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honeycashmere · 4 years

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Love On The Brain

Warnings: Smut, face fucking, a little rough, angsty, a little possessive side to Chris

Summary: You ever been in a relationship where both you and your boyfriend have an attitude but love each other like crazy and sort of break up almost all the time only to make up all the time with some freaky sex? Yeah me too. Chris breaks up with unnamed ofc, a young feisty women. Her mind debates as she thinks of the time she was better on her own. After a stormy confrontation at her house she realizes a couple things...

Note: I posted this on my AO3 acct (@ goodonesgo) on August 14, 2017

It has been eight months since Chris broke up with me and within those eight months I found out, he began dating some no-name actress he was working with. He said it was because I was “too busy” and that going the distance would be “too hard right now” … Really? Real love is about sacrifices. I had to stand my ground which I’m sure no one he’s ever dated has done. I had to stand up for myself but I slightly bashed him in the process. Stating that I didn’t want to take a five month break to not do anything with my career like him. Yup I threw the shade. I mean I was a savage, not trying to be degrading just simply stating the facts. I was Miss Petty but what did he expect? I could’ve said worse. What little I said was enough to infuriated him. We knew how to push each other’s buttons when we wanted to.

Not only that but he knew what he was getting himself into. I’m working hard so hard right now to have stable future and to take care of my family for life. Money doesn’t just grow on trees. I mean, they do but they go through a lot to get into my pocket. I couldn’t stop my life and jump whenever he said jump. I know what you’re thinking, I sound like those crazy ambitious women who wear the balls in the relationship but that’s not the case at all. Yes it’s true, I want a long lasting career but in a relationship I want to take the back seat. I want to be taken care of because I spend a lot of time taking care of everyone in my life. Chris had brought so much happiness into my life and some stress when we broke up. I wish he was just more understanding. Maybe it was our age difference.

Every time I try to convince myself that I am not better on my own. That maybe just maybe I really do need someone to rely on, the world shows me something. Whether it was an ex friend’s true colors or another loser I had fallen for. The universe gives me signs. I’m better on my own. It was all unfair. Because if he were in my shoes and our relationship had to take the back seat so he could achieve his goals and dreams than I would of supported it. Instead he dumped me and within four months started dating his co-star on a new movie.

I had just finished a movie and headed home to my little place in LA. I was going to hang out with friends and possibly have a spa day tomorrow. After having to fly for over six hours, all I wanted was a pizza and a Netflix binge. It was 2 o’clock in the afternoon and I was already in my oversized t-shirt and shorts. I couldn’t be happier though. Sounds lame right? Honestly it is going to be the perfect Saturday evening with no interrupt-

Brrrp Brrrp

Shit. I forgot to turn off my phone. I quickly glanced down and saw his name. I feel myself freeze. We haven’t talked in months. What does he want?

Hey can we talk? Heard you were in town. This was 20 minutes ago.

The last text message said: I’m outside. 2 minutes ago.

I can’t believe this mother- I look out my window to see his car in my drive way. I went to open my door and muttered, “What the fuck?” as I saw Chris get out of his car. I stood in front of my door way, definitely dressed incorrectly to entertain a uninvited guest. “What do you want?” “No hello?” he brushed the back of his head with his finger tips looking timid as ever but then noticed my outfit or lack there of. He started looking me up and down.

(Just imagine Chris showing up to your house looking like THIS.)

“Hello. What do you want?” I repeated, this time trying not to sound too brash. He stood there tall, his hands tucked into his jean pockets, the fabric of his shirt tightened in right places, making his muscles visible even hidden under… Shit. I need to stop. “I just wanted to talk to you. It will be short,” he said probably trying to reassure my already suspicious thoughts. “Can I come inside?”

“Hmm short talks don’t usually mean an invitation inside someone’s house.” I couldn’t stop myself. I was always a smart ass which is why Chris liked me in the first place. I broke face. I slightly laughed after my own comment, letting him know it was kind of okay to come into my house. I’ll probably regret it later.

“I thought you hated me,” he said, taking a look around my house. “I’m just trying to be polite. Now tell me why you came here.”

