen and the fact that Liv had managed to retrieve it, take it back from Mrs Danny and the Angel, only to gift it to her a second time… it was almost more than her heart could take.

“Here, let me-” Liv had mumbled and gestured for her to turn around. And Helen had done, just like she had back at the market where she had first bought it. Only, this time, it felt as though the med-tech’s hand lingered on her neck for longer, brushing her hair out of the way,  tracing nimble fingers across the slope of her shoulders… The linguist had put it off as a matter of her imagination and wishful thinking, rather than a reflection of what they had been through and how close they had gotten to not only losing the necklace, but each other. 

“Thank you for finding it,” Helen had smiled and without turning, reached up to put her hand across that of her friend. “And for finding me.”

“We’ll always find you. I… will always find you,” Liv had told her and the linguist had needed a moment to compose herself, fighting tears that threatened to betray the depth of her feelings for her. They lay scarcely hidden now, pushed to the surface by the experience of finding Albie and the questions he had asked, and she was bound to ask herself.

“Do you have someone, Helen?”

“Gosh, what a question.”

She should have told him then. He would have wanted to know. He deserved to know that there was someone that held her heart and that made her happy. And she had tried to tell him as best as she could. Not in so many words but hopefully enough so that he understood.

“You can love who you want and there are many ways to show that connection.”

Helen didn’t know if she would ever be ready to show Liv how much she loved her, in the way that she knew she should. She wasn’t sure if that was something she was capable of, no matter how much her heart desired it. She hadn’t learned these things. Maybe if she had gotten to spend more time with Albie…

Now, she was running her fingers along the necklace, the most precious thing she owned, thinking, as ever, of the woman that gave it to her, and who would hold eternal dominion of her heart.

“Helen?” Liv’s voice drew her out of her thoughts.

“Liv!” She looked around, surprised. She had been alone in the library for quite some time and not expected company. They were on an enforced rest break, the TARDIS had broken - again! Though not as badly as 2020 London, the Doctor had insisted - and was in need of repairs. For the time being, they were stuck orbiting a white dwarf star and while the view had been lovely at first, they had quickly grown tired of it. The library was her favourite place to pass the time and that was something her best friend was very much aware of, she’d have known where to find her. 

“You okay?” The med-tech asked, making her way into the generous space. 

“Yes, of course, why wouldn’t I be?” Helen gave back, returning her musing to the corner of her mind that was reserved for Liv and Liv alone. In other words: her heart. And that, she kept incredibly well guarded.

“Just seemed like you were off with the fairies,” her friend commented on her way over and Helen straightened herself up on the small sofa, placing a bookmark in the novel she had just been reading. Reading, however, was a strong term, considering she hadn’t turned a page in a long time. It happened more and more these days, that she lost herself in her thoughts, ever since they had returned from Soho, and her best friend was always at the centre of them. 

“Just… thinking…” She answered truthfully, though the subject of those musings would remain her secret.

“About anything in particular?” The med-tech prompted and over the years, Helen had become a master of deflection:

“I’m an intelligent woman, Liv, I think about a great many things through the course of the day,” she quipped with good-natured humour and Liv laughed.

“That you are, no doubt about it.” 

“What can I do for you?” Helen asked, curious as to the reason for her visit. She didn’t flatter herself by assuming it was to see her for her, but she was the only other person available given that the Doctor was likely busy making repairs. “Are you, by any chance, bored?”

“Just a bit…” Liv admitted with a half-smile and dropped onto the sofa next to her. It was only small and the linguist scooted over a little. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to be close to her friend. It was merely the fact that she couldn’t allow herself as much. Years of learned behaviours, years of denial, years of telling herself that she was better off keeping her distance, were such an integral part of who she was, it was instinctual - and her heart sank every time as she observed her own actions as if she were a bystander in the affair. She knew no way of breaking this perpetual circle.

“You really don’t do well sitting still, do you?” She asked, doing her best to occupy her mind with idle chit chat rather than the deep musings that were coming to her unbidden and painful.

“You know me,” Liv chuckled and Helen hummed.

“That I do…” She waited to see if there was more she wanted to say, discuss or do, but it didn’t seem like it. She merely picked up the book she had been reading, skimming the back with casual interest and Helen considered how the action would have felt intrusive with anyone else but they were so used to being in each other’s space that it was nothing. She felt completely and utterly at peace with the other woman and it was a remarkable thing. While there were so many things Helen wished they could be to each other - the obstacle to them being herself, first and foremost - she became keenly away - and not for the first time - that they were doing a wonderful job of sharing each other’s lives. It was an odd life, there was no doubt about that: travelling through time and space without a real destination. Without a profession, other than the calling to help the people they met, leaving a planet better than they had found it. Without a home, other than the blue wall of the wonderous time ship… There was nothing normal about it, but it was theirs to share. 

