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bubonickitten · 4 years ago

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Fic summary: Jon goes back to before the world ended and tries to forge a different path.

Chapter summary: Jon and Basira make their way to Ny-Ålesund; Daisy and Martin have a long-overdue conversation.

Previous chapter: AO3 // tumblr

Full chapter text & content warnings below the cut.

Content warnings for Chapter 26: panic/anxiety symptoms; brief descriptions of Flesh-domain-typical imagery; discussion of police violence, intimidation tactics, & abuse of authority (re: Daisy’s past actions); mentions of canonical character deaths & murder; reference to a canonical instance of a character being outed (re: Jon’s coworkers gossiping about him being ace); allusions to childhood emotional neglect; a bit of internalized ableism re: ADHD symptoms; discussions of strict religious indoctrination; a physical altercation, including being restrained with a hold; swears. SPOILERS through Season 5.

Chapter 26: Remains To Be Seen

The journey to Tromsø is… uneventful, comparatively speaking.

Almost worryingly so, Jon observes at one point.

You’re fretting because something hasn’t gone horribly wrong? Basira asks.

Aren’t you?

The tension in Basira’s shoulders is answer enough. They’re both on tenterhooks, all too aware of the dreadful species of things that lurk in the margins of the world, any number of which could be waiting in the wings for them.

That’s not to say there are no complications at all. There’s a learning curve to navigating the world blindfolded, but the two of them settle into something of a routine: Basira guiding Jon with a hand on his arm, talking him around obstacles, across gaps, and up and down stairs. An improvised system of nudges and taps develops organically over the course of their travels, starting when Basira realizes that Jon has trouble parsing her words over the noise of a crowd. It becomes their go-to mode of communication with surprising ease.

It’s an exercise in trust oddly refreshing in its mundanity.

Jon finds the blindfold comforting, in its own way: surreal, but somehow not as surreal as the evidence of normalcy all around him. Consistent, straightforward geography is disorientating enough after so long traversing a world knitted together by nightmare logic and allegory. Even more bewildering are the people. Throngs of them go about their day-to-day routines, each preoccupied with their own affairs, taking for granted their relative anonymity against the vast backdrop of the bustling world around them, secure in the privacy of their own thoughts – and blissfully unaware of the alternative.

This is how it should be, he admonishes himself in a weary refrain. People deserve ownership over their own minds, their stories, their secrets. The Archivist in him vehemently disagrees, of course. It’s exhausting, how relentlessly Jon has to challenge that instinctual voyeurism.

Prone to sensory overload, he’s always hated crowds: the noise, the flurry of movement, the press of bodies, the constant threat of unwanted touches, the lack of freedom to move at his own pace. Becoming the Archivist made the experience infinitely worse. The combination of the blindfold and Daisy’s noise-cancelling headphones does little to stem the tide of intrusive knowledge: random scraps of disconcerting trivia, a steady stream of morbid statistics, insights into the deep-seated anxieties of passersby – and, on a few occasions, the whisper of a story to be chronicled. At least the blindfold prevents him from inadvertently locking eyes with anyone.

They try to avoid traveling during peak commuting hours, but not every crowd can be evaded. The first time he wanders into the path of a potential statement giver, Jon nearly causes a pile-up in a congested station, stopping so abruptly in his tracks that the person in the queue behind him crashes headlong into him. Basira manages to catch him before he’s knocked off his feet, keeping a firm grasp on his arm when the panicked urge to flee overtakes him and nearly sends him careening blindly in the opposite direction. When a nearby stranger snipes at him for the nuisance, Jon is surprised at how immediately Basira leaps to his defense.

Back off, she says, the hint of a threat in her tone, before steering Jon out of the crowd and off to the side, where he can lean against the wall and catch his breath. She stands firm between him and the masses, diverting traffic and warding off anyone else who might seek a confrontation, giving him the sorely-needed time to compose himself. He’s certain that she’ll be cross with him after, but… she isn’t.

Tense, certainly. Concerned even. But criticism is bafflingly, mercifully absent.

There are a few more incidents after that, but none quite so dramatic. The instant he senses the Archivist in him stirring, he chokes out a warning to Basira, who turns out to be preternaturally adept at finding (or creating) spaces for him to recoup. With both of them on guard and communicating freely, they manage to avoid being in close quarters with anyone who might have a story to tell.

Tromsø offers a temporary reprieve from all of that. There are people, of course – it’s the busiest fishing port in Norway, the Eye interposes for the fourth time this hour. Jon takes an aggravated swipe at the empty air beside him, once again momentarily forgetting that there’s no pesky swarm of Watchers tagging along for this particular journey. Not visibly, at least.

Still, the open-air piers of a busy fishing port are a far cry from a densely-packed train. There’s a cargo ship scheduled to leave for Ny-Ålesund within the next hour, and Basira is further down the docks meeting with its captain to (hopefully) arrange for passage. Apparently Jon has earned some trust over the course of their travels, because she didn’t object when he requested to stay back and take a breather.

Although the docks of Tromsø bear little resemblance to the beaches of Bournemouth, the calls of seabirds are familiar enough to be meditative. Nostalgic, albeit in an uneasy, bittersweet way. His childhood was riddled enough with nightmares and alienation that thoughts of the place where he grew up are always laced with remembered horror and punctuated by a nebulous sense of grief for what could have been. If he never caught the Spider’s eye; if he never opened the book; if he wasn’t quite so demanding and easily bored and difficult to manage; if his eccentric reading habits were just a bit less finicky, even…

Left to his own devices, Jon could drown himself in what ifs.

A frigid gust of wind whips his hair about. When he reaches up to smooth it down, he finds it coarse from the brine-saturated breeze. Rubbing his fingertips together and grimacing at the faint gritty residue, Jon pulls Georgie’s scarf up over his nose to fend against the nip in the air and he turns his sight to the sky. It’s a stark, pallid grey, the kind of overcast that manages to be blinding-bright despite the sun’s concealment. The sight stings his eyes, but still he does not blink.

It should be exhilarating to look up and see nothing staring back. Instead, the sight fills him with… well, it’s difficult for him to define succinctly. Some peculiar species of dread, mingled with a disquieting, ill-defined sense of longing. Perhaps he’s simply becoming adrift in time again: remembering how it felt to look up at a Watching sky and hopelessly wish for a return to the world as it was, to clouds and stars and void. But he can’t shake the suspicion that it’s at least partly a monstrous yearning for the ruined future from which he came.

He doesn’t know what that says about him. Nothing good, probably.

You miss it, a gloating, sinister little voice concurs from one of the murky, thorny corners of Jon’s mind. You don’t belong here. You Know where you–

Jon’s phone dings several times, yanking him away from that ill-fated train of thought. Grateful for the interruption, he digs it out of his pocket, instantly brightening when Naomi’s name greets him and eagerly opening their text thread.

Jon is too busy smiling to himself to notice Basira’s approach.

“What’s – oh, sorry,” she says when he starts. “Keep expecting you to just sort of… Know I’m here.”

“The Eye doesn’t seem inclined to help me out on that front, unfortunately,” Jon says with an embarrassed chuckle. “If anything, my being jumpy probably feeds it.”

Basira glances down at his phone, then back up at him. “Everything alright?”

“Hm? Oh, yes. Naomi.” Jon’s grin returns. “All her texts from the last couple days just came through at once. She wants to know whether Krampus is real.”

“And what did you tell her?”

“Haven’t replied just yet.”

“Oh.” Basira opens her mouth to say more, then promptly closes it.

A delighted smirk twitches into being at the corner of Jon’s mouth. “Now you want to know as well, don’t you?”

Basira rolls her eyes, but doesn’t deny it. “Later. We have a boat to catch.”

When Jon reaches into his pocket to retrieve his blindfold, Basira shakes her head.

“Best not,” she says. “The captain agreed to take us, but she was leery about the whole thing. I don’t want to give her a reason to reconsider. The less suspicious we seem, the better.”

“Still getting odd stares, then?”

“Getting used to people looking at me like I’m transporting a hostage,” she replies with a tired, beleaguered smile. It fades into a frown as she looks him up and down, taking stock of his shaking hands and the way he leans heavily on his cane. “Alright?”

“A bit sore,” Jon admits, glancing down at his leg. “Probably just been putting weight on it for too long a stretch.”

“We should be able to sit soon. Until then, try not to fall.”

“Or freeze,” Jon says distractedly, glancing warily upwards again.

“Daisy says the cold always gets to her,” Basira says, quietly enough that Jon suspects it wasn’t meant for him. “Seriously, though – you alright? You keep staring at the sky like it’s going to crack open.”

“I’m fine.” Jon shuts his eyes and takes a slow, deep breath. “Just… apprehensive.”

“Sense anything?” Despite her carefully bland tone, the crux of the question is clear.

“Nothing concrete.” No statement givers, he does not say – but Basira nods, understanding his meaning. “I’ll let you know if that changes.”

“Come on, then.” She starts off down the dock – at a brisk pace at first, but slowing when she looks back to ensure that Jon is following and observes his stiffer, more deliberate gait.

He grimaces apologetically. Up until Jane Prentiss and her worms, he was inclined towards speed walking as much as Basira is. Always in a hurry to get nowhere at all, Georgie used to say, simultaneously lamenting and teasing. Not everyone is a power walker, Jon, Martin would gripe from time to time during the apocalypse.

Maybe some of us want to slow down and take in the scenery, he grumbled on one occasion, as they traipsed through a predictably grisly Flesh domain.

The forest of pulsating meat sculptures, you mean? Jon replied primly.

Oh, you’re telling me you don’t feel the overwhelming urge to stop and take notes on the ecology of flesh spiders?

Not as much as I want to get to a place where the ground isn’t a spongy skin trampoline.

Flesh domains always had a tendency to bring out the worst (best?) of their morbid humor, Jon notes upon reflection.

In any case, Jon has always had a tendency to hurry, too impatient to reach his destination to appreciate the journey. Internally, that impulse is still there. On good days, he can almost satisfy that restlessness. Today is not a good day.

Basira stops and waits. It’s a practice that has become second nature to her ever since Daisy emerged from the Buried: learning all the unspoken signals and warning signs of a bad pain day, from barely-suppressed winces and cold sweat to waspishness and stifled, winded breaths; gauging all the fickle fluctuations in mobility in real time through careful, constant observation; and discreetly adjusting her own walking pace to accommodate without question or complaint.

“You know, I haven’t spent much time on boats,” Basira says, apropos of nothing – probably to break the silence as she waits for Jon to catch up. “I’m hoping motion sickness during long car rides isn’t correlated with seasickness. Does the Eye have any statistics handy? Seems like it would qualify as terrible knowledge.”

“Let’s just say you should keep the Dramamine at the ready,” Jon says wryly as he reaches her position.

“Wonderful,” Basira sighs, and she resumes walking, this time matching Jon’s stride.

Martin will be the first to admit that, between the two of them, Jon doesn’t have a monopoly on obsessiveness.

Case in point: Jon and Basira have been gone for five days now, and – in between bouts of worrying over their safety and mounting apprehension about Peter’s inexplicable, persistent hiatus – Martin is still replaying everything he said and did in the moments leading up to Jon’s departure.

Or, more precisely, what he didn’t say.

Nearly two months have passed since Jon returned from the Buried. It’s been nice, it really has, spending time with him. He’s changed – How could he not have? – but he’s still Jon. Even more wounded and jaded than he was before – How much abuse can one person take? – but it hasn’t made him cruel or cold. Harder in some respects, to be sure – namely on himself.

Which is saying something, Martin thinks with a pang. In all the time that Martin has known him, Jon has never been kind to himself. It’s always been a struggle to convince him to take care of himself in the most basic of ways, let alone spare a thought for comfort.

But in other respects, Jon has grown softer. More open, more communicative – more trusting, somehow, despite this world and the next piling on reason after reason for him to detach and withdraw. Martin thinks about that every time the Lonely starts to whisper in his ear. The fog is still there, firmly planted in his mind, choking out his thoughts from time to time like an invasive weed. It won’t be easily uprooted. Seeing Jon alive and trying, reaching out, grasping at warmth, clinging to humanity with all his trademark stubbornness… it makes Martin want to try, too. It makes him want to hope, to look forward and see – to fight for – a future where things are better.

So, yes, Jon has changed. They both have.

I’m not the person you remember, Martin said the first time they spoke after Jon came back. I’m not the person you fell in love with.

Jon had locked eyes with him then, and Martin found that he could not look away.

Martin has spent the majority of his life walking a tightrope, striking an uneasy balance between competing instincts. The part of him that excels in flying under the radar takes comfort in being inconspicuous. There are people out there who see kindness as naivety and trust as a weakness to be exploited. The best way to avoid their notice is to avoid being seen at all, and Martin learned early on that to be unremarkable has its own advantages. All too often, to go unnoticed is to survive.

It isn’t enough to just survive, though, is it? Barely hidden underneath all the abysmal self-esteem and the carefully constructed mask of agreeability, there is a spark of indignation and outrage and want. To be seen is fundamentally terrifying; to demand acknowledgment is to welcome exposure. But Martin has always had a rebellious streak, carving out a space for itself amongst all the loneliness and fear and self-deprecation.

Look at me, it seethes. See me.

And when Jon did look at him – Saw him – an unmistakably pleased little voice jostled its way to the forefront to triumphantly declare, Finally.

Martin, I fell in love with this version of you, Jon said. With every version of you.

It was difficult to believe. Martin didn’t want to believe it. He was afraid to believe it. But he did, and he does, and he feels the same way, and he has for so, so long, and that defiant chip on his shoulder never truly let him forget it, even when isolation had him by the throat–

So why can’t you say it?

Since that day, it hasn’t come up again. Jon is affectionate, far more than Martin would have expected. Sure, Jon has always seemed more natural at expressing his feelings through actions rather than words, but Martin never imagined he would be so… well, cuddly. Jon always struck Martin as averse to touch, keeping people at arm’s length both figuratively and literally. He still is, sometimes. But more often than not, Martin gets the impression that Jon would cling like a limpet if given explicit permission. Martin doesn’t know whether that’s a new development, or whether it’s just that he now numbers among Jon’s rare exceptions.

Maybe I should ask Georgie, Martin thinks, only partly in jest.

There’s still a lingering hesitancy there, though. Yes, when Martin invites contact, Jon jumps at the opportunity to be close. Initiating, though… Jon doesn’t quite walk on eggshells per se, but he moves with a gentleness perhaps too gentle at times. Excessively tentative – but not subtle.

Martin long ago perfected the art of stealing furtive glances at Jon. It’s not difficult. Jon is prone to tunnel vision, predisposed to lose himself in his work or a book or his own mind until the rest of the world outside his narrow focus dissolves around him. If he ever noticed Martin’s eyes on him, Jon never called attention to it.

Jon’s staring doesn’t have the same finesse. His gaze is heavy. Concentrated, unwavering, penetrating – and Jon is painfully self-conscious about that. Prompt to stammer apologies whenever he’s caught watching, quick to avert his eyes. According to him, most people find the Archivist’s attention unnerving. Martin supposes it can be at times, but he’s long since become acclimated to it. Endeared to it, even. It’s grounding, despite how ruthlessly being Seen clashes with the Lonely aspects of Martin’s existence.

Maybe that disharmony is precisely why it’s grounding.

So Jon’s eyes flit to Martin whenever he thinks Martin isn’t looking, and cautious glimpses stretch into riveted, unconscious watching, and Martin graciously pretends not to notice. This has been the status quo for weeks now: faltering not-quite-touches and longing, not-so-surreptitious gazes, interspersed with understated handholding and a few sporadic sessions of what Martin can only call cuddling. All of it has been underscored by three simple words dangling in the scant expanse of empty space between them, waiting for acknowledgment.

Jon is waiting – waiting for Martin – and Jon… Jon has never been good at waiting, has he? Not like Martin. Jon’s directionless fidgeting and bitten-short declarations and absentminded stares betray his buzzing impatience despite his best efforts, but still he’s waiting, with as much valiant restraint as he can muster.

I love you. It’s a truth so obvious that speaking it aloud would hardly qualify as a confession. I love you, Martin thinks, and he feels it down to his bones, woven into the very atoms of him.

It’s difficult to pinpoint when it began. Early on, Martin only wanted to appear qualified to his new supervisor, then to impress him, then to prove him wrong – and then, eventually, to genuinely take care of him. Jon was in need of care, and resistant to receiving it, and that was familiar, wasn’t it? Maybe some desperate, stubborn part of Martin just wanted to be useful for once. To be seen. To succeed with Jon where he had failed with his mother.

Then Prentiss happened. Martin had been certain that Jon would dismiss Martin’s story, reprimand him for his prolonged absence, and snap at him to get back to work. And then… he didn’t.

Your safety is my responsibility, Jon said curtly, showing Martin to his new, hopefully temporary lodgings. I failed you, Jon’s contrite grimace read. I won’t fail you again. Then he immediately strode off to meet with Elias, leaving Martin loitering idly in Document Storage, speechless and bemused.

Maybe that’s where it started: Jon barging unannounced and uninvited into Elias’ office with brazen, unapologetic demands for safe haven and fire extinguishers and heightened security. He even went so far as to persistently badger Elias for customizations to the building’s sprinkler system. That tenacity may have been partly driven by guilt and obligation, but Martin swore he caught glimpses of something more from time to time. Something deeper and more personal, sympathetic and kind.

It started, as so many significant shifts do, with the small things.

Martin retired to Document Storage one night that first week to find extra blankets folded neatly at the end of his cot. I thought you might be cold, Jon admitted upon questioning. It can get chilly in here at night. The pressing question of exactly how many times Jon must have slept here overnight in order to know that was promptly crowded out by a vivid mental image of Jon wrestling a heavy quilt onto the Tube during the morning commuter rush. The thought brought a smile to Martin’s face. He said as much, and Jon immediately fabricated a clumsy excuse to exit the conversation.

On another occasion, Martin opened the break room cabinet to find his favorite tea restocked. He’d been putting off shopping, too anxious to leave the relative safety of the Institute’s walls. I noticed you were running low, Jon mumbled. And I was already at the store anyway, he added almost defensively, eyes narrowing in a stern glare to discourage comment – as if drawing attention to Jon’s random acts of kindness would destroy his curmudgeonly reputation.

Those circumspect displays of consideration were touching in their awkwardness. Jon was gruff and reticent, to be sure, but he cared, in his own unpracticed, idiosyncratic way. And one day, when Martin looked at him, he thought, I’d like to kiss him, and then: Oh no. Oh, fuck.

Jon never seemed to pick up on Martin’s feelings back then. But he knows now – not Knows, just knows – and, impossible as still seems, he returns those feelings. Jon said the words in no uncertain terms, left them in Martin’s care – and now he’s waiting for Martin to make the next move.

So why haven’t you? What are you waiting for?

“Want some tea?”

Martin jumps at the sound of Daisy’s voice.

“Sorry,” she snorts. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I –” Martin clears his throat, recovering. “Tea. Right. Uh, I can get it–”

“Let me. I need to stretch my legs anyway. And I wouldn’t want to interrupt your pining.”

“Wh-what?” Martin sputters.

“You haven’t turned the page in at least twenty minutes,” Daisy informs him, nodding at the statement resting on the table in front of him. “Liable to burn yourself on the kettle while you’re spacing out, fantasizing about snogging Jon or whatever.”

