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pitviperofdoom · 3 years

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Me: I’ve got some time and motivation on my hands! Maybe I should work on one of my immediate projects, like putting the finishing touches on my RQBB piece, or making some headway on my TMA BB piece, or editing the next chapter of the DND AU...

Me: *writes a 5k opener for an au that’s basically The Owl House*

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“Again.”

Jon held still and kept his eyes shut. Everything ached, his head most of all; the slightest movement sent lightning bolts of pain through his skull. Even now it throbbed like a quiet threat behind his closed eyes.

“Get up, Jon.”

He couldn’t. He was done. Wasn’t that obvious?

“I don’t have time to indulge you. I know you can do more. Now get up.”

He couldn’t.

“Open your eyes, Jonathan.”

That was a simpler request, at least. He could do that much, couldn’t he? He could open his eyes. It barely counted as moving.

Dutifully, Jon forced his eyelids apart. Punishment was swift; this time the pain was so intense that he couldn’t even scream, only curl up tighter on the floor with a strangled whimper. The polished tiles were cold against his face, but they did little to soothe the ache. Warm liquid trickled from his closed eyes; when had he started crying?

Across the room, Jonah sighed. “Already? We’ve barely scratched the surface, Jon. I expected another hour from you, at minimum.” Footsteps echoed against the floor, and Jon tensed in spite of the pain, but the hands that picked him up were gentle. “Come now. Our work is too important for me to indulge you like this. For Titan’s sake, your endurance was better when you were a mere child.”

Jon kept his eyes shut, and hated the part of himself that wanted to curl up again, apologize, and promise to do better. The ache was beginning to recede, just barely, but he kept his eyes shut. If he opened them too soon, then Jonah would take it as a sign that he wasn’t as tired as he behaved.

“Can you make your own way back?” Jonah asked, steadying him by the shoulders. “Or do you need help?”

Jon’s blood ran cold. That was a dangerous question. If he chose to go under his own power, then Jonah might change his mind about letting him stop. But he didn’t want help. His limbs felt like wet clay, and there wasn’t a single muscle in his body that didn’t hurt, but at least they were still his.

“I—” HIs voice cracked in his dry throat. “I can—I can make my own way. Th-thank you, Jonah.” He held his breath.

After far too long for comfort, Jonah sighed again, heavy with disappointment. “Alright, Jon. Get some rest. We’ll do better in the morning.”

“Yes, Jonah,” Jon replied, faint with relief, and waited.

He was met with silence.

“Have you changed your mind?” Jonah said, after a moment. “If you’d like to continue…”

“No,” Jon replied. “No, I’m—thank you. For letting me stop. Just…” He held his hands out in a blind plea. “It’s my eyes, so I need…”

“Ah, of course, how could it have slipped my mind?” He heard a faint rustle from Jonah’s robe, before warm, smooth wood was pressed into his waiting hands. Jon swallowed another sob of relief. “There you are, then.”

“Thank you,” Jon repeated, and turned toward where he hoped the exit was.

The shape in his hands shifted. Smooth wood became downy softness, before the feeling left his hands and landed gently against his face. Soft wings brushed his cheeks, tiny legs grasped the bridge of his nose, and the world returned to him.

He hadn’t opened his eyes, but he could see the room once more: the library’s main room, a vast space where he and Jonah did most of their work. He could see Jonah as well, watching him with the weary patience of a parent indulging a child’s tantrum.

Jon looked away, muttered his thanks again, and limped out of the room.

Even with a closed door between them, the weight of Jonah’s scrutiny never left. Not helping the matter was the wallpaper that, currently, was openly tracking his progress through the countless eyes hidden in the intricate pattern.

That was the downside to navigating with these eyes; when he used his own, he couldn’t see the Beholding that soaked every nook and cranny of the manor. At least then he could pretend that closed doors and distance meant something.

It was a long way from the research wing to his quarters—their quarters—and Jon had to pause several times for a moment’s rest. By the time he reached the last flight of stairs, he was shaking from exhaustion, and strongly considering the benefits of simply curling up in a corner of the hallway and falling asleep on the floor. Jonah certainly kept the carpets plush enough.

His borrowed vision went hazy for a moment, and soft wings beat gently against his face. Jon braced himself against the wall as another powerful headache washed over him, closed eyes be damned. His face was wet with tears again.

“Alright,” he murmured. “Alright. Just a bit farther.”

The mask of wings left his face in a sudden flurry of beating, leaving him blind again. Jon bit back a cry of alarm and stayed where he was, leaning against the wall. He wouldn’t leave—surely he wouldn’t. He’d be back. Maybe he was just…

Before he could work himself into a proper panic, he heard the door at the top of the stairs creak open. Familiar footsteps came tumbling down the steps.

“Fuck, Jon,” a familiar, wonderfully welcome voice breathed out, and Gerry caught him before he could fall.

Jon made the rest of the journey leaning heavily against him, blind and trusting. He could feel gentle puffs of air against his face, fluttering wings that didn’t quite touch, and smiled gratefully.

Eventually Gerry deposited him in a chair and went to retrieve something—from the potions stand, going by the clatter of glass vials. Less than a minute later, one of them was pressed into his hand.

“Here. Need help drinking?”

Jon shook his head. “I can manage. Thanks.” He downed the potion and was rewarded by a receding headache. His eyelids were so sticky that he had to massage them open, and his vision came back in blurry patches, one piece of the room at a time: A single table and chair by the kitchenette. Two beds shoved together in the far corner. The sparsest alchemy array on the Isles. Gerry's face, watching him with open concern.

"Do you know how much you lost?" Gerry asked.

"What?"

Gerry gestured to his face, and Jon mirrored the motion until he found rough, sticky stains streaked down his face. He was confused until some of it crumbled off at his touch, and he looked down to find flecks of congealed blood clinging to his fingertips. "That's probably not good."

"Yeah, Jon," Gerry sighed, short and forceful with held back anger. "Probably isn't." He moved off to the kitchenette, and returned moments later with a damp towel.

Jon cleaned his face, sighing in relief at the coolness against the lingering ache. He put the now-soiled towel aside, eyes finally clear, and caught the briefest glimpse of amber eye spots on coppery wings before their owner alighted gently on the side of his head.

"Yes, of course," he said, reaching up to stroke one of the moth's large downy wings. His familiar nuzzled his finger in return. "Thank you, Atlas."

"He alright?" Gerry asked grimly, already checking the moth for any sign of damage.

"Jonah had him for the entire session," Jon replied. "No overt threats today, he just… didn't let him go until we were finished. So. Could be worse."

"Could be a lot better," Gerry muttered.

It will be, he carefully didn't say. Soon, it will be.

It wasn't safe to talk like that. Not here. Not yet.