She wished she could have told Albie.

“How is Tula these days?” The question tumbled over Helen’s lips without prior warning. Whatever corner of her mind had conjured it up had done so without her expressed permission but it seemed a natural leap from her brother, to her best friend’s sister. 

“She’s alright, yeah, we write,” the med-tech gave back with a smile and put the novel back on the coffee table in front of them, seemingly glad to have a topic of conversation. “I missed talking to her while we were stuck on Earth.”

“The Doctor does do well to help us keep in touch with our loved ones,” Helen responded warmly, considering the many records Albie had sent her now. She missed him dearly and would have wanted him in her life again but this was so much better than what she had had, and she was beyond grateful for it. 

“We should go and visit her sometime, she would like that…” Liv hummed. “Maybe once the TARDIS is working properly again.” 

“That would be nice, yes,” the linguist agreed happily. She barely knew her friend’s sister. Their meeting had been but a short whirlwind of adventure but following her year-long stay, Liv had taken to speaking more fondly of her. Helen got the sense she would get on well with her.

“Besides… been thinking of picking up one of my duplicate robots anyway…” the med-tech carried on casually and her searching gaze across the table found the plate of biscuits Helen had brought with her. With a cheeky grin Liv picked up a custard cream and scoffed it.

“How many are there?” The linguist asked, intrigued by her odd statement. She had told her that she had made a robot copy of herself to leave with her sister to keep her company, this however sounded curious. 

“Well, there’s just the one with Tula but she’s made plenty of memories of her own now, her own person really. But I could make another, copy my current memories…” Liv explained and Helen frowned:

“To what end?” She questioned, confused. “Not that I would mind having another one of you around, you do come in quite handy sometimes,” she teased, covering over the blush that threatened to draw to her cheeks at the idea of what having two of her might actually be like… Those were thoughts quickly banned to a deep, dark corner of her mind. 

“Been thinking about sending one back to 2020 Earth,” Liv hummed in response, examining the biscuits left on the plate. 

“2020… you don’t mean…” Helen needed confirmation for the conclusions she was drawing. Surely she couldn’t mean she wanted to send one back to leave there instead of herself for-

“I think Tania would like it…” the med-tech answered and her voice was surprisingly hollow, rueful almost. She wasn’t looking at her either as she answered, she merely turned the plate, looking at the options but without picking any. 

“That’s a very vain thing to do,” the linguist tried to joke but found it was no joking matter. The mention of 2020 London always caused an uncomfortable stab in her gut, a sense of nausea as it bore the potential of the one thing she dreaded most in the universe: That her friend would ask to be taken back there, to pick up where she left of with her girlfriend, doing all the things that Helen was too scared to. It had been a painful time for the linguist, looking on as her friend fell into a relationship with someone else. She had experienced jealousy for the first time and while it had been a terrible, burning feeling, it hadn’t been enough to prompt her into decisive action. She feared nothing ever would be. And so she stood at the sidelines, looking on, hoping - selfishly - that Liv’s life and hers would remain intertwined, without her having to tell her of all the things she felt for her - and face the potential of rejection. 

The notion, however, that Liv would want to send a duplicate of herself in her stead, was completely startling and she didn’t know how to react. 

“Dunno, just a thought,” the med-tech shrugged non-committally. “I think she expects me to come back…” Tania had been extremely taken with Liv and rightfully so, Helen thought. Who wouldn’t be? 

“And you… you don’t want to go back?” The linguist asked tentatively. It was a question she had never dared to pose for fear of the answer but given her friend’s words, she finally did. 

“No,” Liv looked up, her response utterly clear and fast, without a shred of doubt and Helen’s heart rejoiced. “Why would you think that?” The med-tech carried on and it was Helen’s turn to drop her eyes as she fumbled with the edge of her jumper. 

“Well, like you just said… Tania…” She didn’t begrudge the woman her fortune. She was a lovely person and a good friend, that had made things only harder for Helen. Had she disliked her, perhaps she would have found reason to try and win Liv around herself, but at the time, she couldn’t have interfered in their happiness. 