“Wh– I – you – I’m – why would–”

“Don’t know why you’re being so coy about it.” Her blasé shrug is offset by the devious grin on her face. “Not like it’s a secret you’re on kissing terms.”

“We… we haven’t,” Martin blurts out, heat rising in his cheeks. Immediately, he kicks himself. Given what he knows of Daisy, there’s no avoiding an interrogation now.

“You – wait, really?” Daisy raises her eyebrows. “Why not?”

“It just hasn’t – I – it’s really none of your–” Martin huffs, flustered. “I don’t even know if he does that.”

“Why wouldn’t he?”

“B-because, he…”

Because Martin has a tendency to fade into the background, and people will say a lot of things when they assume no one else is in earshot.

Do you know if he and Jon ever…

No clue, and not interested! Although… according to Georgie, Jon doesn’t.

Like, at all?

Yeah.

Martin cringes at the memory. He wasn’t trying to eavesdrop. He still wishes he hadn’t overheard. Jon was always so tight-lipped about his personal life back then. It felt like a violation of his privacy, knowing something that he would in all likelihood have preferred to keep to himself and share only at his own discretion. Martin tried to put it out of his head, to avoid thinking too hard on the specifics of what Jon “doesn’t” – and, conversely, what he maybe, possibly does – but, well…

Martin shakes his head to clear his thoughts before they can meander any further into the realm of imagination. In any case, he certainly isn’t about to repeat that piece of gossip to Daisy now.

“I – I just don’t want to assume,” he says instead.

Daisy tilts her head, considering. “Well, have you asked him?”

“W-well, no.”

“Why not? Sure, some people aren’t into kissing, I guess, but I doubt he’d mind you asking. Even if the answer is ‘no,’ I guarantee he wants to be close in other ways.” At Martin’s lack of response, Daisy heaves an exaggerated sigh. “He reaches for you every time you’re not looking, you know. Always fidgeting with his hands, like he wants to touch but he doesn’t know how to ask. He’s as bad as you are, pining face and all.”

“I do not have a ‘pining face,’” Martin says. “If you must know, I was worrying just now.”

“You definitely have a pining face, and it’s different from your worried face. When you’re worried, you get all scowly and you chew your lip bloody. You’re focused, intense. When you’re pining, you get this faraway look to you, like you’re not taking anything in. And you touch your fingers to your lips a lot – yeah, like that.”

Martin yanks his fingers away from his mouth as if scalded, glowering indignantly at an increasingly smug Daisy. “What are you, a mentalist?”

“I’ve gotten used to reading people – picking up on openings, weak spots, stress signals, you know. Don’t know whether that’s a Hunt thing or a me thing. Both, maybe.” She shakes her head. “Anyway, you went from worried to pining about ten minutes ago now. And Jon, he’s even easier to read than you are. He’s so far gone for you, I can tease him mercilessly about it and never get a rise out of him. Even when I can get him to bat an eye, he never does that… that flustered denial thing he usually does when you hit a nerve. He just goes all… soft and wistful. Retreats into his own head, gets that smitten little smile – you know the one?”

“Yes.” Martin is blushing furiously now, he’s certain. Daisy flashes him another knowing, unabashedly victorious smirk.

“Point is, our lives are messed up, water is wet, and Jon Sims loves cats and Martin Blackwood, but he’s terrified of crossing some invisible line, so instead he’s just openly pining and it isn’t even fun to tease him about it because he’s too lovestruck to be properly embarrassed about it.” Daisy pauses for a breath. “So, if you want to kiss Jon, you should ask him, because I doubt he’s going to make the first move anytime soon, and it’s getting ridiculous watching the two of you tiptoe around the elephant in the room. So what are you waiting for?”

“How is any of this your business, anyway?” Martin snaps.

“Well, seeing as Jon’s my friend–”

That strikes a nerve, and Martin is reacting before he can properly evaluate the feeling.

“Okay, yeah, about that,” he says sharply. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Well, all you wanted to do before was hunt him down and hurt him.” Instantaneously, Daisy’s playful demeanor evaporates. “Even after Elias blackmailed you into working for him, you still looked at Jon like he wasn’t human. Not even a monster, either, just – just something you wanted to tear apart, just because you wanted to see him afraid. And now all of a sudden you’re friends? I mean, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that Jon’s willing to overlook a murder attempt. He… he has so little respect for himself, his standards are so…” Martin captures his lower lip between his teeth and bites down until it aches. “He’s so used to being treated badly, the bar is six feet below ground.”

“Yeah,” Daisy whispers.

“But – but what I can’t figure out is what your angle is. You wanted to hurt him, you did hurt him – he still has a scar from where you held a knife to his throat. You would’ve killed him if Basira didn’t stop you.”

“I–”

“He was so afraid of disappearing without a trace, did you know that?” Martin interjects, his face growing hotter as over a year’s worth of pent-up fury boils to the surface.

Martin has read enough statements to know that even one of the encounters representative of the Institute’s collection is one traumatic experience too many. Even so, it’s only a small fraction of the horror stories that have plagued humanity throughout history – that continue to unfold in the present day. How many people suffer something horrible and don’t live long enough to tell the story? The Archive, chock-full of terror though it may be, is an ongoing study in survivorship bias.

“When Prentiss attacked the Institute,” Martin fumes, “Jon was more afraid of that – of leaving nothing behind – than he was of dying. You were going to bury him where no one would ever find him, and no one would ever know what happened to him, and now… now you say you want to be his friend, like nothing ever happened? And I’m supposed to just trust you?”

For a long minute, the only sound is Martin’s rapid, heavy breathing. He doesn’t know what he’s expecting. Combativeness, maybe. For Daisy to get her hackles up, to defend herself against Martin’s implications, to take offense to his accusatory tone. Instead, her entire posture wilts and her shoulders curl inward. It’s as if an invisible weight is pressing against her on all sides, crushing her into something small and taut.

“I guess we’re doing this now, then,” she mumbles.

“Guess we are,” Martin says stiffly, one foot tapping frenetically against the floor as his agitation continues creeping ever upward.

Daisy nods and releases a heavy exhale. “This isn’t just about Jon, is it?”

“I…” Martin trails off as he considers the question. “No. I guess it’s not.”

“Well.” Daisy rubs at her upper arms, eyes fixed on the floor. “Go on.”

“When you questioned all of us – when you interrogated me, you didn’t – you didn’t actually want to find out the truth. You just wanted to get to Jon, because you assumed he was guilty, and…” Martin huffs. “No, it wasn’t even about guilt, was it? You didn’t care about solving Leitner’s murder, you didn’t care about finding Sasha – she could’ve still been alive for all we knew at the time, but you didn’t care whether she was in danger, whether she could be saved. And – and even if we did have proof that she was dead, we deserved to know what happened to her. She deserved better than to be a mystery.”

“You’re right.” Daisy’s soft agreement does nothing to temper Martin’s burgeoning wrath.

“She was my friend, you know that? She was my friend, and you just – dismissed her, like she wasn’t worth remembering, like her life was some – some trivial detail. I didn’t know whether to be afraid for her or – or – or to mourn for her, and all you had to offer was, ‘Jon probably killed her, tell me where he is or else.’ You were a detective, you were supposed to help, but all you cared about was getting to Jon, and you – you – you threatened me because you thought I could tell you where to find him. That you could use me to hurt him.” Martin breathes a bitter chuckle. “I guess Jon was right not to trust the police to figure out what happened to Gertrude.”

Daisy doesn’t deny it.

“So… yeah.” Martin shrugs as his rant tapers off. “That’s where I am, I guess. I know you’ve changed – haven’t we all – but… every time I see you near Jon, there’s a part of me that panics. Maybe I’m not being fair, but I – I can’t forget. I don’t know how to feel.”

Daisy is quiet for a long minute, fingers digging into her arms now, a pained expression lingering on her face.

“I’ve done… a lot of things I’m not proud of,” she says slowly. “Hurt a lot of people. Most more than they deserved. Many who didn’t deserve it at all. Can’t even make apologies to most of them, let alone make amends. I don’t even know if I could make amends. Some things are unforgivable.”

It doesn’t undo what I did, Jon’s voice plays in Martin’s mind. I can’t erase it.

“You should know,” Daisy says, “complete lack of self-respect aside, Jon doesn’t… he doesn’t overlook what I did.”

“What?”

“He knows what I am. What I’ve done. He doesn’t pretend I’m something I’m not, he doesn’t lie to me about what I could become, he doesn’t offer me forgiveness that I don’t deserve, but he still… he still doesn’t expect the worst from me, either. He expects me to make the right choice, even though I gave him every reason not to trust me.”

“He’s still too forgiving,” Martin mutters.

“That’s another thing. I… I don’t think he does. Forgive me, that is.”

“Have you asked him?”

“No.”

“Because you’re afraid to know the answer?” Maybe that’s uncharitable, but Martin never claimed to be an easily forgiving soul. Most people wouldn’t assume it at first glance, but he’s always had a tendency to nurse a grudge.

Daisy hunches even further, her shoulders drawing in tighter.

“Because if he did forgive me, he would tell me,” she says, her throat bobbing as she struggles to swallow. “But he doesn’t. I know he doesn’t, and he shouldn’t, and I’m not going to put him in a position where he has to justify himself, or sugarcoat it, or comfort me for what I did to him.”

Martin doesn’t know what to say to that.

“And the same goes for you.” Daisy steals a quick glimpse at Martin before lowering her head again. “I won’t ask you to forgive me. Ever. But I am sorry – for how I treated you, for what I did to Jon. I’ll never stop being sorry. That doesn’t make it better, I know. But I want to do better. I’m trying to be better. Too little too late, maybe, but I won’t go back to how I was before. I can’t take it all back, but I can at least make sure I don’t hurt anyone else.”

“You sound like Jon.”

“First and second place for guiltiest conscience, us,” Daisy says with a tired chuckle. “And I don’t know which of us is in first.” She sighs. “Look, I know you have no reason to trust me, but I do see Jon as a friend. Not just because I’m sorry, or because he saved me, or because I owe him, but because he… well, he sees me as I am, and he sees me for who I want to be, and he doesn’t see those as mutually exclusive, but he also doesn’t deny the contradiction.”

“Wish he could apply the same logic to himself.”

“Yeah. He’s an absolute mess of double standards. Best we can do is call him on it at every opportunity. Maybe eventually he’ll get it through his head.”

“Yeah,” Martin scoffs. “Maybe.”

“Anyway,” she says, “I care about him, and he cares about you, so…”

“So you thought you’d appoint yourself his wingman?”

“Maybe a little.” Daisy gives him a hesitant, sheepish grin. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Martin sighs. The resentment is still there, but he does feel a bit lighter after getting it all out in the open. Besides, he's so emotionally drained from his outburst, he can’t quite work up the energy for mild annoyance right this moment.

“Well, in that case – if you want to kiss him, you should ask. That’s all I’m saying,” Daisy says hurriedly, holding up her palms in a placating gesture when Martin gives her a tired glare. “I’ll drop it now. I meant it when I said I wanted tea.”

Daisy winces as she rises to her feet.

“And I meant it when I said I can get it,” Martin says.

“I’ve got it.”

“Then at least let me come along and–”

“Uh, no.” Daisy gives him a quelling look. “Jon warned me about how you are with tea.”

“What?”

“Says you’re a micromanager.”

“He what?” Martin demands.

“Okay, he didn’t say it like that. Actually, I think the word he used was persnickety.”

“Oh, as if he has room to talk,” Martin mutters. “He’s just miffed that I caught him microwaving tea once and I refuse to let him live it down.”

“What’s wrong with microwaving tea?” Martin recoils, affronted – and then Daisy snorts. “Settle down. I’m just messing with you.” She starts to leave, pausing only briefly to glance over her shoulder. “I won’t be long. Yell if Peter decides to finally show his face.”

“Will do,” Martin groans, reluctantly returning to the statement in front of him. Yet another alleged Extinction sighting, courtesy of Peter, for Martin to dutifully pretend to research.

Stringing Peter along is the best way Martin knows to keep in check. In that sense, it’s an important job – one only Martin can do. Nonetheless, it’s reminiscent of how it felt to be left behind when the others went to stop the Unknowing. Distracting Elias was important, sure, and dangerous in its own way, but it wasn’t exactly on the same level as storming the Circus to stop the apocalypse. Comparatively, Martin felt useless.

Now, with Basira and Jon off on their mission, Martin is beset by a similar sense of futility. There’s certainly enough work to keep him busy, given that Peter delegates most of his job responsibilities to Martin. (Martin is fairly certain that, fraudulent CV or not, he’s more qualified to run the Institute at this point than Peter is.) Performing routine administrative duties can be a boring and demoralizing enough endeavor in the context of a mundane underpaid office job; doing so in service to an unfathomable cosmic evil is, to put it mildly, soul-destroying. Perhaps in a literal sense, as far as Martin knows.

That’s not to mention the customary gloom that comes with reading account after dreadful account of senseless, indiscriminate suffering.

Martin wishes there was something practical he could do, is his point. Patient though he may be, indefinite waiting is less tolerable when what he’s waiting for is the other shoe to drop, so to speak. He has no desire to interact with Peter in any capacity, but the longer he remains scarce, the more Martin’s trepidation soars.

There’s no way Peter has conceded his bet with Jonah, but there’s no telling whether he’s simply biding his time and observing how events unfold, actively plotting his next moves, or already enacting an revised scheme from the shadows. Regardless, he’s a clear and present danger for as long as he’s around. He may not be hasty, but he’s still a wildcard. Jon told Martin about the last time: how Peter released the NotThem to rampage through the Institute, solely for the sake of causing a distraction. As long as he has The Seven Lamps of Architecture in his possession, he–

Oh.

Martin smiles to himself. Maybe there is something more he can do.

The warehouse is, unsurprisingly, dark. Even with the door propped open, the daylight filtering through illuminates a radius of only a few yards before it’s swallowed by unnatural gloom. As Jon and Basira move further into the cavernous space, the beams of their torches barely penetrate the velvety murk.

“Any idea where she is?” Basira whispers from Jon’s left.

“Waiting in ambush, I assume. I can’t See much of anything.”

“See or See?”

“Either. Both.”

“And you’re certain that applies to Elias as well? He won’t be able to See us here?”

“Positive,” Jon says. “The Dark has–”

An enraged bellow sounds out from behind them. Basira’s torch clatters to the concrete floor, its light promptly extinguished as the casing cracks and the batteries come loose. In a flash, Basira is on the ground, locked in a furious scuffle with–

“Manuela Dominguez!” Jon says. Manuela looks up reflexively, surprised to hear her name. It’s all the opening Basira needs to gain the upper hand, grappling Manuela into a prone position on the floor and pinning her in place with a wristlock. Manuela cries out in pain, but her wild thrashing continues unabated.

“Jon,” Basira grunts, increasingly winded as Manuela attempts to break the hold. “A little help?”

“Manuela, listen, we – we’re just here to talk–”

Manuela briefly pauses in her struggling to spit at Jon’s feet. Funny, how some details remain the same. A second later, she’s resisting again, now attempting to twist around and bite at whatever exposed skin she can find.

“Stop.”

The command crackles up Jon’s throat and sparks off the tip of his tongue like a static shock, hundreds of iterations of the word coinciding. The air itself seems to quake with the force of it, and Jon is left shivering in its wake.

So, it seems, is Manuela: her voice shudders out of her when she speaks.

“Who are you?” she hisses. “What do you want?”

“To make a deal,” Jon says, the words slightly slurred.

“Why would I deal with you?” In the flickering glow of his torchlight, Jon can see the baleful glint in Manuela’s eyes. “You’re of the Eye, aren’t you? What could you even possibly want? You’ve already taken everything – you lot and your Archivist. Where is she, anyway?” Manuela makes a show of scanning the room as best she can, pinioned as she is. “Too much of a coward to witness the wreckage she’s wrought?”

“Gertrude is dead,” Basira says.

“Stopping us took everything she had, then.” Manuela smirks. “Serves her right.”

“You wish,” Basira scoffs. “She was murdered. Completely unrelated.”

“That’s –” Manuela’s smug expression vanishes. “Who–?”

“Elias,” Jon says. “She was too much of a thorn in his side. Too much of a force to be reckoned with.”

“Then why are you here?”

“I told you,” Jon says. “We want to make a deal. A temporary alliance.”

“An alliance?” Manuela repeats. What starts as a weak, dismissive laugh dissolves into a wheeze.

“We have a mutual enemy.” Manuela’s eyes narrow in something more like curiosity now. “I take it I’ve piqued your interest. Will you hear us out?”

Manuela deliberates for a protracted moment, torn between rebellion and intrigue. “Let me up.”

“What, so you can throw more punches?” Basira says.

“It’s fine, Basira,” Jon says. Manuela is still seething with defiance. The more powerless she feels, the less open she’ll be to negotiation. Better to make a few concessions and let her feel some control over the situation.

Judging from her furrowed brow, Basira is running through the same calculations. She hesitates a moment longer before sighing, releasing her hold, and standing. Manuela staggers to her feet and backs away several steps, brushing herself off and panting shallowly as she catches her breath.

“Did you come here alone?” she asks, massaging her abused wrist as her suspicious gaze flits back and forth between Basira and Jon. “Just the two of you?”

“Yes,” Jon answers. Basira shakes her head with an impatient tsk – which Jon interprets as something like stop volunteering free information to every Avatar you parley with, Jon. “Like I said, we’re just here to talk. And to offer you the opportunity for revenge.”

“What revenge? Gertrude is dead,” Manuela spits out. “Who else is there? Her replacement?”

“I’m her replacement.”

With that, Manuela lunges in Jon’s direction. Basira swiftly moves to intercept her, but Manuela stops in her tracks before Basira can grab her. A tension-filled standoff ensues, the two of them eyeing each other warily. After nearly a full minute, Basira seems satisfied enough that the situation has been defused to take her eyes off Manuela and treat Jon to an exasperated glare.

“Do you have to antagonize every single person who wants to kill you?” she scolds.

Jon ignores her grievance in favor of addressing Manuela directly: “You wouldn’t have any luck killing me.”

Basira dips her head down and plants the heel of her hand on her forehead, grumbling under her breath. It’s mostly unintelligible, but Jon thinks he can make out the words fuck’s sake somewhere in there.

“I could try,” Manuela snarls. Her hands ball into tighter fists, trembling with rage at her sides, but she continues to stand her ground.

“You could,” Jon says mildly. “And you would fail.”

“You’ll just compel me, you mean.”

“I could.” He would rather avoid it if possible, but Manuela doesn’t need to know that. He can only hope she can’t tell just how much he’s only pretending at nerve. “Or, you can listen to what we have to say. Gertrude is dead, and lashing out at me isn’t going to satisfy your thirst for revenge. We can offer up a more satisfying target.”

“Unless you have a way for me to unmake the Power your Archivist served.” When Jon doesn’t deny it, Manuela lets out another harsh, scornful laugh. “You’ve got to be joking.”

“Well – arguably, Gertrude didn’t serve the Eye. She followed her own path.” Manuela breathes a derisive huff. “Like her or not, she did. Formidable as she was, none of that was due to the Beholding’s favor. That was all her. She never embraced the power it promised – not like most Archivists do. Striking a blow against the Eye wouldn’t be an insult to Gertrude’s memory. If anything, it would do her proud.”

“Killing it with the sales pitch,” Basira carps.