After Gerry coaxed food into him, Jon crawled beneath the covers and curled up as small as he could manage. Patched and mended blankets didn’t offer any more protection than the walls of this place, but huddling in the dark made it easier to pretend that Jonah couldn’t see him here. It was the only way he could make himself sleep, these days.

When he awoke to Gerry’s gentle shaking, Jon found that he hadn’t moved so much as a finger in his sleep.

Without a word, he slipped out from under the blanket. The light in their quarters was dimming as twilight approached. Gerry barely glanced up from the book he was reading at the table as Jon shuffled to the kitchenette and the kettle.

Casting the spell was a simple matter of well-practiced sleight of hand, disguised beneath mundane activities. One spell circle traced idly by Gerry’s finger against the page as he turned it, the other drawn in the air as Jon waved away the steam. They never did it the same way twice, nor with any regularity by day or week or month. If it became a pattern, then Jonah might catch it.

The spell slipped into place smoothly, with none of the clumsy ripples of their earliest attempts, and Jon let out a shaky sigh. They had to assume that Jonah was always watching—but now, if he was, all he would see was Gerry reading at the table, and Jon drinking tea at the kitchenette. It was a routine they had set long ago. It was exactly what Jonah would expect to see.

Titan willing, it would be enough. They couldn’t afford to slip up now.

“It’s almost ready,” Gerry assured him. “Everything’s in place. All we have to do is wait for the moon’s alignment to power it.”

Jon ran his hand absently over his arm, scratching at the pockmark scars that dotted his skin. Some of the ingredients had cost them dearly to procure. They likely wouldn’t get another chance on any of them.

When he looked at Gerry again, his friend was watching him with something indescribably soft in his face. “It’ll work, Jon.”

“And if we’re caught?” Jon blurted. “We can’t hide this ritual behind false visions. He’ll sense it no matter what his eyes tell him.”

“Once it’s cast, it won’t matter,” Gerry said with grim satisfaction. “We’ll have our out. And where it leads, Jonah won’t have any of the power he does here.”

Jon took a deep, shaky breath, and nodded. His hands curled and uncurled at his sides, nails digging deep into his palms.

Gerry’s eyes never left him. “What’s on your mind?”

Swallowing against the thickness in his throat, Jon struggled to find an answer. “Is it—is it wrong that I’m afraid?”

“Jon, no—”

“I didn’t want to be here,” Jon went on. “I never wanted—ever since I came here, I’ve wanted to leave. And now we finally have a chance. Why am I afraid?” Gerry opened his mouth like he was about to reply, but Jon couldn’t have stopped himself if he tried. “It’s not like I’m safe here. Today wasn’t even that bad, compared to… it wasn't that bad.” A bitter, ragged laugh tore itself from his throat. "He pushed me until I bled from my eyes, and he was happy to keep pushing, and all I can think is it wasn't that bad. Why am I afraid to leave?" His voice trailed off. Atlas’s wings fluttered against his head, mirroring his agitation.

Instead of answering, Gerry held out his arms. Jon walked into them without hesitation.

“You were a kid.” With his head on Gerry’s shoulder, his hand to his heart, and Gerry’s arms holding him close, Jon felt surrounded by his friend’s voice.

“I was nearly eighteen,” Jon protested. “Hardly a child.”

“I’m just saying, you’ve been here too long not to be scared of what’s out there,” Gerry reminded him. “And it’s not like we’re escaping out the front door. We don’t really know what we’ll find on the other side.”

Jon’s hand curled into a fist against Gerry’s chest, and his other arm tightened around him. If they did this right, then their exit strategy would dump them into an entirely new world, of which Jon had only ever read old books or heard second and third-hand stories. A fresh wave of apprehension seized him.

Not for the first time, he let himself be desperately, pathetically grateful that he wasn’t doing this alone.

“Can you keep it together?” Gerry asked, still quietly gentle. “I just—I know you’re scared. I’m scared too. But I can’t do this alone. This is a two-person job at least, and—”

“Of course.” Reluctantly, Jon pulled back to look him in the eye. “I’m not going to give up at the last moment. You can rely on me.”

Gerry smiled. That was a rare thing, these days. All the more reason not to lose his nerve. Once they got out, Jon was going to spend the rest of their lives giving Gerry every reason to keep doing it.

“I know,” Gerry replied. “Now come on. Let’s finish prepping before we run out of twilight.”

***

“You know,” Gerry whispered late at night, as Jon settled himself into the curve of his body. “By the time I left home, I’d passed up five chances to escape.”

Jon listened in silence. He was never quite sure what to say when Gerry talked about how he grew up. Nothing felt like the right thing to say. Luckily, Gerry never seemed to expect him to say anything at all.

“Those are just the ones I was looking out for, at the time,” Gerry went on. “Couldn’t tell you how many I just didn’t see.”

“You were a kid,” Jon murmured back.

Gerry scoffed into Jon’s hair, and Jon smiled. “Don’t you turn my words back on me. How dare you.” A moment later, “But… you’re not wrong. I was a kid. She was all I knew. I didn’t know who I was without her.”

Safely out of Gerry’s line of vision, Jon allowed himself a thoughtful frown. It was different for him, wasn’t it? Gerry had been born his mother’s son, but Jon had been someone before he was Jonah’s… whatever he was. Student, research assistant, test subject, prisoner.

Before, he’d been the son of parents he barely remembered. He’d been the grandson of a woman who did her best until he drove her to give up on him, and a coven leader came to her with a kind smile and a promise to take away her burden. And now…

And now he wasn’t any of that. Because there wasn’t anything for him to go back to. The only way out was forward, into the unknown.

“I figured it out in the end,” Gerry told him. “You will too. I know you will.”

“I might need help with that,” Jon admitted. “I could use your expertise.”

A soft huff of laughter jostled him. “I’m gonna be in the same boat as you, you know? I’ve never been to the human world.”

“You still know more about it than me,” Jon pointed out.

Gerry was quiet for a moment. “He didn’t tell you anything?” he asked eventually. “It didn’t take much to get him talking, when I was running around with him.”

“Only a few things. His family, his brother, some of his favorite foods. It was all we had time for before we parted ways.”

“Ah, that’s a shame,” Gerry sighed. “The human world sounds amazing—if even half the things he told me about were even real.”

Jon laughed softly. “I know what you mean. Can you imagine someone actually swimming in the ocean? It would strip the flesh clean off your bones.”

“Not if the water’s cold and non-corrosive. Which it apparently is. People swim in the ocean all the time. It’s a thing. They take their kids and everything.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it.” Jon stifled a yawn.

“It was weird, you know?” Gerry went on. “The things he’d talk about like they were nothing. Sometimes he’d say just the wildest thing, and he’d look at me like I was crazy when I didn’t know what the hell he was talking about.”

“Like what?”

“Hmm… trying to think of one I haven’t told you before…” Gerry hesitated. “Did I tell you about how mornings in the human realm just… make water?”