Chris paused as he looked at a picture sitting on my bookshelf causing him to sigh. It was a picture of us and his family at Disney World. He stayed silent, looking at our photo. Probably remember the story behind it, filling his mind with nostalgia. Which he loved by the way. I interrupted his thoughts by casually saying, “I haven’t been home in months. I didn’t take anything down yet.”

He turned his head and looked at me. “That’s actually why I wanted to see you, I wanted to talk to you about everything. Life has been crazy.” I felt like I knew where this was heading. I couldn’t let him charm me. “You can’t do this,” I said crossing my arms. “You can’t end it the way you ended it and expect me to be your shoulder to lean on. We can’t be friends.” By the look on Chris’s face I could tell he was offended. “That’s kind of harsh.”

“Breaking up with me and dating someone you worked very closely with… Someone you told me ‘not to worry about’… is kind of harsh.” I knew that had to hurt a pinch if not a slap but it was the truth. When I found out… I couldn’t believe it. All my friends tried to convince me it was a ‘rebound’ girl but I knew better… He stared at me in disbelief that I went there. “Sooooo we can’t be friends?” His voice went up in protest.

“No, we can’t,” I said firmly. I began walking towards the front door. I was ready to open it and hopefully get him out of my house. Chris took a deep breath trying to calm his frustration with me. “After everything we’ve been through… I wanted to say I’m sorry. I made a mistake... We broke up already.” “I don’t see how that changes anything.” What does he expect me to do? Just pretend this didn’t happen?

“She isn’t you.”

I visibly roll my eyes at him. Did he really just- I can’t. Did he really just say that? My annoyance grew. I could feel the heat of my frustration grow within me. “Yeah okay but you did what you did, and it doesn’t change anything.” “Can’t you forgive me?!” Chris asked genuinely.

“It’s not that easy.” I can hear the sudden raise in my voice. I tried to calm it. I took a deep breathe and reached for my next word. "You made me feel really bad... for being driven. You know that’s who I am. I want a successful career before a family. I’m young and you made me feel bad for wanting what I want. Then you dated that bitch.”

“Yeah and you made me feel bad for wanting to spend time with my family and taking a break.” He returned the attitude.

There was a moment of silence. I mustered up the courage and walked towards him. “It’s over, I don’t even know why you’re still here. This doesn’t change the fact that you broke us up.” I whispered. I felt both of his hands grip my arms firmly. “But I want to fix this. I want this. I should of been more understanding. You were right, you told me from the beginning what you wanted and I stupidly thought otherwise.”

He reached for the back of my neck pulling me into his kiss. I gasp and try to fight it but I can feel myself wanting his lips against mine. A feeling of passion I missed. The smell of his cologne, his firm muscular body, even the touch of the fabric on his shirt made me want this all back. My body began relaxing, getting familiar with his again. The heat coming off our bodies. Come on, stop. I hear my internal voice say. I forced myself to pull away from his strong grip.

“You can’t do this,” my voice cracks. Oh god. I really didn’t mean to sound so vulnerable.

“I only love you,” he said.

I looked away from his gaze. I knew I still wanted Chris. What I didn’t know is if I’d be able to take him back that easily. But he left me high from one kiss, like inhaling the first puff of thick smoke. “I don’t know what you do to me,” I say desperately.

Within a second I was pulled into him by his strong arms again. He rested his forehead against mine, breathing me in, and holding me so tightly I couldn’t even push him away if I tried. I looked up, staring at those blue eyes that usually hid when he was hurt but they were as visible as ever.

“Please,” he whispered. I should of said “leave” or “go“ but all I could get out was, “Fuck.” His lips crashed into mine and my body was lifted into his arms. He carried me from my living room to my bedroom, it all felt so familiar to me. Chris laid me on to my bed, quickly climbing on top of me.

“You’re mine.” He face turns into a determined expression with a small smirk creeping.

“Wow,” I rolled my eyes and laughed at him only making him chuckle. His hand pulled away my shirt, throwing the fabric on to the floor, exposing my skin. He started running his fingers up my side which made me tingle surprisingly.

“You think I’m kidding?” He smirked, his voice became low. “You belong to me.”

I couldn’t help but grin. He did charm me again with his delicious determination. “Then fucking prove it,” I said.