“But the head of the Institute does serve the Eye,” Jon presses on, “and he’s the one responsible for appointing Gertrude the Archivist in the first place. Hurt the Eye, and you hurt him.”

“I’m not an idiot,” Manuela says, bristling. “Your patron may pale in comparison to my god, but I’m not arrogant enough to believe that I would stand a chance of vanquishing it.”

“We can’t vanquish it, no. But we could destroy the Institute that serves it. Same as happened to the Dark’s faithful.”

“An eye for an eye,” Basira adds.

“Well, you’ve wasted your time coming all this way.” Manuela’s disparaging chuckle gets caught in her throat. “I’m the only one here. An abandoned disciple, guarding a lost cause. There’s nothing left of our former power.”

“The Dark Sun,” Basira says.

Manuela tenses. Then her shoulders slump, weighed down by dawning, solemn resignation.

“Of course,” she says bitterly. “It isn’t enough to decimate our numbers. You need to steal the only remnant of our crusade.”

“We’re giving you the opportunity to reclaim its purpose,” Jon says. “Or would you rather it rot away here, diminishing until it collapses in on itself?”

Manuela is silent for a long minute, a shrewd look in her eye. “Why would you want to betray your god?”

“The Beholding isn’t my god,” Jon says. “I’m not a willing convert. I was drafted into someone else’s crusade without my consent – and you know what that’s like, don’t you?”

Manuela just scowls.

“I Know your story.” Jon’s voice turns sibilant with power as the Archive rears its head. “Indoctrinated into a faith that never spoke to you –”

“– brought up to believe in the light of God, his radiant, illuminating presence –”

“Shut up,” Manuela says in a low growl.

“– deep down they were vicious, spiteful people who used their faith to hurt others, and I fondly imagined them discovering themselves in an afterlife other than the one they had assumed was their destination – I broke with them as soon as I could –”

“Jon,” Basira interrupts. The firm squeeze of her hand on his shoulder is enough to snap him out of his shallow trance. She jerks her head at Manuela, who looks about ready to charge him again. “Maybe not the time?”

“S-sorry,” he gasps. He shakes his head to clear the residual static clouding his thoughts before looking back to Manuela with genuine contrition. “Didn’t mean to do that, I swear. I only meant to say that I – I read the statement you gave to Gertrude. I know that your parents were zealots. They envisioned a perfect world that seemed to you like hell on earth, and you did everything you could to rebel against their arrogance. To spite the god they worshiped. We have some common ground there, you and I.”

Granted, Jon didn’t grow up in a religious household. His grandmother was content to let him explore – and he did.

Even as a child, he had an inclination for research. A topic would catch his attention and he would voraciously seek out as much information as he could. His grandmother didn’t take much interest in the content of those fixations, but she did encourage them as a general principle. Not with overt praise, necessarily, but by facilitating his endeavors: procuring reading material on the obsession of the month, escorting him to the library every so often and allowing him to max out his card. He suspects now that she was simply grateful for some way to occupy his attention. If his nose was in a book, he was keeping out of trouble.

He never told her how wrong she turned out to be.

In any case, one of his many early “phases,” as she liked to call them, was comparative religion. Part of it was simple curiosity. Part of it was a genuine desire to find something to believe: some conception of the afterlife that would resonate with him, some straightforward framework for understanding the world, some sort of certainty to assuage his fear of the unknown. His grandmother never seemed to care whether he found what he was looking for. She never really asked.

It was for the best. He never liked admitting defeat. Not back then.

They returned all the books to the library on the day they were due, and Jon brought home a new haul, this one centered around the field of oceanography. The seas were brimming with mystery, but at least there was a very real possibility of turning those unknowns into knowns. New discoveries were being made every day, newer and newer technology being developed to push the boundaries of that knowledge. There were sure answers, and they could be grasped, so long as humanity could invent the right tools for the job.

Still, Jon found himself envying people of faith from time to time. Sometimes he wished he had someone to point him in some sort of direction, like many other children seemed to have. But hearing of Manuela’s upbringing… well, if Jon was forced to choose between extremes, he has to admit that he prefers the complete lack of guidance he received as opposed to strict proselytization. His grandmother may not have shown interest in his opinions, but at least she gave him the freedom to come to his own conclusions. She may not have had reassurances to offer, but at least she didn’t foist upon him a worldview that made no place for him in it.

“It’s not the same thing as childhood indoctrination,” he tells Manuela, “but… becoming the Archivist – it was like being drafted into the service of a god that I never would have chosen for myself. Had Elias told me the terms, I never would have signed the contract.”

“I take it he didn’t tell you beforehand that he murdered your predecessor?”

“That I had to find out the hard way, unfortunately.”

“So you’re saying you’re not so much a traitor to your faith as you are a disgruntled employee.”

“Elias is my boss. Is that a trick question?” Jon is surprised to hear Manuela give an amused snort. “But yes. I’d like to… tender my resignation, so to speak.”

Manuela scrutinizes him intently, as if trying to solve a riddle. “You would give up your power?”

“I don’t want it,” Jon says truthfully.

If he’s perfectly honest with himself, there was a time that at least some aspects of that power were alluring. There was something intoxicating and liberating about being able to ask a question and not only receive a guaranteed answer, but be certain he wasn’t being presented with an outright lie – especially after spending so many months beholden to unchecked paranoia, distrust, and frantic, futile investigation.

But there was never anything benign or inconsequential about invading a victim’s privacy or compelling someone to surrender a secret, no matter how he tried to justify it to himself. Even if there was, even if it wasn’t both reprehensible in principle and harmful in practice, it still wouldn’t be worth the irrevocable costs.

“I want out,” he says, “and if getting out isn’t an option, then I at least want Elias to know what it is to be offered up to a god inimical to every atom of his existence. I thought you might be able to assist with that.”

“How?”

“The Institute is a seat of power for the Beholding,” Basira says. “If we introduce it to your Dark Sun…”

“A mote in the Eye,” Manuela says, intrigued. Her attention swivels back to Jon. “Do you Know what would happen?”

“No,” he says. “But I imagine it will hurt.”

“And then what? What happens after? You let me pack up my relic and walk away?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“I don’t believe you,” Manuela says.

“You don’t pose an existential threat,” Jon says with a shrug. “I have no doubt that the Dark will attempt another Ritual someday, but it won’t happen in our lifetimes. We have no qualms letting you walk away after our alliance is finished.”

“And the Dark Sun?” Manuela presses.

“I don’t know what condition it will be in after exposure to the Eye,” Jon admits. “But you’re free to do as you wish with it after. We won’t stop you.”

So she can hurt more people, Jon’s battered conscience chimes in.

“And if I say no?”

“Then I walk in there right now, Behold it, and destroy it entirely.” It comes out sounding more menacing than Jon had initially intended, but maybe that’s not a bad thing, given the way Manuela freezes up.

“You wouldn’t survive.” Manuela sounds far from certain.

“Maybe. Maybe not. But your Sun certainly wouldn’t.” Jon pauses for a moment to let that sink in. “Do you want to see its potential wasted here and now, or do you want to make all that sacrifice worth something?”

“If you’re so certain you have the upper hand, what’s stopping you from just taking it, then?”

“I’m not its engineer or its keeper. I wouldn’t even Know how to safely transport it. Too many unknown variables.”

“So you need me.”

“Yes. Beneath the Institute, there’s a… a sanctum of the Eye. A place of power, like Ny-Ålesund is for your patron. If you can bring the Dark Sun there, I… well, I’m hoping it will sever the Eye’s connection to that place. Destroy the Institute.”

“How would that work?”

“I’m… not certain,” Jon confesses. “Call it a… a hunch.”

“There’s precedent,” Basira says. “We found a statement that hinted at worshipers of the Dark destroying a temple to the Eye in 4th century Alexandria.”

Manuela’s eyes light up with interest. “How?”

“We don’t know,” Jon says.

“Oh, right. Foolish of me to ask,” Manuela says pertly. “Why would I expect you to know things? It’s only the entire point of you.”

“I never claimed to be good at my job,” Jon retorts. “Look, maybe I don’t Know exactly what will happen, but a focus of the Dark should hurt the Eye in some capacity, I think.”

“You think,” Manuela mutters under her breath, just loud enough for him to hear the derision in her tone.

“Whatever happens, it’ll be more satisfying than anything you’ve got going on here,” Basira points out.

Manuela barks out a contemptuous laugh. “You don’t even have the shadow of a plan!”

“We… haven’t ironed out the details, no.” Jon rubs the back of his neck, chagrinned. “We figured that if you did agree to an alliance, you would want to be part of the actual planning process.”

“And if you don’t cooperate, it’s a moot point,” Basira says.

“Also, I was… I suppose I was hoping you could offer insight,” Jon says. “The Dark is something of a blind spot for me, shockingly.” Manuela shoots him a withering look. “So even if I had any clue how to wield the Dark Sun, I wouldn’t be able to channel its full potential. Not like you could.”

“That much is obvious,” Manuela sneers, teeth gleaming in the torchlight as her lips stretch in a taut, wolfish grin. “You Beholding types always assume that knowledge is synonymous with control. Putting yourselves on the level of Powers greater than any mortal, assuming insight into things you could not possibly understand… you fly too close to the sun and then have the gall to indulge in outrage when you burn.”

We didn’t come here for a sermon, Jon almost says, but he bites his tongue.

“But I accept that I am a supplicant, not a god,” Manuela says, reverence seeping into her tone to supplant the reproach. “It’s pure hubris to assume that you could wield the Black Sun like a tool. It’s a communion, and only those with true and dutiful faith could ever hope to win its favor. Approach it with anything less than respect and devotion, and it will devour you.”

“If you’re done pontificating?” Basira says. She doesn’t give Manuela an opening to respond. “We’re well aware that we stand no chance of wielding–” Manuela looks up sharply, and Basira hastily corrects herself. “Fine – communing with the Dark Sun ourselves. That’s why we’re looking for an alliance rather than just taking it.”

“Do you think you could–” Jon pauses as he searches for a way to phrase his question that won’t unleash another tirade. “Would you be able to arrange for the Dark Sun to be brought into the Eye’s stronghold? Expose them to one another, let them… I don’t know – have it out with each other?”

“I’m capable of bringing it to London, if that’s what you’re asking,” Manuela says primly. “But it would be at a disadvantage on the Beholding’s home turf. If – if – I were willing to test this hypothesis, I would only do so on the condition that I could level the playing field as much as possible. Wait for ideal circumstances, as it were.”

“Which would be…?” Basira asks.

“The winter solstice. The Dark Sun will be the strongest on the night of the winter solstice.”

“That’s months from now,” Basira protests. “Can’t you just –”

“Ideally, I would insist on a total solar eclipse,” Manuela snaps, “but it will be quite some time before London witnesses another. Not until 2090.”

“Looking ahead, are you?” Basira asks.

“It is likely the soonest opportunity for another attempt at a Ritual.” Manuela pretends at nonchalance with a shrug, but she can’t quite conceal her profound disappointment as her voice grows measurably more subdued. “It gives me ample time to study our failure. To discover what went wrong.”

“To refine your Ritual, you mean.”

“There will always be faithful to take up the mantle,” Manuela says, her chin lifting marginally in defiance as she stares Basira down.

“But you won’t be around to see it.” Basira meets Manuela’s eyes with equal nerve. Jon remains silent, looking from one to the other as they face off against one another.

“No,” Manuela replies evenly. “I’ll have to settle for passing on my findings to those who come after. Leave behind a legacy to guide their steps.”

“In the meantime, the Dark Sun will stagnate,” Jon chimes in. It’s a bluff, of course: he has no idea whether or not it’s true. Judging from the unsettled look on Manuela’s face, neither does she. Jon latches onto that uncertainty, carefully twisting the knife just a little further: “Or, you could let it serve a purpose.”

“Its purpose was to usher in a world of true and holy Darkness,” Manuela says acidly. “You’re proposing I give it scraps.”

“Like it or not, you can’t give it the apocalypse it was promised,” Jon says.

Manuela’s fingers flex and clench back into fists. Jon suspects she would love nothing more than to wring his neck. She’s a truth seeker at heart, though. Ambitious, rebellious – idealistic even, albeit in a twisted sort of way, harboring an aspiration that most would rightfully find horrific. Adept at detecting and exploiting the more malleable aspects of material reality where possible, infusing the scientific method with just enough magical thinking to bend natural laws.

However, there are some truths that even she cannot deny, and she isn’t the type to ignore a certainty when it’s right in front of her face. And so, despite the unconcealed vitriol in her eyes and the contrariness sitting at the tip of her tongue, she does not deny his assertion.

“But it can still pay tribute to your god,” Jon coaxes, striving to stop short of needling. It’s a razor’s edge he’s always struggled to walk, but Manuela is still right there with him, toeing the line. “It’s better than nothing at all.”

Manuela directs a venomous glower towards the floor as she vacillates between summary dismissal and the temptation of vengeance. Basira side-eyes Jon as the standstill stretches from seconds into minutes, but all Jon can offer her is an awkward shrug. The ball is in Manuela’s court, and it seems she has no qualms leaving them in indefinite suspense as she painstakingly examines all the variables and weighs her options. The best they can do is wait and hope that tangible revenge will prove more enticing than spiteful noncooperation.

Eventually, she lets out a sharp exhale, raises her head, and breaks her silence.

“The winter solstice,” she repeats, her voice teeming with tension and lingering aversion. “Barring an eclipse, I would have to settle for the winter solstice. The longest, darkest night of the year… it’s second best, but it should suffice. Shame about the light pollution, of course,” she adds, wrinkling her nose with disdain, “but the power is in the symbolism.”

“Jon?” Basira prompts.

“Dream logic,” he says, massaging his forehead wearily. “It tracks.”

“Fine,” Basira sighs. She looks back to Manuela. “So does this mean you’ll do it?”

“I’m tired of haunting this place like a ghost.” There’s a sharp, predatory look in Manuela’s eyes now. “The Dark has lost its crusaders. The Watcher should have a taste of loss.”

Just then, a loud, metallic thunk interrupts the negotiations, reverberating through the space and drawing everyone’s attention to warehouse entrance. The light that had been percolating through from outside had been preternaturally dimmed before, but now it’s been snuffed out entirely.

Jon glances anxiously at Basira. “The wind, maybe?”

“There was no wind.” Basira is already drawing her gun. Like a switch has been flipped at the prospect of danger, her voice goes steely with manufactured composure. “Not strong enough to blow the door shut. I propped it open very securely.”

“We’re near the water, though,” Jon murmurs. “Strong gusts sometimes blow in off the sea–”

Jon’s mouth snaps shut at Basira’s quelling look. Manuela’s posture is defensive again, eyes darting suspiciously between Jon and Basira in the muted torchlight.

“I thought you said you came here alone,” she says accusingly.

“We – we did,” Jon says. “We–”

“Oh, Archivist,” a new voice sings out, oozing with an exultant malice. “Long time no see!”

It’s been ages since Jon last heard that cadence, but it’s horrifyingly, heart-stoppingly familiar even after all this time. It pierces Jon like a knife in the dark. He takes a frantic step back, nearly tripping over his own feet as his panic skyrockets and a tidal wave of adrenaline crashes over him.

“We just want to talk,” croons a different voice, rougher and more ragged-sounding. It’s difficult to gauge the newcomers’ positions through the impermeable gloom, but judging from the sounds of their voices, they’re drawing ever nearer. “Won’t you come out?”

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” Jon breathes an incredulous laugh, distraught enough to border on a whimper. “Now?”

“Who are they?” Basira asks urgently. Jon is still frozen in place, eyes straining against the darkness. Any answer he could make is bogged down with terror, snagging in his throat and forestalling coherence. “Jon!”

Jon swallows hard and finally looks at Basira, his eyes wide with dread.

“Hunters.”

End Notes:

naomi: hey jon. jon. consider: surveillance state kink jon: shut the hell your mouth

____

Both instances of Archive-speak are from MAG 135. A few pieces of dialogue from the beginning of the conversation with Manuela are taken/reworked from MAG 143. The Melanie and Basira gossip is from MAG 106.

Once again, had way too much fun with the text convo btwn Naomi and Jon. Cannot resist those chatfic shenanigans vibes.

In other news, Daisy WILL point at Jon and loudly exclaim, “Is anyone gonna volunteer as wingman for this lovesick disaster or do I have to do everything myself?” and not even wait for an answer. (Jon made the mistake of confirming that he doesn’t mind her lovingly dunking on him about this sort of thing and now she’s a menace. Listen, playful ribbing is basically her platonic love language.)

Sorry for the cliffhanger!! But hey, I think we all knew that there’s no way things would go entirely smoothly for Jon and Basira. And now I finally get to add some new character tags.

I’m very behind on replying to comments. (Tbh, spent most of the last month grappling with this chapter. I was stuck on a scene that REALLY didn’t want to cooperate.) I’m gonna try to catch up this weekend, though. <3 As always, thank you for reading!

#the magnus archives #magpod #tma #tma fic #tma spoilers #long post

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slightlyrebelliouswriter23 · 6 years ago

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We’re All Mad Here | Jurdan College AU

Summary: Tenacious student, Jude Duarte, discovers a dark underworld in the very heart of RGU. It’s all just a game of Russian Roulette. Harmless, as long as you’re the one holding the gun.

Content Warning: Cursing, mild mention of panic attack (to skip, stop reading between the ~~~~~)

Part II | Masterlist | AO3

Part I- Slow Burn

I, Jude Duarte, third year at Royal Greenbriar University and soon-to-be reigning Top Scholar, am in a hurry.

It’s rush hour. The pavement is slick with sleet and packed with important people in fancy suits. They brave sheets of freezing rain that lash down from the angry October skies with an unending canopy of black umbrellas.

I don’t carry my own. Umbrellas aggravate the chaos of mornings in Insmire, and I don’t need to add another to the mix.

Luckily, I am short. Manoeuvring through gaps in elbows and shoulders does not take much effort on my part. It’s the briefcases and patches of ice which make running a bit of a challenge this morning—but then, I have always enjoyed a challenge.

As I tear through the crowded streets of Insmire, I only know one thing: No amount of wind or hail or people can stop me. And if anyone gets bludgeoned with my thirty-pound backpack as I weave through the throng, well, that’s on them.

Cold air slices through me with every heave of my lungs, every pounding thud of my boots on the sidewalk. My legs are sore from yesterday’s fencing practice, but I savour the sweet ache and forge on.

I am used to this rushing, for I am always in a hurry. It sometimes feels like I’ve been in a hurry from my very first breath. As if I’m constantly trying to catch up to something just out of my grasp.

My twin sister, Taryn, and I were born in a hurry.

So excited were we to join the ranks of men, we surprised our mother half to death by wandering into the world nearly four weeks early.

As a result, we spent the next several weeks of our lives as tiny things in incubators—a little sickly and terribly jaundiced. This was how our mother always used to describe it, at least.

Ever since then, I have been invariably late to everything. Mostly, I blame it on the incubators. And the jaundice.

If I’m being honest with myself, though, being always late is a trait I can only attribute to who I am as a person. It is as much a part of me as the tip of my left ring finger is not.

I sometimes wonder if that’s exactly the crux of it; that just like my fingertip, my punctuality has somehow been taken from me, too.

I have heard of twins absorbing their siblings in the womb. I can’t see why personality traits should be any different. Especially since Taryn and I had to spread them so thinly between two of us.

And Taryn is always perfectly on time.