“Is lovely but… I want to stay here,” the med-tech answered with ease but took a deep breath for composure. “I just feel a bit guilty that’s all… It’s selfish.”

“Why would it be selfish?” Helen frowned. If anyone was being selfish, it was the linguist herself for wanting to keep Liv close without revealing all the reasons why. Her friend deserved happiness, the romantic kind too if she was so inclined, and the fact that the linguist secretly rejoiced to hear she had no desire of returning to her girlfriend, was rather selfish indeed.

“It’s just doing what I want to do, not taking into account other people’s feelings,” Liv explained and the shadow that crossed her face indicated that she had given the matter thought and it brought her sorrow. It was something Helen couldn’t bear to witness. Above all things, she wanted her friend to be happy. It wasn’t right that she should beat herself up over a decision that she had made for the sake of her own happiness. The linguist put aside her own feelings on the matter, the joy she felt to know that Liv would chose this life with her over that with Tania, and said:

“You should do what makes you happy, that’s the most important thing of all. That’s not selfish. We only have this one life… we should make the most of it.” And that was something she, herself, wished she could do. Take her own advice and live, regardless of the consequences, take risks and cross bridges previously closed to her. The potential reward sat beside her, noticeably plagued by demons of her own as she gave back: 

“Yes… yes, it would be nice if I could…”

Helen noticed the change in her behaviour. The way her shoulder slummed and a pained frown drew to her features. There were emotions raging behind her expressive eyes and the linguist feared she had said something wrong, particularly when Liv stood up abruptly.

“Liv what… what’s wrong?” She asked, confused. 

“Nothing, never mind, I just… I’m gonna find something to do, can’t sit still, like you said…” She huffed and marched off without further ado. 

“Liv?” Helen called after her, perplexed. “LIV!” But to no avail.

Helen’s hand drew to the necklace, as if she was reaching for Liv herself. She closed her fingers around the chain of stars, wishing she could be stronger, wishing she could be braver, wishing she could be better. She couldn’t pretend to understand her friend’s behaviour. Liv shared far too little about what was going on in her mind to do that, but Helen understood that whatever she had said hadn’t really helped matters. Whatever ‘matters’ were. And she sent a prayer to the stars that she hadn’t just affected the very opposite of what her words had been meant to achieve. If only she could understand her a little better…

Liv didn’t return to the library. Helen hoped and waited but in vain. By the time she found she had been staring at the same page for at least ten minutes without actually reading and worrying about her friend instead, she decided she had to do something about it. She abandoned the comfort of the library and went searching for her. 

She didn’t find her in her room and not in the kitchen or one of the sitting rooms either. She even went to find the Doctor, who was knee-deep in engine troubles and barely paying attention to her, but he wasn’t much use either. So she took to walking the corridors with an uncomfortable feeling settling in her gut. Rationally, she knew Liv couldn’t have gone anywhere. They were stuck in the Vortex, it wasn’t like she could simply leave but it gave her a terrifying taste of what it was to find her gone. With the conversation about a potential return to Bakerstreet on her mind, the linguist’s steps quickened with anxiety. 

“Liv?” She called down a corridor and then another. “Liv?”

The TARDIS hummed and whirled around her and Helen was glad for her support. Through her long solo travels, they had become close and now she drew comfort from her presence, somewhat reassuring as her chest felt tight with worry.

“Liv?” The linguist rounded another corner, finding herself in a largely unfamiliar part of the vast Space and Time ship but she found a door ajar and a voice sounded from inside.

“Damn it-” It was unmistakably Liv’s voice, though slightly muffled and clearly irate. “Stupid, bloody-” She was swearing. While Helen was utterly relieved to have found her, she was curious and concerned about what had brought on her frustrated state so she pushed the door open.

“Liv?” She called out and the response came promptly, though not in the shape of words. There was a loud banging noise, more swearing from the med-tech, followed by a pitiful:

“Owww…” 

Helen spotted her friend, or rather, her lower half, sticking out from underneath a large piece of machinery. If the succession of noises was anything to go back, she had just knocked her head.

“Fuuuck…” she whimpered, slowly pulling herself out from under the machine and Helen rushed to her side, overwhelmed by guilt: she had startled her.

“Oh gosh, Liv, I’m so sorry-” the linguist started, reaching her just in time to see her friend’s face emerge with a large bump already forming on her forehead. 

“Helen? What-” the med-tech looked up at her perplexed. Seemingly, she hadn’t realised it was her that had come in and caused the noise. 