Chris kept that smirk on his face, scooting lower, pulling my bottoms off so more skin would be exposed. He kissed my thigh. I felt his finger hooked my panties, pulling them off of me quickly. The urgency to feel his touch was overwhelming. I lifted myself up using my elbows to watch what he would do next. One hand caressed up my body towards my mouth. He let two of his fingers slip into my mouth, letting me suck and lick them. Moistening them as began kissing my other thigh.

Chris slightly caressed my opening before slipping his two wet fingers inside of me. He didn’t even wait for my to response, they were fully inside of me and I gasped at the feeling. I couldn’t even remember the last time we've touched. He moved his face closer to my clit. I could feel the heat from his breath on my skin. How I wanted him to fuck me soon… instead his tongue found it’s way to my clit causing me to let out a moan.

I tilt my head back enjoying the pleasure he was giving me. How I wanted him to leave, how I wanted him to stay. He knew what to do to drive me crazy… He worked fingers in and out of me. I could tell from his sensual movements that he was determined to make me cum. I felt another finger find it’s way inside me and I looked up at him in shock. I was enjoying the stretch. I orgasmed so fast. Panting, moaning uncontrollably, and then I laid there flat enjoying my endorphins as I was wildly aroused awaiting his next step. I watched him quickly remove his clothes. Chris came up to my face hovering over me with a satisfied boyish smirk. He gave me a quick kiss too.

My orgasm was so good I was ready to please him as well. “I want you to fuck my face.” His eye widen at his smirk got bigger. “And then I want you to fuck me.”

Chris eagerly stood on my bed as I sat up on my knees. His cock was already erect. Right in front of me. I look up at him smiling giving his head a lick before taking him in my mouth. I felt his hands already on my head guiding me before he started thrusting into my mouth. His pace was steady and my mouth became messy. All my moisture coating his cock as he fucked my face and some of it dripped out of my mouth. He would stop sometimes only to let me catch my breath but I was ready. I was ready to be fucked. I grab his hands from my head, moving them away as I laid on the bed on my stomach, turning my head to look up at him. I arched my back a little, letting my ass stick up a bit.

Chris came down, grabbing my cheeks and massaging them with his strong hands even giving them a kiss. “God I’ve missed this. Your ass is so beautiful,” he gazed at it before giving it a nice slap causing me grin because I loved the mixture of pleasure and a little pain. Het got behind me, rubbing the tip against my entrance before sliding into me where we both moaned experiencing our mutual pleasure. I keep my eyes on Chris as he begins thrusting deeply in and out of me. His lips pressed against my shoulder. He steadied his breathing making sure as he thrusted in and out of me that I really felt him. My body almost forgot how good his cock felt. It would even feel more incredible if I was on top of him.

“Get off,” I said. Chris looked confused but did as so. “Lay down baby.” He complied liking my change in mood. I give him a kiss before getting on him reverse cowgirl style. I knew he would enjoy the view since his hands touched my ass as soon as I slid down on him. I began grinding on him really letting his hard cock hit me in the right spot. From the feeling of Chris’s hands gripping my skin to his pleasurable groans I could tell he was enjoying it too. I throw my head back really riding him, taking my time to build my orgasm. God it felt so good. I could feel Chris’s hands slap my ass cheeks again. I knew he was close and being patient with me. Enjoying the work I was putting in until I felt him sit up, grabbing me on top of him. My back to his chest, my legs spread and his legs bent. He began thrusting into me, his fingers finding their way to my clit as he began to rub but he gets impulsive again. He changes the script and flips me over so I’m on my stomach. He pulls me up so my back is arched and our bodies reconnect as he starts thrusting harder into me. My hands grip the sheets, my mouth bites the pillow as I’m being fucked roughly by him. One of his hands pushed my head into the pillow with the grip of my hair and the other hand wondered my body. I feel him reach for my clit wanting to make sure I cam before him and when I did I screamed in orgasmic bliss. I laid completely flat, ready to pass out in that moment but Chris wasn’t quit done.

I look back at him, completely flustered with a happy grin. I could see in his eyes his concentration and steady pace. His chest was pounding and turning red. His body was glistening from sweat, his muscles were looking so… tight. I felt myself more turned on than before. “Fuck me harder. I want to feel you cum.”