I risk a glance at my watch. A tiny crack runs up the glass. It’s been there for ages, but I am still nettled by the sight of it and the unbidden memory it stirs.

It’s because of this tiny crack that the watch’s face is now fogged up from the inside. I can barely make out the three little golden hands racing each other toward my tardiness.

Seven minutes past eight.

I am really very late. Or, I know I will be, at least.

Technically, if I go straight to the Silhouette Gazette now, I will be right on time for my interview.

But I can’t go straight there. Not when I haven’t had coffee.

Without my fix, I won’t be able to string together even one sentence. Much less make it through an entire interview with enough charisma to snag the internship position I so desperately need. Since I am not very charismatic to begin with, I’ll need all the help I can get.

Everything depends on my getting this internship. If I don’t, there’s no way I’ll maintain my near-perfect GPA, no way I’ll graduate summa cum laude or Valedictorian of my class.

And then I’ll have to go into something boring. Like publishing. A shudder runs through me that has nothing to do with the cold.

I shove between two men wearing long coats and flat caps. They grunt in shock and disapproval. I hardly feel the zing of pain as my shin collides with something hard.

A briefcase flies out of its owner’s grip, crashing onto the pavement a few yards away. I don’t stop to apologise.

“Bitch!” One of the flat caps shouts after me.

Yes, I agree silently, hopping over the felled bag. I am very much that.

If I had the time and breath to tell the men just the same, I would. Instead, I flip them a rude gesture over my shoulder and don’t turn around.

I’m already ten paces away when a dull throbbing starts on my leg. It radiates from where I know there’ll be an unsightly bruise tomorrow. But bruises are a thing for future Jude to handle.

There is no way I will let what happened last year happen again. Second-year was a fluke. A one-time thing.

I will get this internship, take back my rightful title of Top Scholar, and keep it until I graduate—just like my mother did. I absolutely refuse to be beaten out by some preppy moneybags prick.

Or a bit of hail.

Before flying out the door of my flat this morning, I did a quick search on Google Maps, the results of which yielded the quirky little coffee shop I now see in my line of vision.

The White Rabbit sits mercifully in all its three-story glory right across the street from the newspaper’s office building. If luck is on my side, if I hurry, I should have just enough time to grab a cup to-go and make it with a minute or two to spare.

My thoughts are all jumbled as I barrel through the glass doors.

A white-haired barista stands behind the counter at the back of the shop, taking a customer’s order with an unbearable amount of cheer for a Monday morning.

The queue isn’t too bad, maybe three people long. I send up a quick thanks to whatever power of the universe might be in charge of coffee queues.

It smells miraculous in here—freshly ground coffee and something buttered and flakey. Suddenly, I am too warm.

I make a beeline for the back of the queue, shucking off my hat and gloves as I go. I’m unzipping my coat, a difficult task with hands full of knitted things, when a wall of black blurs into my periphery.

I don’t have a second to react before that wall smacks me right in the forehead. And collides everywhere else.

A scalding liquid sloshes down the front of my shirt. I stumble backwards, gasping at the pain.

There is a very loud “Fuck” followed by an equally as loud “Shit!”

I am not sure which curse fell from my lips, but I know it was one of them. All I can feel is this dreadful sting. It spreads like a wildfire across my chest.

Perhaps, I’d cursed both words. The pain certainly warrants it.

“Are you alright, dear?” a dark, silken voice asks. A pair of beringed hands steady me, grasping my shoulders with the barest of touches. As quickly as they appeared, like that they are gone. And then they are handing me a wad of brown paper napkins.

“Here,” the voice says.

I snatch the proffered napkins and look up at my assailant.

Perfect. Just perfect, I think with a scowl. Of course the person who spills their drink down my blouse has to be stupidly attractive.

The man before me is so beautiful it’s almost cruel.

A crown of crow dark curls circles his head, framing his oil slick eyes and sharp cheekbones. His is an unnecessary sort of perfection that sets my teeth grinding.

He’s clad in all black, save for his coat—a beaded brocade of black and crimson silk with quilted red lapels. From the breast pocket, a beaded scarlet brooch in the shape of a dahlia dangles in ostentatious splendour.

There is something familiar about him I can’t quite grasp.

For some inexplicable reason I amount to probable insanity, I cannot stop my gaze from flitting to his mouth.

Bad idea. Very bad idea.

His lips look like two full flower petals. I’m plagued by the inane thought that they might feel just as soft. If I can only reach out and—

I shake my head.

Concern creases the man’s brow now. To my horror, I realise I haven’t responded to his question. I’ve just stood here, dripping and sticky, for who knows how long. Staring. Like an idiot.

“I’m fine,” I grit out through barred teeth and my own mortification. I pat at the stain hastily with the wad of napkins. “I’m just great.”

It’s useless, of course.

The stain isn’t coming out, I’m late to my life-altering interview, and to make matters worse, I still haven’t had coffee. Not to mention, my chest burns in a way that makes me tempted to scrap everything in favour of a doctor’s office.

~~~~~

That’s when panic seizes hold.

A strand of pearls tightening around my throat. I am sure it means to strangle me because I cannot breathe.

My heart takes flight, battering my ribcage as if it intends to escape entirely. A trail of sweat trickles down my forehead.

I am going to be late. I am going to have this horrid stain on my shirt. I am going to fail this interview. I am going to fail this year and myself and my family.

There’s something heavy sitting on my lungs. I am both hot and cold, here and not.

Tears prick my eyes. I will them not to spill over, but of course, my body betrays me. I swipe furiously at my cheeks.

Everyone in the coffee shop plus one unfortunately attractive dude must be staring, watching as I teeter on the edge of full-blown hysterics.

“Hey,” Unfortunately Attractive Dude croons, but I don’t see him.

I try to draw even breaths. And fail. And fail again.

~~~~~

I’m barely aware of the hand that guides me to a corner of the coffee shop. It’s darker here. A bit quieter, too. I notice a large bookshelf obscuring the alcove from the main seating area. Away from prying eyes.

“Just relax,” the man says. “It’s going to be okay. Are you hurt?” He looks inclined to place his hand on my shoulder again but thinks better of it when he sees my expression.

I want to punch him in his stupid face. Maybe I should. It’s only fair, given the circumstances.

“Relax?” I scoff, hating the way my voice cracks. “Don’t tell me to relax. I’ve got an interview in ten minutes and I’m fairly certain my would-be boss won’t appreciate my being late. Or this sort of oversharing.”

I make a wild gesture at the stain on my chest, ignoring the slight tremor in my hands. I am acutely aware of the fabric’s transparency there. Today was not the day to wear a bright purple bra.

A moment passes before a smirk slips into place on Unfortunately Attractive Dude’s hateful mouth. He folds his arms across his chest, giving me a once over.

“You sure about that?” he drawls, and now I am positive I’m going to punch him. My hands curl into fists at my sides.

“You’re disgusting.”

“And you, sunshine, are no longer having a panic attack.”

Indeed, the tightening in my throat has waned. But as keen an observation as it might be, I would first run my hand through with my fencing sabre than admit he is right.

“I wasn’t having a panic attack,” I say too quickly. He produces a smug expression that is just as bewitching as it is infuriating.

He knows what I’ve said is a lie. I know it’s a lie, too. Very deep down. In some dark forgotten place inside me where things that don’t want to be admitted go.

The man grins as if I should be grateful. I am decidedly not.

“I don’t know who you think you are,” I say, taking a step toward him. “But don’t pretend to know me. Because you don’t.”

He lifts a brow—the worst kind of dare. “Don’t I?”

“No,” I say. I hope I come off more menacing than I feel with my tearstained cheeks and conspicuous underthings on display for all the world to see.

“Pity,” he says, still wearing that stupid smile. “You seem delightful.”

My face grows hot. Blood pounds heavy in my ears, and I feel like I’m running anew. I’m so angry I cannot think.

And apparently, I don’t think—because I take another step closer.

The rest of the world slides away. It’s just me and this loathsome beautiful heinous man in a secluded corner of a strange coffee shop.

He towers over me, lithe and angled, face limned in shadow. He’s unflinching and returns my gaze with equal distaste.

My heart skitters wildly, stumbling one beat over the next like it knows it's been spotted by something with sharp claws and jagged teeth.

In the unclosed space between us, a glittery treacherous thing ripples.

I am suddenly very glad for bookshelves.

I should leave. I should go to my interview before I do something I will regret. Before I ruin everything. I should walk away.

Then, I do the opposite of that.

“I’m the farthest thing from delightful,” I tell him, shooting a dagger-filled glare from beneath the hood of my brow. “Which is why I’d strongly advise against getting in my way again. And don’t call me sunshine.”

Something smells familiar; like a forest in winter. Like cedarwood and myrrh. With a jolt, I realise it’s him and dig my nails into the meat of my palm.

He chuckles, raising his hands in defence. “Fine,” he says. “Won’t happen again. But at least come with me. I think I can help.” He juts his chin toward the back of the coffee shop, presumably towards the toilets.

I wrinkle my nose.

This can’t seriously be some kind of come-on. I don’t have time for unsolicited advances right now. I don’t even have time for solicited advances.

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” I spit, and he flinches. “First, you give me third-degree burns. What’s next? Chop me up in the alley out back?”

The corner of his mouth twitches slightly. “As appealing as that sounds,” he says. “I’m shit with knives.”

“Oh, that’s a comfort.”

“Better with fabric, though.” He gives an unbothered shrug. “I was going to offer to get that out for you.” The man nods, seemingly unfazed, at my chest. Heat rises in my cheeks again.

“You’ve done enough already,” I snap.

Maybe I’ll just wear my winter coat through the whole cursed interview. Even that would be a better solution than this conversation.

I turn on my heel to leave, but the man catches my wrist.

Bad move, I think.

I’m contemplating dragging him out of this alcove by the ear so I can punch him in front of every customer in this coffee shop when, to my surprise, he lets go.

The man rakes a hand through his dark curls, heaving a great sigh.

“Wait. Just...” he starts. “Look, I feel bad enough as is. Let me make it up to you. It’ll take five minutes. You’ll only be a little late to your interview, and you won’t have to deal with a dry cleaner’s bill.”

I snort. I haven’t been able to afford dry cleaning since I stopped living in Madoc’s house two years ago. I will likely have to throw this shirt away if I can’t get the stain out with a good old-fashioned scrubbing.

“I’ll buy you a coffee for your troubles while we wait.”

I consider him for a moment. He seems sincere enough, though attractive people always seem sincere, even when they are truly not.

Now, though, I don’t really have much left in me to care.

I want the stain out of my blouse, a vat of coffee in my system, and a teleportation device that can transport me to the sixth floor of the Silhouette immediately.

If this man is a willing rung in the ladder to get me even two-thirds of those things, I will consider it a blessing.

“Fine,” I say, pinching the bridge of my nose. “I’ll take a large cappuccino. Extra shot of espresso. And a shot of caramel. To go.”

“Wonderful.” The dazzling man smiles his dazzling smile. “Follow me.” And with that, he leads the way out of the alcove, a gleeful bound in his step.

I already regret my decision.

☽☽☽☽☽

Part II

Masterlist

AO3

Tag List: @the-mithridatism-of-jude-duarte @velarhysismine @knifewifejude

AN: this was originally sent to me as a request for the prompt “I’m running late to an important interview/meeting and you accidentally spill your hot cocoa all over my outfit” from a winter prompt list. but it spiralled into several chapter outlines and an almost fully-fledged plot so i’m rolling with it.

anyway, thanks so much for reading! hope you enjoyed :) if you’d like to be tagged in future updates for this AU, feel free shoot me an ask/message.

a few disclaimers:

1. i don’t think publishing is boring! i’m technically trying to go into publishing for my career so really just poking fun at myself. but i do think jude would find publishing (or any other office job) incredibly boring.

2. the depiction of jude’s panic attack is provided by yours truly, though i do not claim to speak for everyone who gets them, and am aware that they differ in both manifestation and severity from person to person. this just pertains to my own experience.

3. i was definitely listening to slow burn by kacey musgraves while writing part of this lmao (hence the chapter name).

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maviemesregles · 6 years ago

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Twas two days before Christmas

This one-shot fic was written for @thelallybrochlibrary Holiday exchange.

A prompt from @maryooch : "How about Jamie meets Claire while she’s trying to skate (badly) at Rockefeller center during the Christmas season. Both are unattached and in the city for different reasons."

Special thanks to Anne @eclecticstarlightconnoisseur for always getting my messy ideas and improving them. For once again for making sure it's nice and readable for you guys.

Hope you enjoy and feel a wee bit festive! ❄️

AO3

New York, New York Frank Sinatra sang. The Big Apple stretched out all the way to the horizon in a milky white blanket of snow. The skyline pierced with gleaming structures of steel, glass, and concrete.

Claire stared out of the window where snow became even thicker than an hour ago and turned the buildings into giant ice cream cones.

“Honey, are you there?”

“Yes, Mum.” Beauchamp pressed her ear to her iPhone and climbed onto the high hotel bed. “I’m listening.”

“Baby, what did they tell you about the flight? Father has been calling British Airways at least a hundred times today. You know what he’s like.” Julia Beauchamp rattled around in the kitchen cupboards.

Claire dropped her head into the mass of pillows crispy scented of fresh laundry.

Of course, something like this could have happened only to her. After the three-day medical conference in New York, with bags full of gifts, sweets, booze for Dad, and cosmetics for Mum, Claire was ready to go back home for the holidays.

But this year the family tradition wasn’t going to happen because Claire got stuck in this city for God knows how long. The heavy blizzard came upon New York, forcing all the transatlantic flights to be cancelled. Red-faced, hands full of bags, and sweaty in her jumper, the English surgeon hissed “Fucking morons” when she was told she’s not flying today. And most likely not for the next three days. Her cell-phone kindly reminded her today is the 22nd day of December. Only two days left before Christmas. If not for being scared to be without a means of contact, Claire surely would have smashed the device on the white airport tiles.

“They put me into the hotel. It’s all paid.” She glanced at her suitcase, surrounded by shopping bags. “All flights to London cancelled.”

Reaching into one of the bags, Claire grabbed a chocolate bar, not caring about a proper lunch at the moment.

“What about Bristol? Manchester? Anything at all?” Her mother sighed, looking at the shopping list for Christmas dinner. “Dad could pick you up. Lamb just got the car back, all fixed.”

Chewing on the mint chocolate, Claire flicked through the menu on the side table.

“Nothing. I even checked flights to Edinburgh and Dublin. It looks like I’m stuck here.”

There was silence for a while. Claire could hear their dog Pop, an old pug, snoring in the background. All she wants to do is cry. Is it so much to ask? To be home for Christmas time?

“Oh, darling.” Her mother’s voice is soft and reassuring. She knows. “It’ll be fine. I’m certain that you will get home right in time for Christmas.”

After a brief goodbye, Claire checks the flight schedules again. Her frustration mounts and she begins to pace a circular path for at least ten minutes. Her nerves begin to fail her and she decides a cup of chamomile tea would be just the thing.

“Or better yet, a bottle of red," she speaks out loud filling the void for the room. She may as well take advantage of all this suite has to offer.

Her body relaxes into the lavender-scented bath foam, warming her chilly flesh as the fruity Sauvignon Blanc infuses her mouth. Later spurred by the TV forecast (damn the winter) Claire gets into leggings and oversized, knitted horridness of a sweater (decorated with mistletoes and festive ornaments all over it). She shortly video chats with Geillis who is hugely disappointed Claire won’t get to the annual work party at the hospital.

“I do hope ye willna waste yer time in New York, a thasgaidh,*” hummed her ginger colleague. “Go to Time Square, Central Park or… Oh, weeeel, ye can go skating! Mebbe ye’ll find some attractive American who’d lay an eye on ye.” Geillis smirked.

Checking the explosion of hair on her head in the mirror, Claire sighed.

“If that attractive American is a pilot that takes me home, I would not mind, just tell me where to find him.” She tried to secure the naughty curls into something that could resemble a bun but eventually giving up. “I feel like bloody Kevin McCallister,” Claire said as she slid into her boots.

“Weel, just dinna get in trouble with burglars.” Edgars barked a laugh and wished Beauchamp to have fun.

🎄 🎄 🎄

Claire surely could say that Christmas time in New York must be wonderful. Even though her mood sunk to the lowest level, she became determined to raise her spirits. God, all those books about positivity and visualization her Mum reads out loud to her should have a hint of truth to them. Right?

The streets were decked with glimmering lights and dazzling displays. The chill in the air burned her cheeks and Claire was swept up into the herd of people like a fluffy sheep in her soft white woolly coat.

Roads were covered in a sparkling powder that made a nostalgic crunchy sound under feet. People were dressed in layers of scarves, cardigans, and warm winter coats. Some held onto hot beverages to warm their hands as well as their bodies. Some brave tourists were sporting red noses just like the one of Rudolph the reindeer Claire had seen in a Macy’s display. Everything was bright and festive. All the Christmas lights twinkled and the colourful signboards reflected off the snow. Christmassy music played from the shops displaying their wares touting them as the perfect gifts. The sounds of Christmas could be heard coming from phones and the passing cars. It was everywhere. Claire softly hummed a tune as her feet followed the crowd leading her to Rockefeller Center. When Claire lifted her head, her heart grew tender with childhood memories. She stood right in front of the huge Christmas tree, adorned with all its lights, the star on top causing Claire to get teary-eyed. She literally felt like a movie character standing here now. Glancing at rosy-cheeked, laughing people on the ice rink, she joined the queue.

“To hell with it.” She could make her own Christmas memories here, alone in NYC.

Claire had to admit she underestimated herself, thinking that skating is like riding a bike. But, she found that it most assuredly wasn't. She tried to keep her legs as steady as possible, trying to get used to gliding on the ice. Holding onto the rail, she wobbled around before she braced herself to finally go into the middle, and actually skate.

She surely thought that she looked like a penguin trying to find its friends, as she awkwardly moved around in the crowd. Occasionally, she squealed and even closed her eyes when particularly fast skaters passed her by. The moment Beauchamp thought she had got it, she pushed harder and began to glide on her skates. Before she knew it, she crashed into someone else. Clenching her fists and closing her eyes before her body hit the ice.

“Jesus. H. Roosevelt Christ!”

Falling down on her bottom, surgeon hissed at the burning feeling of her palms meeting the ice.

“Here, let me help ye.”

After no needed pause, Claire opened her eyes, glancing at the owner of the soft burr. The stranger whose hand was stretched out to help, smiled, a pair of blue eyes studying her intently.

“Thanks.” Giving a faint nod, Claire accepted the man’s hand. A swift pull and she was back on her feet, trapped between the arms of this bloody good looking man.

He was handsome from the depth of his cobalt blue eyes to the gentle tilt in his voice. A face with striking features Claire was sure she likely won’t forget. The strong jaw with a shadow of stubble and lips that took the soft shape of a smile. A scent of expensive cologne swirled around him. And the hair of the brightest red she’d ever seen.

“Yer didna hurt yerself, lass?” The man steadied her with both of his hands firmly on her waist.

Claire’s cheeks turned into a lovely shade of pink and she could feel the heat of his touch growing on her skin. Beauchamp dropped her gaze down her feet, mumbling.

“I’m fine. Though it takes some time for the pain to settle in and I can only hope I will be able to walk tomorrow.” She waved her hand in no particular direction but rather in frustration.

The stranger smiled as they awkwardly skated to the rail. Claire glanced at him through her lashes smiling back.