“You mentioned something about the rainwater being cold,” Jon replied.

“No no, this is different. Titan, how did he explain it…” Gerry hummed thoughtfully. “Something about how, when it’s cold enough, everything’s covered in little droplets of water in the morning. The air just… does that. Makes water out of nothing.”

“I’m sure there’s more to it than that.”

“Can’t remember,” Gerry admitted. “He showed me a picture, though. Water droplets on a spiderweb. Looked like tiny little diamonds. Dunno what kind of face I was making, but he laughed at me.”

“Rude,” Jon murmured.

“Still not sure I believe it.”

“Maybe we’ll see it for ourselves. One day.” One day very, very soon.

Gerry’s only reply was to run gentle fingers through Jon’s hair, again and again, until Jon finally fell asleep.

***

The moon sat at its apex, round and bright and wreathed in blue fire that seemed to dim the stars around it. It was the first thing Jon saw when Gerry gently shook him awake.

He stirred, wincing when his movements jarred his injuries. Most of the day had been devoted to Jonah’s experiments, and Jon had fresh wounds to prove it. The burns on his face would heal without scarring, but his right hand was still wrapped in liniment-soaked bandages. Jon avoided putting any weight on it as he rose to a sitting position and pushed back the blanket. The sight of the moon, burning brightly in celestial alignment, chased away any lingering weariness.

They cast their usual cloaking spell with less caution than usual. It was only a stopgap measure at best, a few minutes’ safety to get everything in place. The table, chair, and alchemy set were pushed aside to clear the floor. With steadier hands—Jonah had been focused on Jon today, leaving Gerry a day of respite—Gerry borrowed Jon’s staff to draw the circle. Atlas alighted on his place at the top of the staff, colors fading as he shifted back into wood, and the symbols glowed brighter. Jon fetched each component from their hiding places around the room, and began laying them out amid the lines that Gerry was tracing.

They worked quickly, not speaking, barely breathing. For all their planning, there had been no time to practice. They would get only one chance, and no more.

And so, there was no time or opportunity to brace themselves before Gerry drew the last line, and Jon poured the last drop of Titan blood, and the circle caught the moonfire blazing through the open window.

The spell ignited, and the sheer force of clashing power nearly knocked them both off their feet. Their flimsy cloaking spell shattered, exposing them to Jonah’s sight, but it was far too late to turn back.

Jon had barely regained his footing when his own magic, coursing through the spell circle alongside Gerry’s, was caught in the moonlight’s amplifying effect. For a single, glorious moment, for the first time in years, Jon felt magic—wild magic, covenless magic—coursing through him. He smelled fire and earth and sea air, felt wind against his face, sensed the distant light of stars above them, tasted blood in the back of his throat as drumbeats pounded in his ears. Every sensation rushed him at once, melding together into a storm of color and music. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever felt.

And then the coven brand on his arm blazed, burning away the storm until only the Beholding remained.

It seized him mercilessly, knowledge clamoring its way into his head all at once. It was a confusing mess, so many sights and sounds and thoughts that he couldn’t have picked out a single one among them. But in the end he adjusted, the stream became more focused, and his mind was his own once more.

At the center of the circle, a seam formed in the fabric of the world. It split neatly down the length of it, opening wide into a ragged doorway.

Jon’s heart leapt. They had been planning this for years, researching in secret, sneaking and lying and stealing to get the components together, and yet—only now did he realize that he had never expected it to actually work. The fact that it had, that freedom lay only a few steps from where he stood, was as exhilarating as it was terrifying.

Jonah was on his way, he realized absently. It wasn’t just the inevitability of it; even without his focus on the river of knowledge flowing through him, he couldn’t help but catch a few drops. One of them showed their captor flying up the stairs toward their quarters, wild-eyed and intent.

“Gerry,” he said. “We have to—”

Another scrap of knowledge slipped into his mind, like a dagger between his ribs.

“Jon?” Gerry’s voice sounded far away. Everything was suddenly muffled, even the portal. Even the Beholding, swollen with moonlight, felt far away. The whole world was contained in a single, inescapable truth.

“We can’t.” The words slipped from Jon’s mouth. His hand closed on Gerry’s arm. “Gerry, we can’t.”

“Jon, let go, the portal’s right—”

“It won’t work.” Jon squeezed his arm. “It won’t—there’s not enough power. It’s not stable enough for both of us. As soon as one of us goes through, the spell will fall apart and the portal will close. It won’t work.”

Gerry stared back at him, face suffused with dismay.

Dismay, but not surprise.

Jon’s heart sank like a stone in mud. “You knew.”

“Jon, there’s no time for this, now let go—” He was pulling away, prying Jon’s fingers from his arm, and the portal was within his reach, and Jonah was so close to their door.

“You knew,” he repeated. “How long have you known? How long have you been lying?”

“I had no choice!” Gerry shouted over the crackling, ringing din of the spell. “There was no other way! What was I supposed to do, sit here while both of us wasted away? What other chance was either of us going to get?”

The worst part was, Jon couldn’t bring himself to be surprised, or even all that angry, really. Of course this was going to happen. It was simply the culmination of his entire life, thus far. His parents, his old friends, his grandmother—and now Gerry.

Maybe it was just his lot to be left behind.

Across the room, the door rattled. Jonah called to them from the other side. Jon barely heard either.

“I…” His throat grew thick. “I understand.”

“Jon, I’m sorry,” Gerry said desperately. “I wish there was another way.”

“No, I—” He really shouldn’t be crying. This was a happy thing, after all. Gerry was going to be free. “At least—even if it’s just one of us—”

Gerry smiled through his own tears. “I’m really gonna miss you,” he said.

“It’s not fair,” Jon blurted out. “We were supposed to go together. We were supposed to see it together!”

“When has any of this ever been fair?”

Tears gathered in his eyes until Jon blinked them away. His last sight of Gerry should be a clear one. “Please don’t forget me.”

The door rattled again, and Gerry choked back a sob. “Fuck. I could never. You’re not the sort of person anyone just forgets.”

Before Jon could reply, Gerry lunged forward. Not toward the portal, not toward freedom, but to Jon. The kiss was fast and clumsy with desperation, but the hands against the sides of his face were ruthlessly gentle.

“I love you,” Gerry whispered. “Don’t look back.”

Jon blinked back his tears, confusion cutting through the grief. “What?”

Gerry curled Jon’s hands around the staff and threw him into the portal.

He fell through the riot of color and music, too shocked to scream as the image of Gerry shattered into pieces above him. The light winked out, and Jon fell into the emptiness alone.

***

Jon landed hard, though not nearly hard enough for how long he must have been falling.

He lay in darkness and silence, wheezing softly as he regained his breath, gripping his staff until his fingers went numb and his injured hand screamed in protest. The air was cold and smelled stale. The light show from the portal was gone, but he could still feel its power humming beneath his skin, threatening to burst free.