“I was just… I was looking for you, I didn’t realise you were busy with-” Helen looked over to the piece of machinery. She wasn’t even sure what it was. There were an awful lot of bits of technology around the TARDIS that she didn’t know the first thing about. “What are you doing?” She asked slowly, hoping to give her friend something to talk about, other than questioning why she had come to find her. 

“Trying to fix this bloody thing,” Liv huffed, casting a glance back at the piece of technology and dropped a spanner that she had been clinging on to in a demonstration of her frustration. “’Trying’ being the operative word.” She clearly wasn’t getting anywhere and pulled herself to her feet, ignoring Helen’s hand readily offered. 

“Maybe the Doctor can help,” the linguist tried to sound upbeat, not allowing her disappointment over her ignored gesture to get to her. Maybe she simply hadn’t seen her hand… But her thoughts turned to other things, far more urgent in her mind and far less appropriate. Her friend had gotten changed before doing dirty repair work and it was a good thing too as streaks of engine oil ran across her arms and cheeks. Those arms lay exposed to great effect by a tank top that wrapped tightly around her toned torso and tugged into the trousers of a broiler suit as the top half was tied around her hips. Helen was reminded of a calendar that Tania had had in her flat that had been cause of plenty of charring on the med-tech’s part. It had depicted plenty of attractive women from the local fire brigade who had been out to raise money for charity by dressing in their work gear but not much else.

“It’s for charity!” Tania had insisted and Liv had grumbled to herself, discontent, while all Helen had been able to think was that the med-tech could easily have had a place among those women…

“He’s busy, besides it’s not even important, it’s just-” Liv gave a dismissive wave at the machine and drew Helen’s attention back to the here and now. “Something to do.”

“I’m sure you’ll work it out, given time, you always do,” Helen continued as her friend made for a mug of tea she had placed on a nearby workbench but never got that far. Sparks flew from the machine making both of them jump back.

“Nevermind, doesn’t matter,” Liv exclaimed, airing what seemed like pent-up frustration and to Helen surprise and shock, she kicked the tool box across the room. It knocked into the wall with a loud crash, tools scatting everywhere and Helen flinched. The med-tech did have a temper but it rarely came out in such aggressive outbursts. “I give up!” She snapped, raking her hands through her hair. 

“That’s not like you…” The linguist commented, leaving Liv to interpret whether she was referring to her outburst or the statement of giving up. The med-tech appeared to chose the latter as she shot back:

“Yeah, well, maybe it would be good if I learned when to call something quits.”

She did, however, seem to regret her handling of the tools and went to retrieve them. Silence fell, heavy and uncomfortable and the linguist’s worry grew as the only thing she could intuit that could have had bearing on her friend’s foul mood was she herself. 

“Liv, have I done something wrong?” She asked at last in a timid voice. 

“Why would you say that?” Liv huffed in response but didn’t look around. She returned the spanner and screwdriver to the tool box, and went hunting for some clips that had skittered away across the floor.

“It just… there seems to be something off about you. About the way you- About us.” The very fact that she dared entertain the thought that there was an ‘us’ to consider tied her stomach in knots. She could barely voice it but it lay at the heart of the matter. It was almost as if Liv was pulling away from her and it was a terrible feeling.

“Of course not,” she evaded and didn’t look at her. She clipped the tool box shut and picked it up to leave, almost as if that were the end of the conversation. 

“If there is something you want to talk about, I’m here,” Helen offered and stepped closer, wanting to make sure she could grab her arm to stop her leaving should she attempt it. They couldn’t just leave things like this. The linguist knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep, wouldn’t be able to eat, wouldn’t be able to think until she knew things between her and Liv were alright. It was a terrible realisation to know just how dependent she had become on the other woman but there was nothing to be done now. Nothing of Helen’s old life remained - not that she would have wanted any of it. Her life was here, in the TARDIS now, and the Doctor and Liv her only constants. While the Doctor was the Doctor, unpredictable and undeniably alien as he was, Liv had not only become her best friend, her confidant and the closest thing to family she had, she had unwittingly become the very centre of Helen’s life. She gave her direction and purpose and if Helen was being perfectly honest with herself, she also gave her reason to live. She had little else. It was terrifying. 

“Me too,” the med-tech answered, her voice suddenly calmer and almost soft as she turned to face her. Helen met her eyes and was confused by the emotional quality of her expression, a stark departure from the anger of a moment ago. She took a deep breath, even managed a small, hopeful smile as she continued: “I told you, I’m ready whenever you are.”