“So yer a Sassenach then.”

“Excuse me?” Claire furrowed her eyebrows, unable to stop looking at him. Damn him, he was attractive.

Her saviour let out a soft laugh.

“Yer English, no?” Besides his remark about her Englishness (Claire figured he was a Scot in mere seconds), his tone was kind. “It means an English person or an outlander.”

“How lovely.” Claire snorted examining her palms.

“I didna mean to offend ye.” He leaned to touch her shoulder gently. It took Claire longer then it should to speak up, the words burning against her dry throat.

“You didn’t.” The surgeon gave him a lopsided smile, stretching out her hand. “I’m Claire. Thanks for saving my arse.”

The Scot barked a laugh and took her hand in his. Claire wasn’t sure if she imagined it or not, but the way his skin felt upon hers gave her the rush of goosebumps all over it. Did he feel it too?

“I’m Jamie. And I’m more than glad to save such a lovely arse.”

What an eejit, he thought to himself. Who says that to a lass ten minutes after meeting her?

He already opened his mouth to give her a stream of apologies but she bit her lip and the bell of laughter warmed his heart. A Dhia, she was lovely.

Jamie had noticed her almost immediately when she entered the rink. That mass of curls that made her look like a fairy that stepped out the Scottish legends. He had to smile at the lass when she tried to skate (and very badly to his own good luck). Jamie watched her for a while when he could catch a glimpse of her absolutely horrid Christmas jumper and her eyebrows furrowed in concentration. Her arse did not escape his attention either, perfectly round in those leggings.

As they made their way toward the lockers to gather their belongings, he learned she was from London. A surgeon visiting here for a medical conference. And no, she has never been to Edinburgh.

Catching a glimpse of herself in the window, Claire mentally admitted there were times when she had looked better when a man approached her. She could feel Jamie’s eyes on her back as she did her shoelaces, slowly she brought her head up, eyes locking with his.

The blue oceans met the whisky rivers. Claire wanted to say that she should go, it’s getting dark, and this day had got the better out of her. But instead, she took a step as if an invisible magnet was pulling her towards him. There was a silence that drowned them both into the abyss of unknown but much-needed connection.

“Jamie, I -” Her tongue, feeling like sandpaper, moved ever so slowly.

She felt hypnotized, barely registering that she started to walk the opposite way to the exit. But the next second, she found herself staring at their linked hands and his eyes travelling to her face.

“Wait, Claire.” Jamie wet his lips, the corners curl into an almost apologetic-like smile. “I ken it might be daft as we just met, but would ye do me the honor of joining me for dinner?"

She glanced at him, with eyes warm like a fine aged scotch.

“I would not mind a company.”

“I ken a perfect spot.” His hand on the small of her back, leading out of the crowd.

🎄 🎄 🎄

Claire was sure the air crackled with electricity or chemistry (or whatever they call it) as she and Jamie walked through the snowy streets of New York. The roads have been only partially plowed and cleaned. Beauchamp found her legs drowned up to the ankles in the fluffy mass. Jamie carried her over the asphalt where the snow began to turn into mushy puddles from the trampling of an endless stream of pedestrian traffic. Claire giggled as he carried her across each puddle, and felt the tips of her ears turn scarlet red.

The distance between them grew closer and closer until eventually, their shoulders were brushing against each other. She had learned that Jamie was born in the area of Inverness. He had a huge family, a sister and a brother which included many nieces and nephews as well. Claire smiled when she noticed his proud tone when he spoke about his father and the particular tenderness when he mentioned his older sister Jenny. Jamie had worked for the last three years in the US and at 34 years old he was a successful entrepreneur.

Claire mentioned the nomadic lifestyle she lived when she was a child. Her parents worked a lot and she had spent two years travelling with her uncle Lamb. She had a best friend, a Scottish lass named Geillis. Beauchamp liked to read and spend time in the garden with her mum. She sadly recounted that she had made the mistake of getting married only to find herself divorced after four months of the young marriage. Her ex-husband’s name was Frank. The memories made her uncomfortable and she did not want to remember more. Jamie did not ask further, only stating he never married.

“And yer telling me ye have no boyfriend?” Fraser’s hand curled over her delicate shoulder, encouraging Claire (to her own delight) to nestle closer against him. It was such a casual move that she had thought she knew Jamie for ages already. The warmth that was radiating from him rooted deep in her belly and was rising up and up, making her ache at the very core of her being.

“Seeing no one.” Claire shook her head, peeking at him through her lashes. “And how is that my fellow Brit is not with a lassie? ”

Jamie made a sound deep from his chest, something typically Scottish she’d gathered.

“I am with a lassie, and a verra bonnie one, I must say, am I not?” He smirked, though his voice was painted with seriousness.

“Flatterer.” Claire dropped her head, pretending her boots were much more interesting than anything else she’d seen. In truth, it was to hide a smile.

Later their hands merged together, fingers entwining. The strangeness and absolute familiarity of their palms fitting together was something neither of them could explain. Everything seemed to be suspended around them causing the time to become disjointed. Finally, they arrived at their destination.

“Highlands NYC?” Claire read out loud the name of the place Jamie had brought her. “Really? Out of all places in New York, you brought me to Highlander bar?”

The tips of Jamie's ears burned, the red matching his hair. Letting a shaky breath, his lips leaned over to her ear.

“Sassenach, ye should experience Scotland to its fullest.”

That moment Beauchamp went weak in her knees. The raspiness in his voice and… God damn, all of him almost forced her to drag Jamie to the nearest toilet and indeed enjoy one of Scotland's sons to his fullest. She did not.

They sat at the bar since all the tables were booked. The barstools migrated as close as possible for Jamie’s fingers to run freely at the expense on her back, sending goosebumps all over the skin. Her knees accidentally touched his. She laughed, loud and infectious at his stories. Throwing her head all the way back, exposing the pale skin on her neck, placing the blue of her veins in full view. The sight made his cock twitch. She laughed heartily, smacking her palm on his thigh when she found his joke particularly funny. Jamie's breath hitched becoming shallow and broken. She licked her lips. Claire slid her hand over the cold glass containing her cocktail. Her movements were deliberate, slow, down and up over the patterned glass mimicking... What did Geillis say about the unconscious signs?

Fraser shifted in his seat, more than ready to suggest they go somewhere where they find their way to each other. The hot air inside the pub and between them made both ache for each other.

But the food arrived distracting them from their lustful thought. They dined on Haggis dressed in whisky butter, and warm quinoa with crispy spiced chickpeas. They laughed and joked, speaking of this and that learning about each other. As the evening wore on, Claire found her heart beating its way out of her ribcage. She leaned in planting a soft kiss on Jamie's cheek fearful of having to whisper words of parting lying on the tip of her tongue. But she found she was not yet ready to say goodbye yet.

“Would ye like me to walk ye to yer hotel?” His voice was hoarse, scented with the whisky he had drunk. Claire leaned into him whispering:

“Yes.”

They hadn’t said goodbye in front of the hotel. Not in the foyer, either. Certainly not in the lift. As they stood in front of each other surrounded by glass cubicle she moved first.

Before he knew it Jamie’s mouth was claimed by hers. Chest heaving and gasping for air, both parted and stared at each other until the lift announced their destination with a soft Ding.

Claire’s hands shook, the room card almost slipping out of her sweaty palms. The second her feet entered the room, Jamie had pulled her closer by the waist. The lengths of the bodies pressing, Claire’s cheeks flaming hot. He breathed heavily as he left a trail of burning kisses down the column of her neck.

“Christ, I want ye.”

Cupping her arse Jamie’s lips traveled up, taking her bottom lip between his. She smiled against his mouth, hands pulling at his nape, closer and closer, until the kiss could actually hurt. She could feel the length of him, hard and ready through his jeans and it made her almost blind with animal-like want.

“Take this off,” Claire whispered pulling at the hem of his shirt. Aching for him became powerful to the point where she could not bother unbuttoning his shirt, Claire just yanked the soft material over his head.

She could swear she heard him growl when her sweater followed the same destination as Jamie’s shirt and landed into the fabric puddle on the floor. No bra in the way, Jamie did not hesitate to kiss his way down Claire’s cleavage, stopping for the thorough exploration of each breast. Her mouth dropped open in a silent plea when his lips captured the nipple. Almost burning with the heat that grew between her thighs and made her belly ache, Claire reached down, to unbuckle his jeans. Tongues danced, lips bitten surely to swell come the morning, teeth raking over the soft skin of the neck. Pulling the leggings with underwear to her ankles Jamie definitely left blueish trails where his fingers pressed. But it was a delicious feeling that bordered with painful pleasure. They stumbled upon the bed, falling into it, a suppressed laugh emerging between their mouths. Gently but firmly Jamie had pushed Claire flat on her back, letting his hand trace the invisible paths all the way from the high hills of her neck, down to the valley between her breasts, the plain expanses of her belly, all the way down to the hidden secrets between her thighs.

She moaned into his lips when his fingers had found her apex between her thighs. His bold caresses drew sighs, moans, and keening that he longed to hear. With the right pace and rhythm he drew those sounds out of her. Claire’s curls flew all over the white pillow. Air! She needed air and began to take deep lungfuls. Writhing as the sweet torture continued, Claire took large fistfuls of linens as an anchor. Arching into his hand, she had lost all the train of coherent thoughts.

“Jamie…” Gasping for air burning hot in her throat, she finally broke into the million atoms finding herself thousands of light-years later, breathing heavily, the sweat trickling down her nape.

“Ye’re so beautiful when ye become undone.” Jamie murmured, lips pressing a soft kiss at her brow.

Still shaking Claire reached between them finding a condom and gladly placed it on him. She’d found herself again in Jamie’s embrace. Still, she kissed him hungrily with the remnants of her own satisfaction yet to fade, asking for more. Jamie did not need much encouragement and with the slightest nod of her head, guided himself into her. The sudden, hot sensation of him made Claire throw her head back. Seized lungs could not produce any coherent sound. As Jamie’s hips moved fast into her, reaching that right spot, again and again, she could only cling to him for dear life. When Jamie’s own breathing became slow and shuddering, it wasn't clear where he began and she ended. The world expanded beyond itself. It grew into a million colourful stars shining brightly around them.

Well into the night, as Claire slept, he drew tender paths with his fingers mapping the lines and valleys of her body.

Later she awoke from her sweet slumber by the quiet rustle next to her. Jamie sat upright, hands roaming on the floor in the search of his underwear and jeans. For some reason, it bitterly stung. Claire slowly brought her hand up, gently touching his back.

“Please stay.”

🎄 🎄 🎄

Claire was sure it’s all had been a dream. Tomorrow is Christmas Eve and in ten minutes her mother will call her downstairs to help start making dinner preparations. The brussels sprouts and mashed potatoes are not going to cook themselves. Her still sleepy mind started registering unusual noisy traffic outside, quite the opposite of the calm London neighbourhood where her parents lived. She turned to her side, eyes still tightly shut. Claire wasn’t sure now if she wanted to open her eyes and find herself home (where she so desperately wanted to be just twenty-four hours ago) or to wake up to the reality of finding one particular Scot next to her?

The mattress felt unfamiliar and too comfy. Her old bed in Beauchamps house surely did not feel that way. Moreover, the heat radiating from her left side was more likely from a person than the furnace. Claire’s eyes snapped open and she had to blink several times to get used to the bright sun, bouncing off the snowy scenery outside.

“Weel, hello to ye, sleeping beauty. I was afraid ye’d been cursed and would never wake.” Jamie rolled onto his belly, propping himself on the elbow. “Though it’s rather a nice sight to observe”

He ran his fingers down the line of Claire’s jaw before leaning in to kiss her.

“So you’re not a dream.” She smiled and pulled the blanket up higher than her waist, suddenly feeling shy. “What’s this?”

Her brows furrowed in confusion as Jamie fished his phone out, nodding to the screen.

“I don’t understand.”

“Ye’re going home, Sassenach.” He chuckled, feeling quite proud that he’d managed to find them both tickets to Edinburgh this evening. Jamie rather never did say out loud the price he paid but the look on Claire’s face was worth much more than that.

“Bloody hell!” She squealed, not believing her eyes. “How can I ever repay you?”

Jamie smiled when her hands wrapped around his neck.

"Love me some more, Sassenach.”

#Outlander #outlander fanfiction #oneshot #llholidayexchange #the lallybroch library #christmas smut #modern au #wee babies meet up in NYC #jamie fraser #claire beauchamp #maviemesregles #LLholidayexchange #a holiday there is

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talldarkandroguesome · 4 years ago

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4th of Sun’s Dawn, Turdas

Nabine knows me altogether too well.

Unlike Avon, who tries to keep festivities for my name day to a discreet location and reigned in, Nabine has little care for such notions. In fact, she hired out a great number of the workers of The Den to give me a start into celebrations starting at sun down and going into the night.

There was a nostalgia in knowing that we loved one another and understood the power and enjoyment of group escapades. We indulged in a few bets and some competition over who could bed particular sorts.

It is not as though only the hired Den workers were in attendance. Nabine also invited a few of her friends and acquaintances. She had additional toys and furnishings to set the mood for different scenarios. There were themes that took place at different points in the evening.

As a special treat, which I know Nabine always used to reserve for special occasions such as this, she told me to use my birthgift on her and others as part of the fun. She made sure to inform everyone invited as to what it was I would be doing. Everyone had given her verbal permission, which was echoed again before we started each activity, with some safeties in place should someone change their mind throughout.

I know how hard it is for someone like Nabine who prefers to be in a dominant role to let another be in control. I think that is part of why she likes me to use my birthgift during activities where she wishes to play a more submissive role; she has a tendency to slip back into that role regardless, just out of reflex.

Or perhaps some part of her does like the idea of letting someone else take control from her, though it is hardly something she seems comfortable with in the long-term.

There was feasting and dancing and music and room after room of oiled bodies intertwined. At times it was hard to tell exactly how many people were making use of each part of your body or who exactly you were engaged in what with.

I could almost hear Avon’s voice asking me if it was safe to simply let yourself be part of the mass of people seeking pleasure from whatever source it came from. I could have laughed. He has never understood, being that he takes so long to form physical attraction to other people and has such a diminished libido.

Not that I would see this as a negative. It is exactly what is best for him. Though I could hardly live the same way.

So long as the body is not in too uncomfortable a position for too long, there is a sort of sensation that can only come from such activities. It is almost as if you are not a person in a crowd so much as you are one part of something bigger. A group that has become one, a single goal, a single purpose. Everyone working towards that great, building sensation. Everyone working hard, not only for their own pleasure, but for those around them as well. And when one is satisfied, they often continue on, as eager to bring others pleasure as to receive it. People of all races coming together with a shared vision.

Those who do not experience such attraction or who have not participated might find difficulty understanding that uniquely spiritual feeling that happens in such large groups. And, as I often found myself in the middle again and again, I got to feel myself being pulled and pushed, the group of our bodies moving as if a single organism. Several times I was suspended above floor or furniture by the ministrations of the other celebrants. Perhaps that is the same feeling as levitation, though I think I had far more fun that a mage levitating around.

As dawn arrived, Nabine had me find a place to sleep off the alcohol and told me she had more prepared for when the full day had arrived.

I kissed her in a way I have not kissed in since she left me for the cult. I was so grateful for her being back in my life, back in my arms.

She laughed and told me that I better not use this as an excuse to skip my mage training or she would be cross. I laughed and followed her instructions.

I was not quite sober when I arrived to class. It made things easier, I could relax, concentrating primarily on the spell and less on the judgement of those around me. With a few bit of advise from the instructor, and half as many tries as the day before, I managed to complete my lessons. The teacher said I was clearly working hard. That although I was slower and getting the spells to work, I had such a deep pool of magicka that once I learned the basics, I would probably excel at a more rapid pace than my peers. It was encouraging to hear.

I almost ran back to The Den. I was excited to see what my beloved Nabine had in store for me.

On my arrival, she tossed me a pack and told me that we were going on a hunting trip.

Now, I was worried about how foolish I would look shooting a bow besides a master bowmer like Nabine. But I knew she likely put in a great deal of effort to make this happen, so I followed without either complaint or question.

We took roads through the treetops. Unused to such travel, having done it only the once, and then we were taking major roads rather than the side passages that Nabine moved through, I often had to teleport to keep up. It was tiring, but she is so fast and she did not wait for me to catch up.

Finally, after several hours moving southeast, Nabine stopped. I looked around and then down. There was a small cart besides the firepit of a camp: two Altmer and a Bosmer, sitting around the fire were talking, the two Altmer loudly complaining, their Bosmer companion trying to placate them.

Nabine turned to me and asked me if I was ready for a fun performance. I smiled and asked her what type of hunt was this going to be,

She grinned and licked her pointed teeth. Leaning in she told me that I was to pretend to be a good Dunmeri slave boy and to put on the clothing in the pack.

I opened it up and found a silk veil for my face and even less for around the rest of me. Mostly it was jewelry designed to attach chains to. Nice mammoth leather collar and cuffs with big bone loops.

When I was dressed, Nabine took some makeup from her bag and painted me up appropriately and then sewed in more hair so that I had a long ponytail atop my head. Then we made our way down.

As we approached, the Bosmer in the camp turned and then back to her companions, informing them that their wait was finally over and the entertainment had arrived.

The Altmer grumbled and asked what their money had been spent on exactly.

The Bosmer said that she had secured a rare Dunmer slave, raised as a performer, but forced to fight for the Pact, but after seeing the rages of war, turned coward and ran, only to be caught by a lieutenant who had the eye to recognize what was before him.

The two Altmer came round to inspect me. I made sure to keep my eyes lowered and my posture submissive. Then pawed at me, checked me over for health and unsightly marks. I wanted so bad to slit their throats. I would have been a mount or beast checked before being sent to the slaughter. The irony of knowing what fate was to bring.

When the Altmer had given their approval, the Bosmer finished their arrangements, collected coin and told them to enjoy me as long as they would like before dawn. That my handler was there to make sure that her property was not going to be damaged beyond healing.

I was asked to dance. So I began to do so, the careful precision of the Deif Indkhes dance.

As I made sure to exaggerate each movement, they shouted at me for song. Some kind of music. That is when I knew I had them.

There is a sort of siren-like song that accompanies the dance. And as I began to sing, they pulled off the clothing I wore so that I was bared before them, using both my my body to entice them and my voice to call them. It took little to work, I could see the lust grow in their eyes. I was an object, a curiosity they wished to possess. It was just what I had hoped for.

My song continued, I willed for them to come close, to join me, to use me. All that was in return was to offer me that which I no long had, but which they possessed. And they responded by eagerly following my instructions.

As I began to service them both, I glanced over to Nabine. She was watching the situation hungrily. In all meanings of the word.

She gave me the signal that meant she was ready to go on my queue.

Just as the Altmer reached their height of pleasure and began to climax, I took the one in front of me and reached up as though to steady my hands upon their shoulders. Only, in each hand was a small needle. I made sure to hit veins on both sides, so that the poison would travel that much faster.

As the Altmer in front of me began to struggle, the one behind me seemed to wonder what their friend was doing.

They had little time to contemplate, for I heard the familiar sound of an arrow forcing air out of a body. I pulled the veil from my face and wrapped it around the mouth of the Altmer in front of me, pulling them back where they struggled. Then they tried to scream, but I pulled hard, keeping them from doing so.