After a while, Jon gathered himself enough to roll over. The floor felt like stone beneath his hands, relatively smooth but unpolished. With a grunt of effort, Jon planted his staff on the ground and pulled himself to his feet. It was too dark to see well when he opened his eyes, so he felt along the length of the staff until he found the shape of wooden moth wings at the end.

“Atlas?” His voice rasped in his chest. The wood turned to soft chitin, and Atlas took off from the head of the staff to flutter in frantic circles around his head, buffeting him gently when he flew too close. “Yes, yes—it’s alright. We’re alright.”

Atlas landed on his shoulder, and Jon’s eyes adjusted.

Was this the human world? For all he knew, the portal might have simply dropped him elsewhere in the demon realm. He was in a room, possibly a basement, judging by the clutter. Boxes sat in stacks and piles, some of them too full to close properly. Indistinct objects sat against the walls—an old mirror, frames wrapped in thick brown paper, a tall wooden clock that didn’t seem to be working. A thick layer of dust blanketed everything, untouched by fingerprints or footsteps.

He was alone.

Of course he was alone, he’d seen the portal break apart as soon as he fell into it, with Gerry still on the other side. Jonah had been seconds from breaking the door down, and now—

A harsh sob took him by surprise, and tears blinded him all over again.

Jonah had never set a clear punishment for escaping. And now, whatever it was, Gerry was facing it alone.

They weren’t supposed to be alone, they were never supposed to be alone. It shouldn’t have been him going through the portal, it should have been Gerry, why couldn’t have been Gerry, why couldn’t Gerry have been selfish for once in his life—

A distant scream rang out, shocking him out of his tears. Jon stared around, wide-eyed and searching, but the room was still. Then the ceiling shook with a crash, drawing his eyes upward.

“It’s above us,” he murmured. “Stairs—we need to find stairs.” Atlas took off from his shoulder, eye spots glowing in the gloom.

With an extra set of eyes, Jon found the stairs within a minute. He ran up them, his brand warming as he loosened the leash on his swollen magic. The door at the top of the steps was locked, but he Knew within seconds where to find a key. Atlas vanished from his side and returned moments later, clutching it in all six of his legs.

The door opened to an unlit hallway. Jon hesitated, took one last look back at the dark and cluttered basement, and hurried on.

He could hear more, now that he was really listening for it. Running footsteps, multiple sets by the sound of it. Shouting, always muffled and bitten-off, as if whoever was doing it was trying very hard not to. There were people in trouble—this was the human world, wasn’t it? Was it as hostile as the demon realm after all?

The hallway ended and took him up another flight of stairs. He expected to see light at some point, either artificial or from the windows. The last time he saw the moon, it had nearly blinded him. But instead, the darkness of the stairwell only seemed to grow thicker as he ascended, and reaching the door at the top did nothing to abate it.

At the very least, what he could see of the room he stepped out into looked more like the ground floor. There were proper floorboards, high ceilings, and windows that only showed faint outlines of trees against a dark, starless sky. The house was unlit, and his eyes refused to adjust. Jon drew a quick spell circle on his forehead with one fingertip, and magic poured into his eyes to light the way.

Shouting rang out again from somewhere above. Jon raced to follow it.

Around him, the house was in the slow process of falling apart. Ornate wallpaper hung faded and peeling, shreds of old rugs showed the ragged remains of color and embroidery, and broken shards of wood protruded from walls and doorways alike, as if any ornamentation set into them had been ripped out long ago. This must have been a fine-looking house once, but now it was a crumbling wreck.

Eventually the hallway opened up to another dilapidated chamber, this one a rotting front hall with its doors still standing ajar. Opposite them, the sagging remains of a grand staircase led up to another floor.

Jon had nearly reached the foot of it when he spotted movement at the top of the steps, and his vision went black.

For a split second he thought he’d lost consciousness, but the floor remained firmly beneath his feet. His breath came in short bursts of alarm as he drew another spell circle for sight in the darkness, to no avail.

Jon settled his grip on the staff, wincing at the pain in his burned hand. The bad news was, nothing that simple was going to let him see through this darkness. The good news was, it meant he knew what he was dealing with. He should have figured it out as soon as he left the basement and saw how dark it was. Stupid.

He could hear the others. Their running footsteps had fallen still, but the sound of panicked breathing was unmistakable. Someone was whimpering in pain with each breath. Someone else was whispering frantic reassurances. The darkness swallowed up everything else.

Jon hardly had to reach for his magic. It was brimming all the way to the surface, swollen from the storm of half-wild magic that had brought him here. When he drew a spell circle in the air with a tight whirl of his staff, it all came boiling up and out like a geyser.

Eyes opened everywhere—in Jon’s face and neck, along the length of his staff, in Atlas’s wooden face and wings, and in the choked air all around him. The darkness burned away as quick and clean as thin paper, revealing the scene before him.

There were three people now at the foot of the stairs, in such a state of panicked disarray that Jon could hardly tell whether they’d run or fallen down them. The larger of the two men had the others pushed behind him, backing away from the creature that menaced them, all three of them too frozen in terror to even attempt to cast a spell.

In spite of the glowing eyes that lit the room, a single wriggling mass of darkness remained, crawling and twitching toward its prey with wispy feelers that reached out to touch them. Sour air wafted from its body, filling the room with the smell of rot.

An acid shade. Nasty, hateful things that hunted prey by blinding it, then dissolving it while it was still alive. One touch was enough to melt the skin off your hand. Gerry still had scars from his last encounter with one.

Gerry.

The eyes blazed, and for the first time the brightness touched the shade’s slick hide. It recoiled, convulsing with a sound that was not a scream, but close enough.

Jon didn’t remember crossing the room, but he stood between the writhing mass of shadows and its would-be victims, so he must have. Fear warred with wild, directionless anger. He missed Gerry and hated Jonah. He remembered the feeling of lips on his, and the sight of his only friend weeping as his image shattered. Jon took all of it, gathered up every last drop, and poured it all into the merciless light of his swollen magic. He gave it all of himself, until it was blinding, until he could See every part of the room he stood in, down to every last crack in the walls, down to every convulsing wisp of darkness that made up the shade.

It let out another not-scream as it was utterly, agonizingly Seen.

And then it was gone, and Jon’s last drop of magic trickled out and left him hollow.

The darkness returned—not a demonic creature this time, but regular unconsciousness creeping up on him. He fought it as he turned and looked back at the faces of the people he’d saved. A round-faced man, so pale that his freckles stood out in his face; a woman with wide eyes and dark hair in disarray; and the second man clutching a corrosive burn that covered his arm, whose face—

—whose face Jon recognized.

“Danny?” Half-blind, Jon struggled to focus as the world grew smaller, and the darkness overtaking it nearly obscured the look of shock on the man’s face. “You found your way home?”