The words hung between them for a moment, open for interpretation and if Helen had been braver, she would have taken more from them than simply ask for clarification.  

“Ready? Ready for what?” She asked as she didn’t dare put too much weight to them. And even if Liv meant what Helen’s heart desperately desired, she didn’t know if she was, in fact, ready. She didn’t know if she ever would be, as much as it was tearing her apart. 

“You must know. Surely. After all this time, you must-” Liv took a step towards her, shakiness coming to her voice and a pleading quality that reached her eyes. And Helen stood, her heart pounding, blood rushing in her ears, her words overwhelming her. She struggled for an answer but couldn’t even manage to think them up, a sort of paralysis, of blinde panic setting in, put on the spot when yes, she thought she did know what she meant; and yes, there was so much she wanted to say and do about it. But neither words nor actions followed and the moment passed with disappointment drawing to Liv’s expressive eyes. “Or maybe you don’t,” she mumbled hollowly, searching her eyes for answers and coming up empty. “Maybe it never even occurred to you that I might…”

“Liv, I don’t know what you’re talking about…” Helen’s response came in a burst of panic, an attempt to buy herself more time as she worked through the barriers that were keeping her back but the med-tech simply dropped her gaze, shaking her head to herself.

“Of course you don’t… My bad.” 

And she turned to leave.

“Liv-” Quickly, Helen reached out, grabbed her arm to hold her back but Liv shook free without looking at her. 

“No, Helen. No. Just leave me alone. I just-” She made for the door and the linguist couldn’t allow her to leave, not in her emotional state, not with so much unsaid hanging between them. She couldn’t have her walk away assuming that she didn’t understand when she did. 

“But Liv…” She tried again, pulled her back by her upper arm and this time, she provoke a response, though much more forceful than she had anticipated:

“How much longer, Helen, how much longer until you finally-” Liv exclaimed as she turned back. And that was when she realised her friend was crying. Hot tears were dragging trails through the dust that had settled on her face and she fought for composure with every breath.

“I- We-” There was so much Helen wanted to say but couldn’t. It broke her heart to see her best friend cry bitter tears over her. She rarely ever cried and she didn’t know how to make it better when she found herself unable to express the things that might. The things that could set both of them free. But where her heart should have rejoiced with the realisation that their feelings for each other were mutual, it was weighed down all the more for knowing that despite this, she would never be able to see it through. 

“Forget it, just forget it. I don’t know what I was expecting!” Angrily Liv wiped her eyes, turning away again. “You don’t even know what you’re-” 

“Liv!” 

Third time lucky. Helen lunged for her, pulled her back around with such force that her friend stumbled. She caught herself on Helen’s arms and looked up to her with a mix of anger, disappointment and desire. And right there, in her personal space and engulfed by such heightened emotions, it was desire that won out. She grabbed the linguist’s face and crashed their lips together. 

She kissed her passionately, holding her close, and poured all her emotions into her mouth. Her fear, her hope, her grief, her love. And Helen kissed her back in a most natural, instinctual response, her senses utterly overwhelmed: The look of desire in Liv’s eyes burned into her mind, even as her eyes fluttered shut. She could smell the engine oil on her friend’s skin but her shampoo too and something that was so utterly, bewitchingly her. She left the tug in her hair as she buried her hands in it, she felt her heavy breathing on her face and the hot kisses that took her capacity of thought. She tasted the salt of her tears but sweetness too, of the biscuits they had shared and tea that stood abandoned on a workbench. She heard her sob, whimper, gasp and finally moan as she kissed her back and it was like oil to the flame that licked at her inhibitions and resolve. 

Helen grabbed hold of her hips, sneaking her fingers underneath her tank top and Liv stalled though only for a moment. She released her hair and brought her hands down, nimble fingers prising open the buttons of her shirt. She leaned into her and Helen stumbled, losing her balance and what little control she’d had in their exchange. She moved back and back and knocked into the work bench behind. Liv pressed her thigh between her legs and the linguist gave a desperate gasp at the unfamiliar but utterly pleasurable sensation. 

“Liv-” She mumbled in between heated kisses, and grabbed onto her shoulders, slim but strong and Liv’s lips departed from hers, seeking purchase lower on her throat.

There was a loud clattering noise as the work bench rocked and the mug of tea spilled and crashed to the floor, interrupting the moment and bringing them back to themselves.