When that Altmer was dead, I turned to see Nabine already field dressing the other. She scolded me for poisoning the other one, preventing her from being able to do anything with the other.

Then we stages a scene to look like bandits and Nabine pushed me down on the ground, her body still covered in the Altmer’s blood. She looked so beautiful.

We made love right there in the camp,

And when we had finished and repacked, we headed back to her home where we could bathe and get the children ready for bed.

I must say, it has been a while since I have so thoroughly enjoyed my name day. I just wonder what else Nabine has in store for me over the next few days.

#ESO #TES #RP #Dunmer #Elder Scrolls Online #The Elder Scrolls

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screensirenfic · 5 years ago

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Menthol Cigarettes - Chapter 5 - NSFW Warnings: Slight dub-con

“Don’t move.”

My entire body tensed up on instinct at the sound of that voice; shivers running down my spine as I felt a firm, hard body pressed against my back, breath hot down the back of my neck.

Still; I did as he said, relaxing underneath him as he kept his hand pressed firmly to my mouth with barely enough space to breathe.

“You’re late.”

He drawled, and I tried not to think back to how Lucas had accused Mike of the exact same thing under very different circumstances.

Still; he was right, and I already knew what question would come next.

“Did you go and see Harrington again?”

I guessed right; his voice keeping a low even tone that betrayed none of his true thoughts on the matter.

Maybe I should’ve been scared; anyone else in the same situation would be practically shaking, and I was no different, though I’m certain my chills were for a completely different reason.

I struggled a little bit under his hand; opening my mouth in a silent petition for him to let me explain myself.

He loosened his grip, letting his hand slide down to cup my chin in a way that kept me looking straight ahead.

“I was dropping off the Wheeler kid-“ I panted; my heart already racing at fifty miles an hour as I felt his hips grind against my ass; already hard in his tight jeans.

“Don’t lie to me. You know I hate it when you lie.” He snapped, hand automatically going to clamp round my neck in a alarmingly firm grip that sent my heart jumping out of my chest entirely.

“Billy; stop...” I whined, reaching to pull his hand loose, because even though I knew he was just messing around, he was getting too rough; and he knew how I felt about him grabbing my throat.

He loosened his grip again, letting his hand fall to my sternum as he pushed me back into him, keeping a steady control of my body without any of the triggers.

“So; you gonna tell me where you were?” He asked again; his lips hot and wet against my neck as he kissed his way up my spine, ending with a light nip at my earlobe.

I sighed, taking a deep breath as I tried to centre myself on something other than the feeling of his mouth sucking hickeys onto my skin.

“I only saw Steve for a minute...” I admitted, leaning back against him slightly as I felt his other hand reach round to cup my chest, kneading gently against my breasts.

“But what I said was true...” I hastily continued, but he cut me off with a sharp nip to the juncture of my shoulder.

“You know I don’t like waiting around...” He warned; his voice somewhere between a purr and a growl as it fanned directly over my ear, fingers digging harshly into my breast.

“I know, but I can’t exactly come straight here; my dad would kill me if he found out...” I reasoned, closing my eyes as I enjoyed Billy’s hands’ and lips’ assault on my skin.

“Always such a good daddy’s girl. You gonna be good for me now?” He purred into my ear, hips practically bucking into me now, forcing a soft whimper from my throat.

“Billy...” I sighed, because I don’t know why he had this effect on me; having me mewling and keening before he’d even taken my clothes off, but I loved it all the same.

“Tell me you’re gonna be my good girl and I’ll let you get up...” He bartered; keeping his tone the perfect blend between soft and demanding as he let his hand on my chest trail down to my stomach, pressing down with just enough promise for me to bend.

“I’ll be good, Billy. I promise...” I sighed, giving in far quicker than I usually would, because Billy was wound up, and I’m pretty sure if I kept him waiting much longer; he might not have control of how rough he got.

He relented, moving his hands and backing off enough for me to scramble to my feet; my legs feeling like jelly beneath me after his successful attempts at dirty talk.

I don’t know what had gone on with Billy today, but he was probably the tightest wound I’d seen him in a long time; the bite in his voice just a little more feral than he usually was when we did a bit of role play.

I wondered if his dad had hit him again; though I couldn’t see any bruises, but I guess it was too dark to tell.

I mean; he couldn’t really be this pissed off about Steve, could he?

I stood up straight, turning to face him as he began methodically pulling things out of his nightstand; his calm, level demeanour only increasing my tension.

“Okay; what do you want me to do now?” I asked nervously, fiddling with the fringe of my jacket as I automatically took the submissive role, waiting for further instructions.

“Strip.” He stated; not taking his eyes away from his drawers as he pulled out his Polaroid camera, checking there was still film inside.

“Don’t you wanna watch?” I asked, surprised that he hadn’t sat himself on his bed like he usually did, letting himself sit back and enjoy the show and maybe take a few pictures for his private collection.

He just gave me a hard look over his shoulder that told me he didn’t want me to tease; just submit and listen to him for this one night.

I began pulling off my clothes, starting with shrugging off my leather jacket and letting it fall into a heap on the floor.

Billy really was tense.

I could tell by the way the muscles in his shoulders rolled every time he rifled through the drawer, stopping to pull out a bright red bandana along the way.

I pulled off my boots, hopping on one leg at a time as Billy organised his haul in a line on his nightstand, reaching into his back jeans’ pocket to pull out his cigarettes and a lighter, letting them join the queue of supplies.

Maybe I should’ve been more nervous; Billy was treating our tryst like an army operation, down to the strictly ordered supplies and the cold hard demeanour.

Still; it was incredibly hot, especially when he stripped out of his white wife beater, revealing stretch after stretch of hard muscle pulled tight under sun kissed skin.

I followed his lead pulling off my t shirt and shorts, before taking off my underwear, leaving me standing stark naked in the middle of his bedroom.

He turned then, walking over to me with such deliberate purpose that I could feel my nipples stiffen into peaks, and I don’t think it was from the slight breeze coming from the window.

I stood up straighter, putting my nude form on display for him as he paced around me, eyes trailing up and down me as if to check if anything was out of place.

“See something you like?” I smirked, unable to keep myself from being a little bit of a tease when he looked at me like that, pretty pink tongue peaking out to run over his bottom lip.

“Nothing I don’t own already.” He stated; unbuckling his belt with slow teasing movements, before pulling it clean from his jeans and letting it trail from his hand like a bull whip.

I know I should’ve felt intimidated; a man twice my size staring down at me like a horse for slaughter; blue eyes sinfully hard as he ran them over every peak, every crevice with near clinical focus.

But Billy was always a scary choice of lover; his brand of lovemaking far too aggressive and domineering to be seen as vanilla, but I had to admit I liked it.

Billy pushed all my buttons; sometimes ones that would better be left untouched, but I loved how he made me work for it; how every second at his mercy was a glorious rollercoaster ride between heaven and hell that I wanted to ride out in full.

After a couple more circles, he stopped to the left of me; hand reaching up to cup my chin and angle me for a kiss; mouth hard and demanding against my own.

I softened into it, allowing him to take control as he snaked his tongue into my mouth; the familiar taste of cigarettes and spearmint strong against my tongue.

He wouldn’t let me reciprocate, forcing me just to take what he gave me as he domineered the kiss; tongue and teeth working in tandem to make my head swimmy.

Eventually he pulled away, and I couldn’t help but moan, finding Billy so irresistible like this; when he was toeing the edge between aggressive and attractive.

He didn’t smile like he usually did, but I could see the hints of a self satisfied smirk peaking at the corners of his lips, reminding me that despite his demeanour; this was all a game designed to get me off harder and faster.

“Billy; please...” I sighed, committing fully to the role of belligerent sub as he let his fingers trail down my throat, stroking slowly in a way that made me gulp with apprehension.

Billy knew choking was off limits after the Byers, but it didn’t stop him from testing the waters, if only to get a reaction from my fear.

“Go get on the bed on your hands and knees.” Billy instructed, giving me the slightest of shoves that warned me not to argue with him this time.

Of course; I was tempted to defy him, to offer up some sweet pouty protests that would force him to manhandle me into position, but Billy’s eyes were hard today, and that was a dangerous thing.

Instead I was a good girl and made my way over to the bed with minimal teasing, crawling onto the mattress on my hands and knees until I was braced ready for him.

I could hear the sound of Billy pulling off his jeans, and instinctively turned my head, eager to get an eyeful of his naked form.

“Face the wall.” He barked, refusing to even give me the pleasure of looking at him in all his glory; all dirty blonde hair and hard muscle.

I sighed in protest, but kept my head straight, knowing that if I didn’t, he’d just grab hold of my hair and force me to.

I felt the mattress dip, and felt the sudden heat of Billy’s body behind me; my muscles tensing in anticipation of him just diving in and getting to it, fucking me hard and fast into the mattress.

Instead he leant over me, encasing me in that familiar scent of smoke, strong cologne and sweat that always reminded me of him.

“Do you trust me?”

TAGLIST: @lemonypink @daringvixon

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pillowfort-social · 6 years ago

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Community Update: November 2019

Hey everyone! It’s time for your monthly community update where we let you know what Staff have been doing behind the scenes, happenings within the community, and a preview of what’s in store for the platform.

Since October 2019 we have…

Added the Invitation System. Check out the Invitation System FAQ for more details.

Added the Donation System. More information can be found here.

Updated our Log-in Page.

Made Changes to User Accounts. Information can be found here.

Updated our FAQ & Business Plan. Full change log is available here.

Fixed various bugs throughout the month.

Community Stats:

As of December 2019, Pillowfort currently has over 55400 registered users and 6900 communities.

We have placed the rest of the community update under the cut!

Welcome New Users!

Welcome to Pillowfort. We are so glad you are part of our community. If you haven’t yet, check out Pillowfort101 Getting Started Guide.

The Invitation System is Here!

We are excited to announce the next phase of our open beta arrived at the end of November! All Pillowfort users have the ability to generate free registration codes to give out to your friends! The introduction of the invitation system allows our community to grow at a steady pace and to help us test our server capacity in a controlled manner.

Click Here to Invite Your Friends!

(Note: You must be logged in to Pillowfort for access.)

If you have friends who do not want to wait for an invite code they can still purchase a registration key with a one-time $5 payment here.

Existing Pillowfort users are granted a maximum of three (3) invitations a week. The number of codes a user can generate might fluctuate depending on our server capacity. In the event we need to put the invitation system on pause or change the amount of keys users can generate, we will make an announcement on the Pillowfort Staff Blog. For more information regarding the Invitation System check out the Invitation System FAQ.

August Community Survey Results

In August 2019 we conducted our quarterly survey with users on their experience with Pillowfort. If you missed out on the last survey we will be releasing another quarterly survey next week. Here are some of the key takeaways from the last survey:

Users rate their experience on Pillowfort as positive.

Users love the ability to control both adult and safe content.

Our tag & search function is one of the areas that needs the most improvement.

Communities continue to be one of Pillowfort’s most liked features.

Now Hiring Web Developers!

We’re looking for well-rounded Web Developers to help Pillowfort become a first-class platform. If you are interested in helping Pillowfort grow and improve and you have some professional experience in front-end and back-end web development, we’d love to speak with you. You must be familiar with Ruby on Rails and Javascript. AngularJS experience is a plus but not a must.

This position is remote and part time, hourly contractor work.

Send your resume and portfolio to [email protected] with the subject line ‘Web Developer.’

Tasks include, but are not limited to:

Fixing bugs and developing new site features.

Testing new release builds/QA.

Both front-end/UI and back-end development.

We are accepting applications for web developers until Wednesday, Dec. 18. Our team will review all applications and will contact candidates we are interested in to schedule an interview by Friday, Dec. 20th.

User Account Changes Update Post-Mortem

Before the release of our invitation system, we introduced a change to our user accounts requiring users to input their birthdate. Details on the changes that were made are available in this announcement. In previous updates of this nature we usually provided ample time before a change was implemented, but unfortunately our team pushed this update with little notice in our effort to get the invitation system out quickly. The staff at Pillowfort are still passionate about continuing to build a bridge of communication and retaining transparency with our users. We sincerely apologize for not announcing the user account changes sooner and we will strive for better communication and keeping transparency with our users in the future.

We will be creating a separate discussion post soon where users can leave feedback and suggestions on the new user account changes. Stay tuned for when the discussion goes live.

Our team is currently reviewing our Terms of Service. We are not planning to add or significantly change any of the terms, but rather make clarifications to how the Terms of Service is applied to user content, including NSFW content, in the upcoming months. The clarifications are being made to help users with questions and concerns about our current verbiage regarding some of our policies. Before any clarifications are made, we will make an announcement with the updated terms and when they take effect.

As a reminder, any questions regarding Pillowfort’s Terms of Service and Moderation Policies should be sent to [email protected].

Proposed Changes to Communities: Coming Soon

Our team is exploring changes to Communities to improve user experience in 2020. We will be announcing proposed changes and taking feedback from the community in the coming weeks.

Developer Update

Now that the invitation system is released, our team is re-prioritizing what features & improvements we need to make before Pillowfort can exit beta. We are also beginning to lay the groundwork for our site-wide UI Redesign. December will be quieter in terms of updates than previous months while our developers plan and prepare for our upcoming development projects.

We have had an increase in inquiries as of late regarding the status of our mobile app. While we do plan to create a mobile app, we are currently prioritizing the stability & development of the browser site. Our team does plan on creating a mobile app in the future when funding allows. We will be updating our donation page in the near future to include milestones we need to reach for certain goals such as adding more developers to the team, creating a mobile app, and more.

Help Us Keep the Lights On!

At Pillowfort, we do not receive any funding from venture capital or other outside investors because we are committed to keeping our user experience a priority, and not being beholden to outside interests. Pillowfort has been entirely user funded since the beginning. Because users are no longer required to pay for a registration link, we will be largely dependent on donations to help us pay the bills until the release of our Premium Features Suite which is currently in development. We need your help. If you would like to support us, you can make a one-time or monthly payment to Pillowfort to help keep the lights on here. Any money donated to us now will be applied as a credit to your account when we release Pillowfort’s Premium Features Suite.

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Coming Soon

Here’s a look at some of the exciting features, in no particular order, that our team is planning to make available during the first half of 2020:

Community Privacy Options & Moderation Tools for Community Mods.

Side Blogs/Multiple Account Management (TBA).

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Editing Comments.Premium Features Suite.

Volunteer Moderation System.

Coming in 2020:

Here’s a look at some of the larger scale improvements for the second half of 2020:

Complete Site-Wide UI Redesign.

Queue & Drafts.

Improved general functionality & usability of the website.

Improved Mobile Browsing.

Official Public Release!

A Special Thanks

Thank you all so much for your understanding and patience as we rolled out the invitation system at the end of November. It was important to our team, based on user feedback, to make joining Pillowfort more accessible so the community can grow at a steady pace.

Pillowfort is committed to creating a safe, user-friendly community for creators & fans alike. We do take all feedback to heart. Our team is constantly watching for feedback & suggestions within the BetaUsers community and on other social media channels in addition to the feedback we receive in e-mail. Thank you for continuing to share your feedback to help make Pillowfort even better.

Our team is eternally grateful for all of our users, both old and new, who have made Pillowfort their home. We’re blown away at the response we’ve received over the last several months. Thank you all for your continued encouragement, well wishes, and support. We wouldn’t be in this stage of our development if it wasn’t for you.

Best, Pillowfort Staff

#pillowfort #pillowfort community update #pillowfort-social #pillowfort.social #pillowfort blogging #pillowfort.soc #pillowfort-soc #pillowfort.io

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magnoliasinbloom · 6 years ago

Text

The Midwife - II

AO3 :: Previously

We consummated our legal marriage that night, and any other night he was able to sneak away from Rupert and Angus. The contract was laid next to Mother Hildegarde’s letter, inside Davie Beaton’s black-bound casebook. After a few weeks, I had mostly learned my way around Leoch. I spent my time in the surgery, the kitchens, and the garden, fully accepted as a participant in castle life. Spring was now upon us, despite the chilly June mornings.

The Gathering had arrived; tacksmen and tenants from all over who owed fealty to the MacKenzies were arriving in droves. Some stayed in the castle itself, most camped outside on the grounds. I was kept extremely busy tending to wounds and varied illnesses. The healer in me reveled at fulfilling my calling, my life’s work.

In the meantime, I met with Jamie whenever I could, stealing moments in the stables, in the forest, and once in a dark stairwell. We were careful to be polite to each other in public, no more. I eyed the girl Laoghaire with suspicion every time I interacted with her, mostly in Mrs. Fitz’s kitchen. She kept on about her impending marriage to Jamie, and I worried about what would happen when we would be forcefully called out about the truth.

The night of the Gathering, I was informed, I would be a spectator up in the gallery with most of the castle’s unmarried women. The great hall was reserved for the tenants and their wives, who would be pledging an oath to Dougal as chieftain of clan MacKenzie. Jamie had confessed to me that he did not mean to swear fealty to Dougal—to do so would be to set himself up as the likely future leader of the clan after Dougal died. The MacKenzie laird was recently widowed, I’d heard, and had no male issue of his own, only three daughters who had remained behind at his estate. Jamie was the closest male kin of age, but many of the tenants present at the Gathering would not consider him suitable for succession. But if he refused to swear the oath… he could face death.

“’Twould look like an accident, Sassenach,” he said quietly, tracing patterns on my back as we lay on the cot in the surgery. “I could be speared at the tynchal, suffer a gruesome head injury playing shinty, or have my throat cut in some dark corner.”

I turned towards him at this, alarmed. “Jamie, you can’t possibly—”

“We have to face it, mo nighean donn. While I live at Leoch and am of sound body and mind, I must swear. ‘Tis a dangerous game we’re playing now. I have Murtagh to watch my back. I shall think of something beforehand, dinna fash.”

I stood amongst the women in the gallery, in the nicest gown I owned, which had come with me from Paris, and a new pair of shoes, a fichu, and hair ribbon, courtesy of Mrs. Fitz. I scanned the crowd eagerly for a glimpse of Jamie. He was usually easy to spot—a full head taller than most men and the fiery thatch of his hair. But there was no sight of him yet. I did see Geillis Duncan, standing by her husband; he was a rotund, serious man, but seemed amiable enough.

With the beating of drums and the fanfare of bagpipes, Dougal walked ceremoniously through the middle of the hall, all the way to the raised dais. He cried out, “Tulach Ard!” which the men repeated in a roar, raising their cups to Dougal. I knew he had begun with the battle cry of the MacKenzie clan, but he addressed the room in the Gaidhligh; I did not understand most of it, and Mrs. Fitz must have seen my face so she stood next to me and translated in a whisper.

“He is welcoming the men to Leoch, hoping that they had safe journeys. While he hopes the men never have to draw iron, if they do he couldn’t hope for better men to defend the honor of the clan,” Mrs. Fitz said. I nodded along, and Dougal kept speaking. “Only the crazy would challenge the MacKenzie, and he is proud to be their laird. Luceo non uro! That means—”

“I shine, not burn,” I finished for her, smiling. “That I understood.”

“’Tis the motto of clan MacKenzie,” she said, loudly over the din of the cheering men. I saw the door to the great hall open as she spoke, and finally Jamie made an entrance. He was faithfully shadowed by Murtagh, who glanced furtively around him and trailed Jamie into a corner of the room. He drew more than a few glances, and I felt my heart race with nerves.