He lost his grip on consciousness before he could hear the answer.

#the magnus archives #tma #jongerry #tma fic #tma isekai au #fanfiction #tales from the pit

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suttttton · 3 years

Text

An Invitation

How do you get Jonathan Sims to go on a date with you? Easy. Step one: Trick him by giving him a fake statement filled with puzzles that lead him to the date location of your choice. Step two: Profit?

---

“Jon,” Sasha says, leaning against his desk.

“Hmm?” He doesn’t look up from his work.

“D’you want to get lunch with me today?” she asks. It’s just a casual question. They’ve gotten lunch together before, and she knows that Jon won’t interpret her question in a romantic way, but her stomach still thrums with nervousness. It’s… different, now that she’s decided to let herself have a crush on him. Now that she’s decided that, eventually, she’ll ask him on a real date.

He doesn’t even look at her, just shakes his head. “Can’t, I’m a bit swamped this week. I’ve got a lot of—things…” he trails off, drawn back into his work. The exciting world of follow-up research. She stands there for another minute, just watching him, knowing that he has forgotten her entirely. It’s one of those things that should be annoying, but is really just… deeply endearing. Ugh.

She’s going to ask him on that date soon.

***

When she asks Jon out, she tries to be obvious about it. Jon has a hard time reading social signals at the best of times, and she wants to make things easy for him. She’s not the most comfortable with grand gestures, but she’s got a bit theater kid in her yet, and she’s sure she can make it work.

She finds Jon in the break room, eating a bowl of microwavable soup and staring blankly at nothing. Very adorable. She knocks twice on the table, getting his attention, and he blinks once and smiles at her.

“Jon, there’s something I want to ask you,” she says. She can feel heat rising in her face. God, this is about to be embarrassing. She really, really hopes he doesn’t turn her down. (Why would he turn you down, James? You’re a catch.)

She gets on one knee, takes his hand. “Jonathan Sims,” she says dramatically. “Would you do me the honor of coming to dinner with me on Friday?”

He looks at her, and his eyebrows furrow. “Sorry Sasha,” he says, “but I can’t. I requested some books, and they’re supposed to arrive Friday. I was planning to get started on them Friday evening.”

She sighs. She’d take it as a graceful rejection, if she hadn’t seen Jon reject people before. He got nervous and stuttery and hyper-apologetic. He doesn’t look at all uncomfortable now, just confused as to why she’s on the floor.

He doesn’t know that she’s trying to ask him on a date.

Later, replaying the scene in her mind, she realizes what the problem was. They were at work. Even with her making it as dramatic as possible, the environment was too casual. She asked him to do platonic activities with her all the time while they were at work—why would he assume differently?

She needs to ask him when they aren’t at the Institute, somewhere where she can make a whole presentation of it. She’ll buy him flowers, sweep him off his feet.

Except.

He keeps turning down her offers to spend time together. When he isn’t busy with follow-up, he’s busy researching the Leitner books. It’s… stupidly endearing. And unhealthy. Jon doesn’t look unwell, really, but he does look… stressed, hunched over his desk all day. Jon needs a break from work, not just so she can ask him on a date, but also so he doesn’t drive himself into a nervous breakdown.

Sasha hatches a plan.

***

It doesn’t take long to put together. Just an evening, researching cryptic puzzles, scouting out locations that aren’t too far from the Institute, writing a nonsensical statement in the ‘I saw a ghost in a graveyard and it was spooky’ vein.

The only problem is how to get the fake statement into Jon’s caseload without him noticing. She can’t just drop it on his desk, not with him there all day long. She could get Lydia involved, but she isn’t sure the Head of Research would approve of her plan, and even if she did, Lydia is a bad liar. Jon would know something was up.

In the end, Jon solves the problem for her. He leans back in his chair, hisses over to her, “Sasha! Swap with me?”

“Spiders?” she asks, and he winces, nods. She holds out her hand, and flicks through the offending file. It has all the hallmarks of a false statement, but—

“I felt thousands of legs swarming over me, filling up my mouth, my nose—”

She snaps the folder shut, wrinkling her nose. “No problem,” she says. She hands Jon the fake statement. “You can take this one, I haven’t gotten started on it yet.”

“Thanks,” he says, smiling. Her stomach flips, and she watches for a few moments longer as he gets to work.

***

It would be suspicious for her to be staring at Jon the entire time he’s working on the statement, so instead she just glances over every once in a while, making sure he doesn’t immediately drop the statement in the ‘discredited’ pile.

He doesn’t. Instead, his frown deepens as he’s drawn in, trying to figure out the puzzle she’s left for him. The statement is clearly fake, but a few of the words are—wrong. Nonsensical. Gibberish.

She sees Jon go over and over the text, marking every strange word. Then he picks up his phone, dials the number listed on the statement. It’s a disconnected number, and Jon’s frown deepens.

He thinks for a few seconds, tapping his fingers on his desk. Then he pulls out a notepad, begins writing on it, consulting the statement to transcribe the strange words exactly.

At that point, Sasha knows she has him. Jon loves puzzles, and now that he knows there’s a puzzle to solve in the statement, he’s not going to stop until he figures it out.

It’s a simple Caesar cipher, with the phone number as its key. It yields the message:

Here are the coordinates:

CH.HCGDHCGFYERE, -HB.KGICCECIF0WI

In order to crack the coordinates, Jon simply has to replace each letter with its numerical position in the alphabet. Jon is smart, he’ll figure it out. The coordinates belong to a cryptid-themed restaurant in America called the Moth Man Urban Legends Bar and Grille.

Once, the Moth Man Urban Legends Bar and Grill website landing page contained several blurry photos of “Moth Man,” along with a somehow even blurrier photo of a restaurant menu. Now, it’s a nightmarish jumble of the strangest stock photos Sasha could find, along with a single hyperlink that just says, “Click me!”

(Sasha included this step because she finds it deeply entertaining to watch Jon click on the shadiest links possible. It’s revenge for all the viruses she’s had to clean off his computer.)

The link leads to a much more tasteful webpage. It’s has a single picture of a rose on it, and below that it just says, “An Invitation”. Then it gives the address of a very cute little cafe just a short walk from the Institute. Beneath that, “Tonight. 7:00pm.”

It takes about an hour for Jon to figure out the Caesar cipher, and after that he works through the puzzle quickly. It’s a delight, watching his face when he sees “Moth Man Urban Legends Bar and Grille,” and even better when he sees the monstrosity she’s made of their website.

He clicks the link without even a second of hesitation, which almost makes Sasha laugh out loud. And then he’s just staring at the invitation. He opens a new tab, opens Google Maps, puts in the address. She sees the back-in-forth in his head—‘Tonight’ has probably long since passed, and he isn’t likely to find anything if he shows up at the cafe at 7:00pm tonight.