“Oh my- Helen…” Liv looked up at her with wide eyes, utterly awestruck. Her cheeks were flushed, her chest was heaving with laboured breaths and she looked relieved, joyful even, a disbelieving smile spreading across her beautiful, tearstained face. 

But where Liv seemed freed, Helen felt panic clamp across her chest, squeezing the air out of her and her heart and she grew light-headed and dizzy. She tried to breathe but couldn’t. Her chest wouldn’t obey her and rise, not with Liv’s hand nestled between the buttons on her chest.  

“I’m sorry, I-” Helen choked out, going from pulling at her shoulders, to pushing her away. 

“Helen…” Liv’s face fell with the realisation of what was to come but the linguist couldn’t help it, as much as she wanted to. It was as instinctual as the kiss had been. Quickly she grasped her blouse shut on her collar.

“I can’t-” she whispered, heartbroken for them both and mercifully, her vision blurred with tears. She didn’t have to witness the look in her friend’s eyes and she made her swift escape, dashing from the room and Liv was too stunned to stop her.

“HELEN!” She shouted after her at last but the linguist was already halfway down the corridor.

She didn’t stop running until she reached her bedroom. Throwing the door shut behind herself, she was overcome by a wave of nausea and she couldn’t pinpoint the reason, which of the numerous things that made her feel sick won out. There was the sense of deep disappointment in herself, shame for her cowardly reaction and the way she treated her best friend. There was the petrifying feeling of fear that she was about to lose everything that was important to her. And there were the terrifying thought patterns, cultivated over a lifetime of denial, that held her firm in their grasp. 

She couldn’t breathe and started tearing at her blouse more forcefully than Liv had. She ripped the item of clothing off herself and with it - by accident or perhaps by a sign from the universe - her necklace. It fell to the floor, onto her blouse, the chain snapped and the stars suddenly looked so much duller, lifeless, among her silky fabric. 

A gut-wrenching sob escaped her as she took the symbolism to heart, believing her friendship, her connection, with the person that was most precious to her in the universe snapped beyond repair as well.

Nausea and panic overwhelmed her. She dashed to the bathroom and heaved over the sink, her body echoing the broken feeling of her mind and she pressed her forehead to the mirror, pleasantly cool and somewhat soothing, but she couldn’t open her eyes to look at herself. She was too ashamed. 

Perhaps a shower would wash away the pain. She was halfway out of her clothes already and it was as though she could feel Liv’s thigh between her legs still. Panicked she struggled out of her jeans and then her underwear, with the sobering yet humiliating evidence of how much her friend’s advances had affected her. 

She stepped inside the shower and turned it on, the shock of the cold making her yelp but it quickly turned hot, almost too hot under her direction, but that was very much the point. It was a futile attempt to wash away the guilt and shame, and Helen sobbed, and as her tears mixed with the water, she could almost pretend to herself that she wasn’t crying, that she wasn’t completely, utterly broken and she rubbed her skin, desperately, to clear away the things she never could. 

When Helen finally turned the water off, she thought she could hear music and tears that had never stopped falling drew to her eyes once more. It was Albie and Bailey playing, the for LP of theirs, so aptly called “Song for Helen”. How fitting for her mind to conjure up the notes and words that resonated in her very soul.

“Everybody’s got to have someone. And then they got to go…” 

Liv would leave. Surely. After this. She would lose her forever. And Helen clasped her hand over her mouth as the realisation set in. As best as she could, she set about drying herself off and pulled on a fresh pair of pyjamas. The comfort of sleep and hopefully merciful dreams was all she could hope for right now. 

And yet, the music continued playing, accompanying her softly as she returned to her bedroom and found she was not alone. The music wasn’t in her head either, it stemmed from the record player in the corner that Liv seemed to have put on before perching on the side of the bed, waiting for her. She was fiddling with the broken necklace.

"I gave this to you because I thought it was a classic, traditional gesture that you would understand…" The med-tech opened before Helen had a chance to say anything at all. “And I thought you… I wanted to believe that the- the little looks, the way you’d grab my hand, the fact that you spent forty years to get back to me… that it meant something,” her words were sober, calm and collected. Gone was the heat and frustration of their previous exchange. Liv sat on the edge of the bed, looking small and vulnerable and desperately sad as she brushed her fingers across the chain of stars and finally looked up. “Was I wrong?” It was a genuine question and a simple one and with only her brothers voice filling her ears, the soft tune of Bailey’s guitar, and the love they were expressing for each other, Helen managed to whisper an answer:

“You weren’t wrong…”

“Good. That’s good…” Liv closed her eyes and managed a small smile, even though her tears fell once more. Tears of relief perhaps, as well as sorrow. And Helen wanted to dry them, she wanted to make it all better, but she didn’t know how. It was as though she was paralysed.