Chris made eyes at me. Smirking at my directions but he did so. He. Fucked. Me. So. Hard. Thrusting into me as if he were going to physically nail me to the bed. I felt his cock reach so deeply inside of me and out of me a hundred times causing me whimper. He gripped my hair a little tighter with his last few thrust as he came. He immediately fell next to me on the bed and laid there in silence for a while as we caught out breaths.

“I’m so fucked,” I said. “What’s wrong?” “No, I’ve been sooooo fucked,” I said while attempting to get up. I wanted to clean myself up and probably take a shower but Chris bursts out laughing and pulled me into his chest. He kept me there tightly which was probably a good thing cause I start to feel how sore I was going to be in the morning. “Does this count as break up sex?” I wanted to know.

“No, because we aren’t breaking up this time,” he said. “Whoa, you think it’ll be that easy?” I looked up at him amused. “Well your heart is connected to mine,” Chris said with the most satisfied silly grin. “Oh cornball. Don’t think it’ll be that easy. You think one good fuck is enough?” Chris chuckled. “How about a few more fucks then?” He pulled my face closer to him, giving me the most passionate kiss. It was all so easy for me to fall for him again within a matter of moments. “Who’s gonna fuck you like me?” I gasped, slapping his chest. Who does he think he is?

“Oh by the way, people don’t belong to me,” I said running my hands over his arm. My fingertips feeling the veins that ran up his arms. “I don’t care. You’re mine. That ass... is mine.” I burst out laughing, grabbing the pillow behind my head to hit him. “Get over yourself.” I tried to hit him more a few times but he gripped his arms around me even tighter.

If there was such a thing called “Dick Whipped” that is what I am.

#chris evans #chris evans smut #chris evans x ofc #chris evans one shot #chris evans fic #chris evans x reader

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ollieofthebeholder · 4 years

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leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall): a TMA fanfic

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Chapter 30: Tim

Tim still feels guilty a week later.

Not, it has to be said, that anyone is making him feel guilty. Quite the opposite. The group hug in the Primes’ unofficial bedroom seems to have cleared the air. They don’t exactly say anything about forgiveness or accepting one another’s apologies, but Sasha comes with them when they leave work and ends up spending the night; they build a massive fort in the living room using every pillow and blanket in the house, have popcorn and hot chocolate for dinner, and swap stories about their childhoods until way too late in the evening considering they have work the next day. When Martin hesitantly admits the next evening that he’s been having trouble sleeping, Jon reminds him of his promise that Martin doesn’t have to be alone anymore, and the three of them curl up together in Tim’s bed for the first time since Jon’s stabbing, this time with Martin in the middle. They agree after that to assume they’ll keep doing that unless one of them has a genuine need to sleep alone.

But Tim still finds himself occasionally waking up in the middle of the night and studying the peaceful look on Martin’s face as he sleeps, or watching Jon mumble and shift restlessly as he watches whatever horror the Eye is forcing someone to relive, and feeling like the world’s biggest heel. While he knows he doesn’t have anything to do with Jon’s nightmares, he still feels like they’re not so bad when Jon isn’t isolating himself, and God knows Martin’s sleep is probably better when he doesn’t feel like he’s being shut out. And while, again, Jon was the one to insist at first that it would be better for him to sleep alone while he had the stitches in and Martin had quietly gone to his own room as well, Tim still feels like he pushed them away, even if it was unconsciously. He hurt both of them and he doesn’t know how to fix it.

He knows he should say something. That’s the whole point of all this; they’re trying to communicate. If something is bothering him, he ought to tell the others. But what he doesn’t want is for Martin—or Jon, for that matter—to spout platitudes and reassurances that he won’t believe. Even though he can tell from their actions that they’re genuine.

At the root of it, that’s the issue. Jon and Martin have forgiven Tim for the way he treated them when he was angry. Tim can’t forgive himself.

Tim taps his pen against his jaw absently as he studies the file in front of him. He’s quizzed Martin Prime on the “feeling” he once mentioned getting about which statements were real or not, and in the last few days he’s been trying his hand at it. It’s slow going, and he knows it’s probably at least partly because he’s resisted the Eye harder than the others, but ever since Sasha’s intervention, he’s decided, screw it. He’s trapped here, for better or for worse, and if it means he maybe gets freaky psychic powers, maybe he can at least use them to help keep his family safe.