But Jon is stubborn, and if he doesn’t go ‘Tonight,’ it’ll eat at him. She’s trapped him. He’ll show up. She’s certain of it.

***

She debates for a long time if she should wear a dress, or a button-up shirt and tie. She decides on the tie. It has ferns on it, and she needs the calming vibes.

It’s starting to sink in, what she’s done.

Why didn’t she just say, “Jon, I am asking you on a date”? That would have been so much easier! Christ, she’s tricked her crush into going on a date with her. What kind of creep does that?

She’s terrified Jon will be angry with her. Or worse, hurt. This whole thing is technically a prank. What if Jon thinks she’s just… making fun of him?

She stops by a flower shop on her way there, and the shop assistant asks what she needs, and she’s so nervous by then that she actually says, “I tricked my friend into going on a date with me, and I need flowers that will prevent him from hating me forever.”

“Right,” the man says, uncertainly. “Well—” And then he makes Sasha a very, very nice arrangement because, unlike Sasha, he isn’t a complete mess.

Sasha arrives at the cafe thirty minutes early, because she knows Jon. She knows he’ll want to stake out the place ahead of time. She knows she has to arrive ridiculously early to beat him there.

But apparently, she’s underestimated him because he’s already there.

He’s seated at a table in the corner, where he can see the entire dining room. He’s still wearing his clothes from work, and there’s a pastry in front of him.

He’s watching the door, of course he is, so he sees her come in.

“Sasha!” he calls, waving wildly at her. It makes something pang in her chest, that Jon’s instinct upon seeing her in a public place is to excitedly greet her. She certainly isn’t that kind of person.

She smiles, walks over to him. Her fingers are curled tightly around the flowers, crinkling the paper just slightly.

“Do you have a date tonight?” he asks, looking her over, his eyes still flicking back and forth between her and the door.

“I hope so,” she says.

He frowns. “Are they late? Or—”

She hands him the flowers. “These are for you.”

He looks at them, bewildered, then back at Sasha. “What—”

“The invitation was from me,” Sasha says, sitting down across from him. “I faked the statement, and I made the puzzles.”

He stares at her for moment, then at the flowers, then back at her. She waits for him to yell at her, or run off, or—she doesn’t know.

Then he starts laughing. It’s—wonderful, when he laughs. He always tries to hide his face, and this time he decides to use the flowers for that purpose, stifling his giggles against the petals. “Sasha, I—I thought it was going to be the, the Mob, or something.”

Sasha can’t help but start laughing too. “You thought the Mob sent secret messages to each other using a Caesar cipher?”

“I don’t know!” Jon says. “This is—” He lets out a long breath. “Well, I did enjoy the—game, I suppose.”

They look at each other for a long moment.

“Wait,” Jon says. “So I’m your date?”

“If you want to be,” Sasha says.

Jon smiles. “I—” He laughs again. “Yes. Of course I do.”

#tma #tma fic #my fic #jonsasha #fluff #this idea grabbed me this morning and wouldn't let go until i wrote it #i just love Agent of Chaos!Sasha so much

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cuttoothed · 5 years

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tooth are you taking requests/prompts. there's absolutely no rush to get to this but in the vein of your other fic where jon realizes he has a crush on martin i would love a short ficlet from you where he realizes he capital L Loves martin, like straight-up "i cannot live without this man"-type realization, and it can come at any moment, really, no matter how inconvenient (fluffy or angsty, your call!!)

I am basically always taking prompts / requests. It may take me a hundred years to get to them, but my ask box is always open!

Only Grade A free range fluff for you today, because I am riding high on JonMartin feels. My most sincere apologies to anyone the Read More doesn’t work for, as I started and apparently could not stop.

Jon never should have let Martin drag him to a wedding. It’s for some distant Blackwood cousin, who Martin admits he wouldn’t be able to identify if she weren’t wearing a white dress, but it seems that it’s going to be a large affair, so everyone in the extended family has been invited. Jon knows how much family means to Martin, and Martin had asked him along with such earnest shyness that he couldn’t bring himself to say no.

Besides, he supposes, attending boring social events is one of the responsibilities of a good boyfriend. And Jon wants to be a good boyfriend to Martin, who deserves far more happiness than Jon will likely ever be able to offer.

Jon owns precisely one suit that is appropriate for a wedding, in light beige. Fortunately it still fits properly, and hasn’t been eaten alive by moths since the last time he wore it years ago. He looks, he supposes, respectable enough as he adjusts the jacket in the mirror.

“You look gorgeous,” Martin says, walking up behind him. His own suit is blue with just a hint of green, which contrasts wonderfully against his fair skin and hair. He places both hands on Jon’s shoulders, leaning forward to kiss his cheek.

“Oh, well,” Jon mumbles, flushing. Martin laughs.

“Come on,” he says, “We’re going to be late.”

The ceremony itself is fine, standard C of E fare with the usual readings about love being patient and kind and all that nonsense. Martin nudges Jon discreetly to stand and sit at the appropriate times, and they get through it easily enough. It’s at the drinks reception afterwards that the ordeal begins, because apparently none of Martin’s family have seen him in years, and every single one of them - particularly the older female relatives - absolutely has to meet Jon.

Jon nods and smiles through endless questions about how they met (at work) and what he does (same as Martin) and what his ambitions are (he doesn’t say saving the world). He shake dozens of hands and gets his cheek pinched by an octogenarian who tells Martin in an extremely loud whisper that this one needs feeding up. Martin laughs nervously and steers Jon away.

Dinner is almost equally painful, seated at a table with half a dozen people he doesn’t know, awkward small talk about how everyone knows the bride and groom, and how far they’ve traveled to be here. Jon directs his eyes to his plate, letting Martin take the social reins. He’s better at it, and he doesn’t mind, knows that events like this can be overwhelming for Jon at times. Halfway through the starter course, Martin’s hand squeezes his leg briefly, warm and reassuring, and does so several more times through the length of the meal.

The speeches come during dessert. It’s not traditional, but it does mean that the crowd are a lot more receptive, being full of food and alcohol as they are. Jon’s had a couple of glasses of wine himself, which is making the whole affair a bit more tolerable. The bride’s father stands up first, tells some long rambling stories and ends up with a toast to the couple and a hug from his daughter. The best man and then the maid of honor offer a selection of terrible jokes and bawdy anecdotes.

The bride gives a short, tearful thanks to all the family and friends that have come together to help them celebrate this happiest of days, tells her new husband how much she loves him with her voice cracking. And then the groom stands up.

“I used to think falling in love was like in films,” he says. “That it would be a thunderbolt out of the sky one day, and I’d just suddenly be in love. That’s just in films, though. Really, love creeps up on you. You meet someone, and you like them, and you want to get to know them more. You like being around them. You feel happy every time you think about them. After a while, you start to want to spend all your time around them.”