“I’m sorry,” was all she could manage.

“What for?” Liv mumbled, turning her attention back to the necklace. She looked utterly heartbroken to find it snapped.

“Because I don’t-” Helen squeezed her eyes shut as she sought the right words. She had a chance that she felt she didn’t deserve. A chance to limit the damage she had done. She owed it to her to try. She owed her honesty at least, even if that was all she would ever be able to give her. “I can’t- show that… the way I’d want to.”

“But you do want to?” The med-tech looked up once more, hopefully almost. 

“I-” And Helen's throat closed up from the pressure of a response.

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to push you, it’s just… It’s wearing me down. I thought that after finding Albie, maybe it would get… easier… somehow. That we could move forward but-” Liv gave her a sad smile and a shake of her head. 

“I’m trying Liv…” the linguist whispered.

“Are you?” Her voice was filled with doubt and she couldn’t blame her.

“I want to try. I just don’t know how…” Helen wrapped her arms around herself and dropped her gaze. Not seeing her reaction would be easier. “The last time I- It was so long ago. And it didn’t end well, Liv. It didn’t. And ever since I’ve locked it all away and I don’t know how to reach that part of me anymore,” that was the worst part about it. She knew that she was capable of these things, she’d done it before, but now it seemed an insurmountable task even though the feelings she had had for Jean hardly compared to all the things she felt for Liv. “It’s like I’m trapped in this cage and the key has been thrown away and as much as I shake the bars and try to break through, I-” Before she could talk herself into a tizz, Liv interrupted gently, but firmly.

“Have you considered that you might need someone to help you? Reach you from the other side of those bars?”

And she stood up, taking a step closer but not too close to spook her. If Helen wanted to bridge the gap between them, she would have to do so herself.

“I was always too scared to ask…” The linguist confessed and her friend responded with an emotional smile.

“You don’t have to ask for anything, Helen… I’m offering…” She said. "And I can wait but I... I need something to know that I'm not waiting in vain,” she took a deep breath, tears pricking her eyes as she confessed: “Because it's slowly breaking me…"

And she had never looked so vulnerable. Liv was a strong, independent and all round impressive woman but in that moment, she laid all her insecurities and her heart bare. She didn’t ask, plead or beg but she was begging her now with the look in her eyes, the silent, heartfelt plea that shook Helen’s very soul. Liv was hurting and it was all her fault. And she could make it better. Now and every other day if she just- 

The linguist closed the cap between them, reached out to brush her tears away and grasped her cheeks to deliver a kiss, soft and chaste, to her trembling lips. A task far more daunting but infinitely more pleasurable than forty years of solitude had been. 

She pulled away just as quickly, her resolve faltering but Liv was there to hold her steady as she took her hands and halted her retreat.

“It’s alright. It’s alright…” She soothed her. “How does that… how does that make you feel,” she asked. 

“I like it…” Helen confessed softly. “I like it more than I should…”

“Where is the harm in it when it’s what we both want?” Liv questioned, with a frown and the linguist couldn’t expect her to understand. They had led completely different lives, her past still had a terrifying hold on her but with her friend’s hands around her own, maybe there was a new life to be had, at the end of a very long road. It was a sobering thought, she knew she’d have to learn to walk before she could sprint down it but maybe with someone to show her the way, they could reach that destination rather than continue to be lost in the dark. Liv had been her guiding star for far longer than she cared to admit. 

“So this is what you want? You want to be-” Helen couldn’t say it in so many words but she was sure the med-tech would understand and she did:

“I want to be whatever you’re willing to allow. Please…”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” the linguist whispered, the prospect of her failing to measure up to what her friend needed ever present in her mind. What if they never made it? 

And Liv stood on her tiptoes and pressed another kiss to her lips, no more demanding than the one Helen had bestowed her with. 

“This… this isn’t hurting… this is putting me back together. You’ve always done that. You’ve always made me better. From the day we met, you started chasing the storm clouds away. I just wish that- I wish I could do the same for you,” she explained gently. “Please let me try. Let us try. Together.”

"I do love you, you know…" The words were liberating, less of a confession and more of an affirmation of something they both already knew. But Liv smiled nonetheless, a brilliant warm smile that could chase away every bit of the darkness that the linguist had found herself drowning in.