The rest of the men formed a loose line, taking turns to pledge loyalty to Dougal. The clansmen quieted down, and the first stepped forward. He bent on one knee, drawing his dagger upside down and holding it up, like a cross. His oath, which was given in English, read: “I swear, by the cross of our lord Jesus Christ, and by the holy iron that I hold, to give ye my fealty, to pledge ye my loyalty to the name of clan MacKenzie. And if ever I shall raise my hand against ye in rebellion, I ask that this holy iron shall pierce my heart.” He kissed the blade, stood, and sheathed it once more. Dougal held out his hands and the clansman kissed them as well. Dougal nodded in approval and offered the quaich for a drink to seal the man’s oath.

The next man came forward, and repeated the oath word for word. “Are all oaths the same?” I asked Mrs. Fitz.

“Aye, dear, and so’s the drinking. ‘Tis a good thing the laird can hold his drink, or he would be fair sloshed by the tenth man.” Dougal drank deeply of the ceremonial cup for every oath pledged him, and showed no sign of faltering. I grew restless, wondering what Jamie had planned to keep himself safe. The seemingly endless line of men progressed as the sun marked its path across the flagstones. After awhile, Mrs. Fitz went back to the kitchens to supervise the final touches on the feast. I offered my help, but was gently rebuffed, the lady insisting I remain behind and enjoy myself.

“Who kens it, lass. Mayhap ye find yerself a husband at the Gathering; it has happened many a time before!” She winked and was gone in a swish of skirts.

Find myself a husband, indeed. Where was he now? I leaned on the parapet of the gallery, and met his gaze. He stood towards the end of the queue; he was dressed in his kilt, a basket hilt sword at his side. Murtagh stood beside him still, good man. I watched in trepidation as he slowly made his way to the front of the hall, closer and closer to Dougal. As he approached, the air became tense, and I found it hard to breathe. The sudden silence in the hall was deafening.

Jamie knelt for a moment at Dougal’s feet. After a few beats, he stood and his hand went to the dagger at his side, but Jamie did not draw it yet. “Dougal MacKenzie,” he began. “I come to ye as kinsman, and as ally. I give ye no vow, for my oath is pledged to the name that I bear.”

At this, an alarming number of men reached for their own weapons, and I heard the song of steel against scabbard. My breath caught in my throat; the threat was now imminent.

Jamie took one step closer to Dougal, and continued. “I give ye my obedience as kinsman, and as laird. And I hold myself bound to yer word, so long as my feet rest on the lands of clan MacKenzie.” He stood his ground before Dougal, his gaze on the laird’s grey eyes unwavering. The silence was prolonged; everyone seemed to be holding their breath like I was. I saw Jamie’s hand grip the hilt of the dagger, ready to go down fighting.

Then, Dougal smiled, and reached for the quaich beside him. A collective gasp of relief went up from the crowd, and Jamie’s face broke into a grin. The clansmen erupted in cheers and whoops and even whistles. The bagpipes struck up again as the men drank. Jamie’s plan had worked. He had offered obedience, not fealty, but Dougal seemed willing to accept that. For now.

* * *

“Come here, Sassenach.”

Jamie lifted me by the waist onto the surgery trestle table. He rucked up my skirts, finding purchase on my thighs. My own fingers scrabbled to remove his sporran, which fell to the floor with a thump. We didn’t bother undressing further; he drew me to the edge of the table, pushed his kilt aside and buried himself in me. I gasped at the sudden intrusion, but it quickly became familiar once more. Jamie thrust hard, kissing my neck. I tipped my head back, overwhelmed by feeling.

We had managed to steal away from the festivities, taking advantage of the fact that the men were getting sopping drunk, including his usual guards. Dougal had waylaid Murtagh, and we had agreed to meet in the surgery quick as we could.

I gripped Jamie, biting my lip to keep from screaming. He panted in my ear, close to completion. My own cries were muffled against his shoulder, when a loud bang startled us and made Jamie tighten his hold on me even as he whipped his head around. I looked over his shoulder—Angus was at the door.

He stared at us in disbelief while heat rushed to my face. Jamie quickly pulled my skirts and his kilt down; he turned to face his cousin, shielding me behind him while I got to my feet.

“Angus, please,” he began, pleading.

“Is this how you honor yer oath? By going against Dougal’s wishes?” Angus sneered. “Ye can have all the fun ye like with this one after ye wed. But wed ye must.”

Jamie cursed. “It is not merely fun, ye dinna understand—”

“Aye, I understand fine. But Dougal will not.” With that, Angus thundered up the stairs back to the great hall, back to the laird. Jamie turned to me, his expression panicked.

“I’m sorry, Sassenach. I must go after him.” He clutched the dagger at his belt, and made his way to the surgery door. “Stay here. If Murtagh comes, do as he says. Promise me, Claire.” His eyes were desperate.

“I promise,” I said, sick with fear for him. For us. Jamie followed in Angus’s steps, the tread of his boots soon lost in the winding stone staircase that led to my surgery.

I wrung my hands, wondering what would be worse—if Murtagh came for me or not. I paced for a few minutes, before coming upon a solution. I took a deep breath to steady myself, and strode purposefully to the set of shelves by the wall. I found Davie Beaton’s The Physician's Guide and Handbook, black-bound and gilt-stamped. I rifled through the pages and pulled out Mother Hildegarde’s letter and our marriage contract. I reached for the glass bottle where my ring was hidden, uncorked it, and shook its contents into the palm of my hand.

Clutching both documents against my chest, I raced up the stairs behind Jamie, heading for Dougal’s study.

- -

A/N: Blessed be the Outlander Wiki and lots of dialogue from s01!

#outlander #outlander fanfic #jamie and claire #the midwife 2.6 #poop's hit the fan...

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xyoohyeonrk · 5 years ago

Text

╌、*feeling like failure、

trigger warnings: scolding, verbal fighting, crying .✦｡ﾟ

vibrations of her phone brings yoohyeon out of focus, eyes shifting from the high paced arurf game in front of her and down to the beaming screen that reveals a new text message; it’s all that is needed for yoohyeon to be executed in-game, a minor distraction that quickly lead to a serious misplacement on her behalf. “oh, fuck...” the curse came out as a mere breath as she picks up the device that ultimately became the cause of her death, only to read through all the incoming messages and realise that they all need a proper answer and thus, her full attention -- that of which, she cannot give right now. too much is at stake and for once, yoohyeon found a team that can actually work together. she leaves her mum on read, using the remaining few last seconds to complete her in-game purchases.

✉ 📲 ▸ TEXT RECEIVED FROM ━━━━ 엄마 ━ ( 3 )

▸ our yoohyeonie~ how are you, sweetie? ♥ ▸ listen, our refrigerator broke down… can you send ￦40,000? ▸ you know that i wouldn’t ask if we had any other choice. message read ! ▸ yoohyeon-ah? please answer me. message read !

another text rolls in soon after but yoohyeon has already lost herself into what might, or might not, be the last team fight of the current game. with her screen unlocked, and messaging app open, she accidentally leave the newest message on read also. it is only a matter of seconds anyway so she figures that it won’t really matter. one kill down, two kills down, three kills down before someone manages to stop yoohyeon from wiping out the entire team, fed as she is she unfortunately has a counterpart in the opposite team’s midlaner-- but it isn’t at all enough, they manage to beat down the nexus so low that there is no returning now. while yoohyeon is dead and currently out of the game, her pulse is high as she watch her team mates destroy what is left of the other team’s nexus and secure their victory.

“YES!!!” she practically yells at the screen in front of her, after fourty minutes of intense battle they are finally done and managed to win the game. for a moment there yoohyeon forgot that she does, in fact, live with someone. somewhat embararssed by her outburst, she is glad that naeun is out for another few hours training at kt ent.

✉ 📲 ▸ TEXT SENT TO ━━━━ 엄마 ━ ( 2 )

▸ i’m sorry, mum~ i was in the middle of something~~~ ▸ but i don’t have any more right now, i already gave you everything that i could… ㅠㅠ

satisfied with the victory, yoohyeon brings her chair backwards to lean back in a more relaxed position. she figures that she most probably will be texting her mum from this point of, and it’s pointless to head back into the arurf queue. instead, she changes the game mode to play one last game for the day, lining up for a more chilled game of teamfight tacticts. what she did not take into consideration however, was that her mum might have wanted to call her instead and that is precisely what happens next. moments after yoohyeon accept the matchup, her phone vibrates once again to now reveal an incoming call. she sighs, she’s too tired to converse like this after a full weekend of dancing and having had a full day of work today, but she picks up the call nonetheless. she knows better than to not.

📞 📲 ▸ CALL ONGOING ━━━━ 엄마 ━ ( 00:09 )

yoohyeon: hey, mum~ i’m sorry that i took so long to respond, i wa--

byeol: yoohyeon-ah, what do you mean ‘you don’t have any money’? you just got paid on the 15th, didn’t you? what about that savings account of yours? i know that you are smart enough to not have emptied that already. right? please, i’m not asking for much.

being cut short is not something that yoohyeon is used to and immediately, she notice that it’s uncharacteristically done so by her mum. completely taken aback she remains mute, and she listen to the manipulation that she has yet to realise takes place. a sense of panic hits her, the request is far from grand but there is absolutely no way that she can oblige-- her savings are gone and she won’t be paid for another month. of course, she has enough to pay for rent and food throughout the month of february, but not a dime more than that. if she gave up any more then she would go hungry and while that is something she often do for her family when they’re in need, that is something she has been doing for the past few months already. for once, she could use the satisfaction of being properly fed herself.

📞 📲 ▸ CALL ONGOING ━━━━ 엄마 ━ ( 00:16 )

yoohyeon: i… i– ah, mum, it’s empty. i’m sorry– i’ll work extra hard this month!

byeol: how is it empty, ah? have you wasted your money? what did you waste it on, huh?

her offer is immediately disregarded and yoohyeon suddenly feels attacked when the tone of speech directed at her, is changed to a more hostile approach. she does realise that working extra hard this coming month won’t help them with the current dilemma, she does realise that they need a new refrigerator as soon as yesterday. how can she help, she wonder. perhaps it was foolish of her to buy those gym clothes, thoughts around the decision weighing her down like the worst call of her life. she couldn’t possibly have foreseen this happen though, that her parents’ refrigerator so happened to break down the very month she wanted to spoil herself-- ever since her birthday in january, yoohyeon has mustered the courage to think about herself for once and this is how she is repaid by fate. with shame.

📞 📲 ▸ CALL ONGOING ━━━━ 엄마 ━ ( 00:29 )

yoohyeon: i– i didn’t waste it! i haven’t bought anything in so long but i asked my friend. hwang yeji, remember her? i asked her to teach me how to dance, i needed gym wear fo…

byeol: you wasted your savings on clothes?! don’t you have enough clothes already, ah? i can’t believe how selfish you are, i didn’t raise you like this! what are we going to do now? how are we going to live without a refrigerator– i’m so disappointed in you, i really counted on you for this, yoohyeon-ah!

yoohyeon stopped caring about the game before she even arrived to the first carousel, there’s absolutely no way around defeat and she already know that as she head into round three with minions. having mindlessly sold her first champion for gold and bought everything on roll, she has somehow manged to put together a team of three lights regardless of being scolded by a unreasonably angry mother. during the first half of a teamfight tacticts game she isn’t required to think very much and that alone is the sole reason she can keep from forgeiting already. she cannot for the bare life of her understand where the anger comes from, her heart beating fast as though her life is at stake due to another rush of panic. all yoohyeon wanted by buying the clothes was to pat herself on the shoulder, she deserved it.

📞 📲 ▸ CALL ONGOING ━━━━ 엄마 ━ ( 01:15 )

yoohyeon: i didn’t– ah, i’m sorry… but… what about yookwon oppa? can he contribute?

byeol: how dare you suggest such a thing? you know that your brother is busy. yookwon doesn’t need the added stress right now.

as if yoohyeon needs the added stress right now, but she doesn’t mention that. it would be as useless to voice aloud as it would be to bring up the winter singer contest that she so bravely signed up for, and not to mention the second chance to audition with sphere entertainment. it would only anger her mum even more if she so much as brought highlight to that, and the fact that she turned down the offer for the sake of her family. all of this being a reason why she did decide that she could use a little something, a little prize for stepping out of her comfort zone-- performing for a live crowd, alone, is scary enough as it is, and then to turn down a company that possibly regretted letting her go in the first place... yoohyeon thought she earned the right to pamper herself. after all, she turned down her dream, for them.

📞 📲 ▸ CALL ONGOING ━━━━ 엄마 ━ ( 01:22 )

yoohyeon: ah, yeah... you’re right... i’m sorry, mum... what can i do?

byeol: nothing, apparently, other than playing your idiotic games and having fun like you have no worries in the world-- don’t think that i can’t hear that mouse of yours clicking like your goddamn life depends on it. you should be ashamed of yourself, behaving like a brat without a single care for her family when they are in need!

immediately she lets go of the mouse, her heart skipping a of beat with such a brute force that she is pained by it. shock turns into confusion, confusion turns into ruin. she wants to cry.

allgedly, yoohyeon doesn’t care for her family. working two part time jobs and sending money home every month obviously doesn’t count for helping out, and neither does going hungry for days on end just to make sure that her parents and yoorim is fed properly. applying for jobs at any given time isn’t good enough either, despite recendly landing herself a new full time job at the escape room in gangnam with a steady income. she is speechless by the accusations and that of an order to be ashamed of herself-- for what, exactly...? for spending money on herself for once? for a moment she is willing to accept that her mum is right but no, she isn’t. concern, anxiety and devastation is rapidly replaced with her own anger. after everything that yoohyeon has done for her family, she does not deserve this treatment.

📞 📲 ▸ CALL ONGOING ━━━━ 엄마 ━ ( 01:41 )

yoohyeon: as if i haven’t done enough for you already! working my ass off, every day, to keep you guys from troubles whenver things get rough, even if it means that i have to go hungry. have you ever thought about that, huh? have you?! and this one time, mum... just this one time, i wanted to pamper myself because i deserved it. you don’t even know what i’ve been through lately. you don’t even know...

byeol: yooheon-ah, calm down! what are you sa--

it feels like such a waste at this point and yoohyeon gasps for air, trying her very best to keep from hiccuping through whines that manages to escape. she can’t recall the last time that she cried and while some tears can be good and healthy, this one admittedly pains her more than anything else ever has. the mixture of pure agony and betrayal breaks her right there, on the phone with the person that she usually woud seek comfort when upset. once again, she’s so incredibly glad that naeun is out training, but for a different reason; she sobs loudly, her hand reaching up to cover a tear stained cheek as though hiding from the world-- not that it helps in any way or form, the damage has already been done. her game is long forgotten, and for all she cares she has already been taken enough damage to be out.

📞 📲 ▸ CALL ONGOING ━━━━ 엄마 ━ ( 01:58 )

yoohyeon: i can’t help you this time, mum. get the money from somewhere else!

📞 📲 ▸ CALL DISCONNECTED ━━━━ 엄마 ━ ( 02:07 )

she doesn’t allow for a proper response, this time being the one to cut her mum short instead. sweat breaks through the fabric of her t-shirt as she finally end the call without so much as a good bye, immediately burrying her face in both hands as she weeps into the damp palms. it doesn’t feel good to cry this time, it isn’t at all a good cry. yoohyeon feels completely at loss, whatever is she going to do now? with this being the first fight that she has ever had with her mum, she suddenly realise that she don’t know how things will be after this. it doesn’t matter that her mum is trying to call her back now-- not once, not twice, not thrice. yoohyeon can’t hear it through her whimpers, not that she would have picked up anyway. it doesn’t matter that she texts her to apologise. the damage has certainly been done.

#rkxsnn #rkyeji #;wc. 2200 #;solo. feeling like failure

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kyndaris · 6 years ago

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14 Kilometres: from the Bustling High-Risers to a Must-See Tourist Attraction

It is never fun to wake up early on a weekend. Particularly if it’s a cold and blustery day in August. Yet wake up I did, in the early hours of a Sunday morning because my mother had signed me up to run the City2Surf. It was not the best of beginnings, I’ll admit, for knowing that I had to wake early meant that my sleep was troubled at best. Perhaps I really ought to practice mindfulness and meditate for a few minutes before I head to bed each night. Who knows (I mean, really. How else am I supposed to battle my chronic insomnia and anxiety-filled thoughts?).

After downing a hearty breakfast, donning a winter jacket and slipping my feet into a set of comfortable joggers, my mother and I headed to the local strain station. Stopping, of course, briefly at a service station to fill up on a warm beverage or two. Mine was hot chocolate.

Though it was early on a Sunday morning, the carriages were chock full of other race participants. Each of them eager to begin their own fourteen kilometres run from the centre of Sydney down to Bondi Beach. I, for lack of a better word, was less than thrilled. And why wouldn’t I be, considering this was the first time in the many long years I’ve lived, to have taken a train before nine on a day that wasn’t a weekday.

Once we arrived at Martin Place Station, my mother set about looking for a toilet - only to find the queues would be a fifteen to twenty minutes long wait. Reluctantly, she decided that it would be best to meet up with the other ‘runners’ that had also been voluntarily signed up to join the fun run for Active August before dashing off to find a place to relieve her bladder. After almost an hour of waiting, most everyone had assembled and we slowly joined ourselves to the gathering crowd that would be the 9:35AM start group (the best and last one for the day).

As the minutes slowly ticked by, the event organisers made sure to keep our blood pumping. Whether that was doing warm-up exercises just before the start, to upping the volume of cheerful uplifting songs. There was even an inflatable ball or two - neither of which I managed to bat around to my fellow runners. I blame this for my lack of enthusiasm and excitement during the morning.

When 9:35 finally rolled around, our huge group finally began to move. Packed in like animals, it was not until five to ten minutes into the race that my mother and I were finally able to branch out and began walking in earnest.

And what a walk it was. We barely stopped in those two hours and forty or so minutes that it took for us to finish. The one and only lengthy pit stop we made was at Edgecliff Station when we both quickly ducked inside to use the restrooms. Then it was a full tilt walk up Heartbreak Hill. Up and up and up we went, accompanied by bagpipes, a police band and some excellent songs that kept the rhythm going.

Finally, at last, our path began to slope downwards. The golden sands and the briny sea were in sight. Any other runner might have used the opportunity to add a bit of pep in their step. Not me. I just kept my own steady pace - favouring the tortoise rather than the hare. Besides, by then my feet were killing me.

Crossing that finishing line, I felt just ready to keel over. But there was food. There was looking for a means of finding our way back home.

Medal in hand, we celebrated our victory of the City2Surf with some delicious sushi and took a bus right to Bondi Junction where we could catch a direct train that would see us most of the way home.

#personal blog #city2surf

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guidetoplaystation-blog · 6 years ago

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The 9 Best PlayStation 4 Shooter Games of 2019

The Rundown

Best Overall: Apex Legends at Amazon, “Apex shines with its fluid movement and fast-paced shooter action.”

Most Popular: Fornite at Amazon, “The ubiquitous battle royale game is so refined it’s hard to put down.”

Best Characters: Overwatch at Amazon, "With so much to explore, it’s no wonder Overwatch remains one of the most popular shooters ever made."

Best Multiplayer: Call of Duty: Black Ops IIII at Amazon, “Multiplayer enhancements and a new mode make this one a must-buy for Call of Duty fanatics.”