He pauses for a moment to collect himself, reaches a hand down to rest it on his wife’s shoulder, looking adoringly down at her as she looks adoringly up at him. He clears his throat and continues.

“You - you think it wouldn’t be so bad if you spent all your time together for the rest of your lives. It gets to the point that you can’t imagine what your life would be like without them in it. You don’t want to imagine it. What point did you fall in love with them? You can’t say. If someone asked you to pinpoint that thunderbolt moment, you couldn’t, not on your life. But you love them. You know it, sure as anything. It’s not like the films. It’s better.”

He sits down again as the guests clap and toast, and Jon feels a lump rising in his throat. His head is swimming, and not from the wine. Martin’s hand squeezes his leg again, and Jon looks over at him. He is, he knows in that moment, in love with Martin Blackwood. He has no idea when or how it happened, but it’s undeniable. The realization feels like he’s been hit in the chest with a hammer, and he gives a little breathy laugh. How did he not realize this before? How could he not know? Martin turns to him with a quizzical look.

“Everything all right?” he asks, and Jon can only nod.

After dinner the couple has their first dance to the strains of some 80s power ballad and then Jon clings to a table near the wall as the tipsy guests take to the floor. Dancing is not something he does. Martin stays near him, chatting to various family members and strangers he’s instantly befriended, making occasional attempts to include Jon in the conversation but not forcing him. Under normal circumstances, Jon would make more of an effort for Martin, but right now he’s still too stunned by his earlier revelation to be any level of social.

He can’t stop looking at Martin. It’s still Martin, looking the same as he always does, though rather dashing in his suit. But Jon just…can’t stop staring. I love him, he thinks. Then, daringly, I love you, and his heart races ridiculously at the thought.

After several hours the night starts to wind down, and the songs get slower as the rowdier guests begin to disperse. A crooning Motown number ends, and the next song starts up with a jangling guitar that Jon recognizes as the opening chords of Wild Horses. It is, he knows, one of Martin’s favorite songs. He sees Martin glance very slightly in his direction. Recognizes his expression as the one Martin wears when he’s trying not to get his hopes up about something. Right now, it is too much for Jon to bear.

He stands up, his heart pounding, and holds out a hand to Martin.

“May I?” he asks. Martin stares at him in astonishment for about two seconds, and then his face breaks into a smile of such absolute happiness it takes Jon’s breath away.

“Yeah,” Martin says, sounding a little stunned, and takes his hand.

Jon leads the way out onto the floor, his chest tight and his hands trembling. He has never in his life danced in front of other people, and certainly not with someone. He has no idea how to go about it. That doesn’t seem to matter, though, as he pulls Martin into his arms, feels Martin’s arms go around him in return, their bodies pressing close together among the other couples on the dance floor. Neither of them make any real pretense at it, just sway together to the rhythm, Jon’s head tucked against Martin’s shoulder, Martin’s cheek pressed to the top of his head. Jon’s mouth is dry, his heart racing. He licks his lips.

“Martin,” he says, “I, uh, there’s - there’s something I need to tell you.”

Martin pulls back a little to look him in the eyes, still moving them gently to the music. He doesn’t say anything, just waits patiently for Jon to get through what he’s trying to say. Jon takes a deep breath.

“I love you,” he says. Martin’s eyes go very wide, and terribly vulnerable, aching with emotion.

“Oh,” he says softly. Then: “I love you too. God. I love you, Jon.“

“Oh,” Jon says back to him. He doesn’t get to say any more as Martin leans down to kiss him, sweet and slow. Jon curls his hands in the back of Martin’s waistcoat, kissing him back with fierce joy. This man that he loves.

The song comes to an end, piano and guitar fading out with a final flourish. Neither of them notice.

#the magnus archives #tma #jonmartin #ficbits #my fic #answers

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lj-todd · 5 years

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PROMPT: #17, Viking AU: Gerold Dayne/Jon Snow

“Are you insane?!” Gerold shot his cousin and Lord a disgusted look, unable to believe what was being suggested. No. Not suggested. His cousin had already made up his mind. Had already decided. To buy passage through the North, to a trading port controlled by their family, from the Northmen who controlled the territory. The Northern King, Eddard Rickardson, had demanded a member of their party be given over to secure safe passage. Not even a hostage, the person handed over would never be returned, would be forced to remain in the North for the rest of their life.And, because he was not directly from the noble line of Daynes, Gerold had been the choice his cousin had made.“I refuse!” Gerold surged to his feet. “I refuse to be handed over like a gods-be-damned cow just so…”His words died off as a young man entered the hall. A young man with dark hair and pale skin and eyes like sea ice. He swore his heart skipped as he watched the young man, clearly one of the Northmen, crossed to where King Eddard sat with his eldest son, taking the empty chair to the King’s left.Gerold, despite his initial protests and refusals, remained behind when his cousin and the men moved on.

Being among the Northmen, he quickly found, was not as terrible as he had been expecting. They were a warrior culture and Gerold, savage as he could be at times, felt more at home with them than he ever had in Dorne.There was also the benefit of the young Prince.Jon, the young man’s name was, King Eddard’s son by some mystery woman, and, perhaps surprisingly, the commander of the King’s army, was probably the most beautiful thing Gerold had ever laid eyes on. There was something ethereal about the younger man. Something that drew Gerold like a moth to the flame.And he was not the only one.Jon, it seemed, found excuse after excuse to spend time with him. Even going so far as to teach him Hnefatafl, a northern board game that reminded him of chess, and one that, he had to admit, he was not particularly good at. But it made Jon smile to see him try and Gerold took a great deal of pride in that. Even if he lost every game the way Jon would look at him was worth it.It went like that until the first snows of winter fell, when his cousin and the man’s men returned on their journey home, and Gerold, dressed like the Northmen, had just entered the great hall when King Eddard took him aside and offered him the chance to return home, explaining that, even from the beginning, the plan had never been to keep him forever. It was merely a tactic to see which travelers would actually honor their word.Gerold had not hesitated. Had not flinched. Jon had already told him the truth, months ago, and now, hearing it again, did not change his mind.“I would rather stay,” he said. “But I have a request.”He honestly hadn’t expected the King to agree so easily and would later learn, after his wedding night with Jon, that the sweet Prince that he had grown to love, had convinced his father.“It wasn’t difficult,” Jon said softly, fingers dancing over Gerold’s chest lightly, the young Northman smiling contentedly where he was tucked against the former knight’s side. "I may be a bastard in all but name but I’m still his son. There’s not much he denies his children and as, again, I’m basically a bastard, I don’t pose a risk to my brother or his inheritance so letting me marry for love is not a risk.”Gerold hummed thoughtfully and kissed Jon, who whined sweetly and the older man grinned into the kiss before rolling them, pinning Jon to the furs again and proceeding to ravage his husband again.