“And I love you…” the med-tech answered, brushing her hair from her cheeks where her tears were finally drying. "Maybe we can figure it out together? One step at a time?” She offered hopefully and Helen had no choice but nod.

"I'd like that…"   And she wrapped her arms around her friend, the most precious thing in her life. She didn’t feel worthy of her. But she would try. For her. And maybe at the end of the road, of the held on to each other and didn’t lose their way, they could find a happy ever after.

[sorryseraphim]

Sceleritas told her multiple times not to let her emotions get the best of her. One must remain intact, with emotions buried deep, to deal with degenerates like Gortash despite the numerous times he tried to break her character down. And yet, as the moon illuminated the city, the strong breeze dancing around her, she peeked quietly from his balcony. Helene made sure her steps were as light as a feather, concealing herself in the shadows, waiting for him to appear in his room. 

As soon as she saw his lock of dark hair, she was ready to strike, her blade at the ready. But she wasn't expecting him and his state when she moved another step forward. She froze in her tracks, miraculously hidden by the curtains as the wind blew. 

Thankfully, his eyes were busy darting around the various papers on the desk, unknowingly being watched. He was half naked, a towel wrapped down his lower body, as he went over different letters. His eyebrows were furrowed, his lips moving partially as he quietly read the contents of each parchment sprawled around. He ran a hand to his hair, still wet, brushing it from his face.

She held her breath, slowly inching backward to the balcony. She clutched her dagger hard next to her heart. Gods, she had failed miserably to calculate the chances of killing him tonight. She wasn't expecting him to be in this state, but what humiliation would it be for him, though, to die naked, she thought. The image of his torso lingered in her mind. Although the room was dim, she could faintly trace his features, enough to hold her breath. 

Just then, her ears perked up as she heard the sound. Although soft, Helene could hear a hum being repressed in the silence of the night. A moment later, there was moaning, matched with an exhale that clearly came from the nostrils. It didn't take her long enough to know what he was doing. 

He was pleasuring himself. 

Gods, humans are pathetic as always, she thought. And yet, her curiosity took a gander. Slowly, she inched towards the nearest window, her feet as light as possible as she lifted her head slowly, still hidden from plain sight, and there he was.

Breathing heavily as he held his cock, stroking it slowly with one hand, the other pressing his thigh down. He was sitting in bed at an angle, almost facing the window where Helene was. Despite his figure being obscured by shadows, Helene could see how his hand clutched desperately around his shaft, moving his hand from its base up, twisting it slightly on the head. 

She can’t help but inch forward, just a little, to hear him clearly; how he is panting hard, chest rising and falling from pleasure. She was mesmerized by how he was so vulnerable at the moment that she didn’t notice how she licked her lips wet. He was murmuring as he sped up, his pace quicker than the last.

“Helene….”

She froze. Eyes wide as she ducked from the window. He couldn't have seen her, and his eyes were closed. Or is he? She listened carefully as his voice became harsh, inhaling sharply, imagining him as he jerked his hand in swift motions. She felt terrified actually to look back up again. Hell, did he just call out my name? She thought,

“Helene…. Fuck!”

She heard it again. There was no mistaking it. Her heart raced, beating rapidly as if in need to come out; hearing him call out her name as he jerked himself off, never in her wildest dreams would she witness such a scene. Suddenly, she felt herself getting soaked, a stirring in her gut making itself known as she became wet. Gods, no, not him of all people, she thought. 

And yet, she yearned to see how it ends. Her thoughts battled from disgust to the desire stirring inside her. Braving herself, she took one last peek just as Gortash reached his pinnacle. Moving his hand rapidly and clutching his thighs down, he panted violently as he released. He threw his head back hard as he came in his hand, a few droplets spilling all over his thighs and on the carpet. In shaky breath, he stroked his length with what was left inside of him, grumbling softly as his whole body shook. 

“Helene…. Fuck, Helene…”

Feeling her cheeks flushed and her body heated, she slowly left the scene. Her insides are a mess; emotions jumbled and fought one another, a knot forming in her gut. Embarrassment? Yes, the way Gortash craved for her made her ill. Anger, mostly her hunger to spill his blood, intensified from what she had just seen. And yet, the unfamiliar feeling of desire crept back in, mingling with the others, trying to devour them out of her system. 

As she walked away from his dwelling, listening as her stomping echoed down the road, the hollow sound vibrating in her core, wishing it was enough to drown the thoughts of him from her head.