Best Tactics: PlayerUnknown's Battlegrounds at Amazon, "Sticks to what it knows, with boots-to-the-ground combat, driving, and first-person shooter mechanics."

Best Visuals: Rage 2 at Amazon, “The desolate wasteland makes for a strangely beautiful and colorful experience.”

Best Open World: Far Cry: New Dawn at Amazon, “This new take for the franchise is a fresh and exciting open world odyssey.”

Best Co-Op: Destiny 2 at Amazon, “The shared universe shooter is the best way to work together with a group of friends.”

Best for Kids: Plants vs. Zombies: Garden Warfare 2 at Amazon, “A charming and creative shooter that provides a lighter, family-friendly option."

Our Top Picks

Best Overall: Apex Legends

No one quite knew what to make of Apex Legends when it was stealth released back in February 2019, on the same day as its announcement. But shortly thereafter, it took the digital world by storm. Going after the battle royale crown is a truly challenging conceit, but with a focus on strong gameplay and fluid controls, Apex Legends has quickly risen to the top of the pack, especially in the category of first-person shooters.

The premise is simple: 20 teams of three drop from a ship and land, picking up randomly generated loot as an ever-enclosing ring of death surrounds them. The goal is even simpler: survive, and win. Where the game shines is in its unique convergence of genres. It's hero shooter (see: Overwatch) meets battle royale (see: Fortnite), so while it features a diverse assortment of guns and character abilities, how you use them depends on your place in line ... waiting for death. After all, only one team comes out in top.

Most Popular: Fortnite

If you are itching more for a third-person battle royale experience, then turn your head to the most popular video game in the world right now: Epic Games' Fortnite. While its premise is ubiquitous, after playing it you'll understand why. The creativity and freedom it encourages leads to a boatload of fun, no matter how many times you queue up a new game.

Setting the template for what a battle royale game really could be, Fortnite is fundamentally rock solid. Its main value proposition is the flow of frequent updates, with everything from game modes, new guns, vehicles, and surprise celebrity cameo appearances touching down weekly. Strong shooting mechanics, unique visuals, and stable gameplay are expected from a game of its popularity, and Fortnite delivers on all fronts.

Best Characters: Overwatch

Overwatch was officially released to the public about three years ago ... although people have been playing it for longer than even that. First soft-launched (in closed beta) in 2015, Overwatch has been a mainstay of the current generation of consoles for quite a while now. And Blizzard, no stranger to supporting a game long into its life cycle, has felt no need to ever stop releasing new content, characters, and modes for Overwatch.

Now, some years later, the amount of pure content available to you within Overwatch is staggering. Still a multiplayer team-based shooter at its core, Overwatch now boasts an impressive amount of content for players to experience: dozens of maps, over thirty characters, and seven distinct modes, to name some. Even better? More content is still arriving at a steady pace for the game, and all of it is completely free to everyone. With so much to explore, it’s no wonder Overwatch remains one of the most popular shooters ever made.

Best Multiplayer: Call of Duty Black Ops IIII

Variety is the name of the game when it comes to Call of Duty: Black Ops IIII. Even with the developers at Treyarch foregoing a standalone campaign with the latest installment of their flagship franchise, you won’t be longing for content. There's enough to see, play, customize, unlock, explore, and share to keep you going for years. And that's before all the downloadable content in the pipeline.

Of course, there’s the flagship multiplayer mode, which is as polished and fun as ever. New additions this time around include predictive recoil and a specially enhanced ballistics mode, in addition to the change in the franchise’s standard regenerative health for a manual healing system. All these additions make for a more rewarding, engrossing experience. Combined with the return of the Black Ops series mainstay “Zombies” mode, and a full-fledged battle royale mode called “Blackout,” there’s more here than ever before for a Call of Duty title.

Best Tactics: PlayerUnknown's Battlegrounds

There’s a battle royale game for everyone, it seems, what with Fortnite’s more cartoony third-person aesthetic and Apex Legend’s fast-paced, sci-fi trappings. But for those looking for something a more traditional, you don’t have to look much further than the granddaddy of the genre itself: PlayerUnknown’s Battlegrounds (PUBG). Launched in early access in March 2017, PUBG set the foundation for the genre.

But while others have moved onto the supernatural, PlayerUnknown’s Battlegrounds sticks to what it knows, with boots-to-the-ground combat, driving, and first-person shooter mechanics. However, in a genre like this, less is truly more, and the pure visceral experience of playing Pis enhanced by this realistic, no-frills approach. And with the game still being updated with new content, maps, and graphical upgrades on a frequent basis, there has never been a better time to jump back into the militaristic world of PUBG.

Best Visuals: Rage 2

With its punk rock aesthetic and absolutely manic gameplay, Rage 2 has made a big impression on the first-person genre. Developer Id Software’s long-awaited sequel to the 2010 original is unlike any other shooter currently on the PlayStation 4. Its impeccable style gleams and oozes a funky good time, making it stand out amongst the crowd of more drab looking military fare.

In Rage 2, you play as a bespoke ranger who goes by the name Walker, fighting for survival in a world torn apart by an asteroid that ravaged the planet years earlier. Life is scarce, and what remains of humanity has been mutated into deranged mutants. Armed with telekinesis, not to mention a huge arsenal of weaponry and several vehicles at your side, it's up to you to keep some sanity in this deadly world.

Best Open World: Far Cry: New Dawn

Ubisoft took a big swing when it released Far Cry: New Dawn. Unlike the Far Cry games of old, this sequel/spin-off takes place in a nuclear apocalypse following the shocking conclusion of Far Cry 5. You're set loose in this new iteration of Hope County, as a character known only as The Captain, on a quest to restore peace and order to the new world. Cults run wild, survivors need your help, and there's always the occasional mountain lion or bear to fend off while completing side quests and collecting missions.

Unlike most other games that take place in the midst of nuclear fallout, the world of Far Cry: New Dawn is not a bleak and grey one. In fact, the natural environment of the world is thriving after the initial fallout, with new types of flowers and vegetation springing up all over the place. And with the game’s huge open world at your disposal, you’ll have plenty of time to explore every nook-and-cranny of the new Hope County as you work your way through the game’s various collection of criminal bandits, crazed cultist, and everything in between.

Best Co-Op: Destiny 2

The sequel to the loot-driven phenomenon Destiny, Bungie’s Destiny 2 once again throws you into a massive world of missions, weapons, and sci-fi cosmic enemies. Set in our solar system, your fireteam of three teammates quest to defend the last colony of Earthlings from evil alien menaces.

Building off the “shared universe” concept of the original game, you have the option to play the game completely PvE (player versus the environment) or PvP (player versus player), with both modes serving as a vehicle to reflexive gun handling and innovative RPG elements. However, the game truly shines the most in the PvE scenarios, in which you get to team up online with up to five other players in order to perform various mission and raids.

Best for Kids: Plants vs. Zombies: Garden Warfare 2

The breadth of shooters available on the PlayStation 4 aren’t just all gloomy, self-serious military simulators and mature shoot ‘em ups, or shmups. And for something a little more fantastical and kid-friendly, you can’t go wrong with Plants vs. Zombies: Garden Warfare 2.

A sequel to the original third-person shooter and a spin-off overall of the timeless Plants vs Zombies free-to-play mobile game, Garden Warfare 2 ups the ante from the previous entry in the franchise by adding new modes like Graveyard Ops, a Zombie-helmed take on the original’s Garden Ops, and Herbal Assault, which sees the zombies defending their base from a besieging horde of plants.

What to Look for in a PS4 Shooter Game

Free online multiplayer - Look for a PS4 shooter game that works online without PS Plus if you don’t subscribe to Sony’s premium online gaming service. Most PS4 games require an active subscription if you want to take them online, but there are some great options that let you play with, and against, your friends for free.

Virtual reality - If you have PlayStation VR, then you have to check out some of the great PS4 shooter games that are designed to work with Sony’s virtual reality headset. Playing a first-person shooter in virtual reality is a game-changing experience, and you can grab a PSVR Aim Controller for an even more immersive experience.

Open world - Most shooters are pretty linear in their campaigns, and multiplayer matches take place on relatively limited maps. If you want a break from that type of shooter, look for one that’s built on an open world, where you have a ton of freedom to go where you want and shoot what you want, on your own time.

#Plants vs. Zombies: Garden Warfare 2 #Destiny 2 #Far Cry: New Dawn #Best Visuals: Rage 2 #PUBG #Fortnite #Apex Legends

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laketaj24 · 7 years ago

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All The Stars Pt. 5

A/N: Firstly Thank you for 800 Followers!! Y’all are awesome! I really appreciate you all! I normally would have a Prompt List Celebration but I’m slacking on prompts now as it is! But if you have something in mind that you would like to see written send your requests HERE and I will add it to my queue. The taglist for this fic is still open if you would like to be added! And if you would liked to be removed say the word!

Catch up Here: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Warnings: SMUT. Language. 18+ Please.

T’Challa’s home is lavish, but you expected it being the King and all. The pictures didn’t do Wakanda justice. Your eyes watch fascinated as the flying vehicles float over head and you can’t stop smiling watching the children play below.

“You can sleep here if you want to, or we have lodging set up for you. The children are with their chaperones and all is well.”

“How was it growing up here? This place is magical.”

“Yes it can be.” He smiled. “I grew up doing what most kids do. I was nothing special. I swear it.”

But he was something special. He was a gentleman, and currently infatuated with everything that you were. “Tonight there is a fire ceremony I would like for you to attend with me, harvest and then I want to take you somewhere.”

“I’ll go wherever with you.” The words slip out and you feel the sting of embarrassment trace your face.

“Is that right?”

“Yes.”

“Perhaps we can be a little late for the ceremony.” His warm hands sink to the nape of your back and he snakes his arms around you pulling you against his chest.

“I’m definitely okay with this.” You beam. “I have a little ceremony I’d like to try on you anyhow.”

“Is that right?” He says again and it’s your favorite line feeling his cheeks lift against your neck as his kisses in small lines down to your shoulders.

“Oh, it’s more than right, your majesty.” You turn towards him peppering kisses down his chest lowering yourself to your knees admiring his abs and the way his muscles form that perfect V. You tug at his pants lowering them to the ground admiring all eight inches of him. It was true your appetite for him was insatiable, three times on the plane. One time on the floor and just a while back in the shower. You never wanted him to stop fucking you.

You take him in your hand pumping up and down rubbing your finger over his tip and then places your lips in it’s place. Your tongue swirls around it and then you take him to the back of your throat using your hand to steady your pace. Your jaws stretched as you take as much of him as you can take. T’Challa sharply sucks air though his teeth. Your mouth is like silk around him. He hits the back of your throat pumping in and out of your mouth gently. His hands fist your hair and he guides you steadily. Hearing his pleasure has you soaking again. You make this about him sucking and gripping him to get him there, but he stops you standing you up in front of him.

“We’re going to be late.” He says tossing you over to the wall. He quickly unties your robe dropping it to the floor. You’re naked in front of him and instead of being shy your confidence level shoots through the roof. You trail your finger down your chest, over your breast and down your stomach. Your fingers dips into your pussy and then back out. You drag it back up your chest leaving a glistening trail of your arousal. “But I really don’t care.” He says throwing his shirt to the ground. He’s in front of you lifting your leg and anchoring himself at your entrance. T’Challa slams into you fully. He pulls you down to meet his thrust quickening his thrusts and then slowing. He kisses you once rocking into you.

Your cries of pleasure are intense in his ear. You call him King, Daddy and anything else that can express how happy you are to have him inside you. “Fuck me harder.” You plea raking your nails into his back. He obliges fucking you so hard he loses his balance for second. He falls back but his strength catches you both before you tumble to the ground. He never misses a beat sitting in his desk chair allowing you to ride him. You slowly wind your hips on him resting your head on his as the friction rubbing your clit on him starts to take over you. He allows you to chase your ecstasy. You thrust your hips on him erratically until you come and your body shudders above his. He doesn’t gie you time to recoup as your clit still spasms he throws you both on the bed and he pins your legs to the bed as he goes into you relentlessly.

“You feel so good around me.” He whispers. Those words send you back towards the edge and you begin to moan until your moan turn into weeps of pleasure from coming over and over again. T’Challa comes pulling out of you spilling himself on your stomach soon after. He can’t breathe for a moment, his eyes are on you and yours on his, “So late.” He laughs.

“T’Challa!!!” The cheerful voice bounces off the walls and you quickly get out of bed hoping whomever it was hadn’t heard you two.

He dresses quickly rolling his eyes and fixing your hair. “I want this ceremony to continue after I kick my sister out of my house.” He disappears from the room for a while leaving you to look through your things.

You sift through your bag unpacking a few items and turning on your cell phone. And you see it:

Erik: Touching down in Wakanda in a few hours. Better see your ass there 😈

You don’t panic but you feel the rush of fear pushing its way in. How could he just disappear and then come back like he never left? Not this time. You couldn’t. And you wouldn’t. T’Challa was a good man, kind and polite and more caring to you than Erik had ever been. You sit on the bed thinking of a good response. But it’s no point in responding it was sent hours ago.

“Shuri.” T’Challa hits the corner seeing Erik and Shuri standing there bantering. It was always a banter between them. “Erik.”

“Cuzzo, what’s the word round here? You seen Y/N? I texted her hours ago.”

“She’s lodging here.” T’Challa clears his throat. “Where Have you been?”

“I gotta report to King T’Challa every time a leave the country now? I had some business to handle, mind yours.”

“Selling stolen artwork?”

“You said it, not me.” The menacing smile graced his face as he looked at your shoes on the floor. “She comfortable as fuck huh? Y/N!”

T’Challa notices you as you round the corner. Your eyes widen noticing him nod to Erik. “You have company.” He pauses and feels the tension build. “We can give you two a minute.” He says opening his door.

“Just a minute, I’m so fucking grateful.” Erik adds sarcastically before he closes the door and you two are left there.

There was a such thing as toxicity in a relationship. Erik was toxic, but for some reason you wanted to give him a chance even when he didn’t deserve one. He stands in the foyer of T’Challa’s home with his arms folded. There was no real way to explain what was happening between you and T’Challa besides the truth. One plane ride and four rounds of sex later, you didn’t even want to be with Erik.

Erik didn’t say anything once you finally reach him. His eyes just pour over you while he drags his teeth across those full lips. You’re quiet for a moment and then finally you speak. “Erik, why are you here?”

“Didn’t answer my messages?” Erik raises his eyebrow. “Been occupied?”

“Don’t you walk your ass in here accusing me of shit.”

“Oooo, we extra defensive.” He shakes his head

“Why are you here?” You say once more

“I gotta have a damn reason to see you now?”

“No.” You fold your arms and look down at the ground. Why was eye contact hard for you? He done this to himself. He pushed you there. “Where have you been? Why didn’t you call me? Why do you keep doing this to me?’ All of the questions come out rushed and you can’t help but to throw them all at him, you want the answers. You want to know why he can’t be loyal to you.

“Damn ma,” He steps closer and you step back. Erik notices turning his head slightly. “I see the king done gave you special treatment. What happened to the guest lodging?”

“I work with him daily so it’s just easier.”

“You work for him or on him? Do I look fucking stupid, Y/N?” Erik laughs half-heartedly, his head shaking uncontrollably as he looks you up and down. “I’ve been gone two fucking weeks and you just go off fucking the King. I ain’t good enough for you, huh?”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re fucking excused.”

“You disappeared ERIK! What the fuck was I supposed to do? I’m tired of waiting on your ass to act right. I can’t keep waiting on a fucking grown m-,” Your words are cut off as he walks over to you pinning you against the wall. You swallow hard looking up at him. There were certain lines that you can cross with him, you know it. You’d heard about his ex. You’d heard about the other exes. You bite your tongue, trying for once not to be the sharp tongue girl that dwelled inside of you.

“Two weeks and you fucked him?” You don’t answer as eh crowds your space. “He fucked you good huh?” He whispered running his lips across your ear. Your body is betraying you wanting to writhe against his hard body as he takes up every ounce of space you had. “He made them legs tremble and your breath stop.” Erik watches as your breathing slows and you can’t take your eyes off of him. You notice the claw necklace for the first time, similar to T’Challa’s but golden. “Nah, I know not.” His thick fingers lift the seam of your pants and you push him back. He doesn’t move but his hands fall.

“You don’t know shit. Did you want something? You think you could roll up in here and just win me back… Nah, I know not.” You say mocking him. “Get out of my way before I scream.” You threaten through clenched teeth.

“It’ll probably be the only time you scream in this house.” He steps back with a devilish grin plastered across his face and holds his hands up. “I like this you, this “new man, new me.” But you batshit crazy if you think he gone chose you over Nakia.”

“They’re over.”

“Like I said, batshit crazy.” He reiterates.

The door opens and T’Challa shoots you a worried look. “Are you done with her Erik? We have an opening ceremony to attend.” He sense the tension in the room trying not to be over protective but his weary look and impatience for Erik takes over.

“Yeah cuzzo! I’ll let you and your date kick that shit off.” He nudges T’Challa as he heads towards the door. “See you around.”

“Where did you get that?” T’Challa says pointing towards the clawed necklace. “Shuri had been looking for it.”

“Well, she didn’t look hard enough. “ He salutes him and looks back at you. “See you around.”

T’Challa is quiet once he leaves. You can’t figure out what it is but he looks worried. He taps his Kimoyo bead. “Okoye, was his necklace ever recovered?”

“No.” She pauses. “It explains how he survived. Are you dressed? The ceremony is in an hour?”

“I will be there.” He ends the call and you sit next to him on the edge of the bed trying to figure out the confusion. “Have you seen the dress my sister picked for you?”

“I have.” You beam. You take his hand in your playing with his fingers kissing each one. “You’re worried about something and I don’t want to go out of this place until you tell me. I know that’s asking much, but I don’t like you worried.”

He sighs. “Have you heard about my cousin and I? We aren’t best of friends, I love him though. I don’t trust him.” He explains but he doesn’t have to because you knew the feeling too well.

“I have heard.” You say simply.

“The powers of the King were not fully stripped from him, I fear.” He whispers as if someone is in the room. “That necklace around his neck was on him the day we thought he died. Then a month later he reemerges but he doesn’t want to fight me. He embraces it. He moved to Oakland, helped there, lead a normal life. And then two weeks ago he disappeared and reappears today with the necklace. We searched that river and couldn’t recover it.”

“So, what are you thinking?”

“That N'Jadaka is up to something.” He exhales. “And I’m going to have to handle it completely this time.”

Tagging: @wilddrabble @readsalot73 @kimistry27@sparklemichele@titty-teetee @amour-quinn@captstefanbrandt@valynsia @byzantium-glytch@suz-123@earthsmightiestasses@harleycativy@sunnyfortomorrow@sincerelysinister@pebblesz892@ceridwenofwales@ivarsshieldmadien@bang-kim-bap@samwinchxtr

#black panther #black panther x reader #black panther x woc #tchalla #erik killmonger x woc #erik killmonger #njadaka #michael b jordan #chadwick boseman #t'challa #laketaj24 #woc fanfic #woc reader #poc reader

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slightlyrebelliouswriter23 · 6 years ago

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Can you do 04 for the winter prompts x jurdan?? I'd love you forever.

so it’s been approximately 84 years since i received this ask, but it inspired me so much that it sort of spiralled out of control, and now it’s gonna be the start of a multichapter fic! thank you for your patience and for the inspiration 🖤💫