#Anonymous #game of thrones #asoiaf #jon snow #gerold dayne #jon x gerold #au #alternate universe #viking!au #ficlet #drabble

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wickednerdery · 6 years

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Title: Return to Crimson Author: @wickednerdery Fandom: Crimson Peak Pairing/character: I’m not saying 😉 Rating: FRM Summary: “They say the past is never dead. It’s not even past. Do you think that’s true?” Notes: This picks up just after the last piece. (Here’s the masterlist.) Given this is based on Crimson Peak there will be spoilers. It will also be a Gothic horror story so have more than its fair share violence, sex, and scary bits without shying from the darker aspects of such things. For this it’s auto-rated FRM, regardless of the chapter, and gets a “Read More”.

It’s not a scream, it’s a screech. Something more solid than the woman from Thomas’ app, something less human than a full-grown man. It should compel her to freeze or run off, but instead Ellie charges into the nursery. She doesn’t think about the house, its history. She doesn’t think about Sir Thomas at the patio window or Lady Lucille on the piano. She doesn’t even notice the big, black, moths that fly out as she rushes in.

“Thomas?!” Heart pounds and eyes dart for danger, for a threat that could make the man shriek. She only sees him as he begins to melt from shaking to sheepish. His face goes red, he covers his eyes as he starts to chuckle. “What? What is it?”

“Blake.”

She creeps farther into the room, eyes narrowing. “Blake?” Who the hell’s Blake? And why can’t she see him when Thomas can? Are there other ghosts in the house, victims not recorded?

With continued embarrassment Thomas takes a stride, bends under an ancient desk, and scoops something off the floor. “Come on, you little bugger...” he teases, coos, as he lifts the kitten. “Ellie, meet Blake,” he smooths out fur matted with dust and bits of bug. “Blake, meet Ellie.” It mews, wriggles about until freed onto a table filled with odds and ends - books, papers, wooden toys in display boxes.

Ellie’s lit up face dims in puzzlement. “You said this room was locked.”

“Yes, which is why I’m still unsure how it opened.” Even he knew it couldn’t have been the cat.

“So...how did Blake get in?”

Thomas’ face fell all the more. In thought as much as worry. He took a deep breath. “If I...confess something, do you promise it won’t be the reason for your leaving?”

“I can promise, if you don’t, it’ll be the reason I leave.” Even the suggestion he knows something gives her shivers. Not because he might be holding back, but because he might confirm her suspicions. She can’t have that possibility dangled, then withdrawn.

He collects the cat once again, pets it to comfort himself. “The house breathes in the wind, bleeds in the rain and snow, and faucets run red when first turned on. I attribute all this to its structure, to the land, but other things...Windows and doors shuttered swing open, the elevator moves on its own, the piano does the same.” He sighs, looks at the cat, then back into her eyes. “That’s why the toys are locked up, they would play in the middle of the night. People couldn’t get any sleep...” Thomas’s face grows wistful. “I couldn’t get any sleep.”

She lets it in, the truth, the acknowledgement that, maybe, she’s not just imaging things or going crazy...The fact Thomas continues on at Allerdale Hall. “Why do you still work here?”

Lips turn up into a smile, spread into a genuine grin. “As much as it can unsettle me this house also feels...comforting. Familiar. Like I know it...or it knows me. I seem to be the only one able to manage it.” It wasn’t a brag, but a simple truth. There was high turnover for the staff here, only he held strong from day one of its opening.

They look at each other in silence, unsure what to say or do next. An urge wells up in Ellie to ask, beg, Thomas to leave though she cannot place her finger on why. They only just met, why the connection? Why does the thought of leaving without him cinch her stomach in terror as much as the thought of staying here with him?

Thomas’ focus remains on Ellie as the kitten slips out his hands to escape the nursery and down the dark hall. He doesn’t notice moths above whose wings breathe in threat or cherubs on ancient walls behind start to bleed...Ellie doesn’t either.

She notices only Thomas - his eyes, earnestly blue, and the deep pink of his lips. She notices the slight roughness of his hand as it takes hers, his height as he moves closer. She watches tongue flick out across his lips before teeth catch hold of the bottom set in insecurity. She feels her heart stutter and the world around her slow.

“They say the past is never dead. It’s not even past. Do you think that’s true?” He cannot find other words to describe this feeling; it is not quite déjà vu because it’s neither begun nor ended. It’s a connection he can’t fathom or ignore...just like the one he has with the house.

“Yes.” It’s an answer to his question as much as his desire. Her desire. This time no door or animal or undead thing can stop it; this time Ellie makes the move, closes the gap...

His once held breath fills her mouth, lips quiver against hers in the rush of connection. True connection, beyond the physical into something else. He holds onto her hand tight as if worried she may take flight without him. Ellie sighs as his free hand cups her cheek, moves in closer to set a hand over his heart. It races with hers and, as his tongue brushes along her lips, she sighs her pleasure and opens to it.

They float in the kiss, tongues dancing and bodies whirling until Ellie’s stopped by the table. Papers flutter, toys clank to life, but they carry on. She wraps arms around his neck, he takes her waist and hair. She parts thighs, he stands between them. They never let the kiss end, fearful of what happens once it does.

But it does. In the ding of Ellie’s phone, their lips finally part. They pant in time, eyes remain locked, souls still connected, until the ding comes again. Her eyes drop to check:

Do I need to send a search party? ;-)

Her sigh should be one of guilt, of regret for what she’s just done, but instead it’s disappointment. The real world calls, time to return to the present.

“I’m sorry.” Thomas knows, he steps back and regrets.

Ellie takes a deep breath, slinks out the nursery first. “I’m not.”

At least they got somewhere this time, am I right? Haha! Yes, in part I’m doing this for tortuously slow burn reasons, but also because, at the moment, it’s not realistic they’d just sneak off and fuck - both for their characters and for the circumstances, lol! (I’m hoping it’s obvious that the text to Ellie is from Jon, haha!)

Previously: Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6

Next: Chapter 8

(Gif found on Google)

Tagged: @zoesmama2024 @wadeyourebarelyalive @welcome-to-fangirl-hell @chibiyanai, @staria, @dusty-cookie, @j-can-right, @tarithenurse, @lokilicious-hiddles @tentacles-and-coffee, @aria-avimar, @ladydragonpurplefire, @insanecreativesecret, @annievvv7 @littledeadrottinghood, @themadandthemaverick @ktonastya @devilbat @magikat409 @nardo94 @the-feckless-wonder @blood-blood-galonsofthatstuff @creedslove @acupofhotlatte …I THINK I remembered everyone who requested/showed great interest and, either way, if you wish to be tagged in future pieces please let me know!

#sir thomas sharpe #thomas sharpe #lucille sharpe #lady lucille sharpe #crimson peak #allerdale hall #gothic horror #gothic romance #ghosts #spooky #kitty #oc #original character #fanfiction #my writing #not my gifs #Serial Killers

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