This one feels real. It feels bad. Tim hates it on sight, which probably means it’s a Stranger statement; he tends to react badly to those for obvious reasons. And this one deals with taxidermy, which definitely doesn’t help matters. Still, he grits his teeth and digs into it, and what he finds…isn’t comforting. The name Daniel Rawlings is one he remembers—that was one of the people who went missing near Old Fishmarket Close, the very first statement they ever researched that had to go on the tape recorders. And the description of the thing in the basement sounds a hell of a lot like the thing Nathan Watts saw—holding bodies, luring people down with creepy, repetitive phrases. The guy’s lucky to be alive. The fact that the Trophy Room apparently still exists, and is still under Daniel Rawlings’ ownership, is…not great. From a research standpoint, it’s a boon they don’t usually get, but from a practical, this-is-probably-something-set-to-destroy-the-world standpoint, it’s fucking terrifying.

Tim stares at the statement for a long moment. Whether they need to follow up on it or not is almost academic at this point; they will follow up on it, because it’s what they do. They’ll do what they can from the office, but Tim doesn’t need any kind of special powers to know that eventually, someone will go out there to investigate in person. And it’s dangerous. Someone could get seriously hurt.

Which means there’s only one choice, really.

Sasha comes back from her lunch break and smiles at Tim; he smiles reflexively back and goes through the usual routine of how was your lunch, what’s the weather like, anything interesting come up while I was out. He assures Sasha that everything is fine on their end, shuffles the folder under some of the others on his desk under the guise of neatening things up, grabs his jacket, feels to make sure his phone is in the inner pocket, and heads out of the Archives.

It’s the warmest it’s been all month, but there’s just enough of a breeze to keep his jacket on as he walks to the Tube station. Sloane Square is the nearest stop to the Institute, but it’s not on the right line, so he’ll have to change trains at Monumental, and God, this is stupid. Jon hasn’t told him to look into this statement like this, hasn’t sent him to investigate. He doesn’t have to do this, job-wise.

It also occurs to him, belatedly, that he hasn’t told anyone he’s doing this. Well, there’s a reason for that, really; Jon would either try to forbid him from heading out there or insist he bring someone along, neither of which are happening. Tim’s not exposing anyone else on the team to this, even if he’s right there with them. Better that it just be him risking…whatever he’s risking by heading up to Woodside Park. But he should at least warn someone he might be a bit late getting back from lunch. He doesn’t have to say where he’s going exactly, he rationalizes, just say he’s investigating a statement. There are four or five on his desk, and even if Sasha goes snooping through them to see what he’s working on, there’s no way they can be sure this is the one he’s poking into. They’ll probably think it’s any statement but this one. They all know how Tim feels about the Stranger.

When he sits down on the second train just before it pulls out of the station, he reaches into his pocket to pull out his phone. What he pulls out…is not his phone. It’s a small handheld tape recorder, the sort of thing you’d find in an amateur spy kit, looking like it’s brand new out of the package. Tim stares at it in stupefaction for a moment, then quickly pats himself down. His phone is not in his pocket, and he suddenly has a clear and vivid picture in his mind of it sitting on the corner of his desk, charging, because he forgot to plug it in last night.

Great.

For a moment, he’s tempted to go back. Turn around, head back to the Institute, grab his phone, come back another time. Maybe give Jon a heads-up that he’ll be a bit late getting back, if Jon’s back from lunch by the time he gets there. He doesn’t have to say where he’s going, just that he’s following up on a statement or something like that. No need to specify, right?

He doesn’t, though. For one thing, he’s pretty sure if he goes back, he’ll lose his nerve and either not go back or bring someone back with him…or worse, let one of the others go instead. He’ll never be able to live with himself if he puts anyone else in danger like that. And for another, he knows Jon won’t accept a half-explanation. Tim will either have to tell him nothing or everything. And if Tim tells Jon everything, Jon will forbid Tim to come out here.

“I can hear him now,” he mutters, still staring at the recorder in his hand. “‘There’s no need for you to put yourself in that kind of danger, Tim, and certainly no need to expose yourself to that. We can do this over the phone if we have to.’”

Except they can’t; the Stranger is at its best when it’s hidden, so if they’re not looking it in the—well, looking it in the eye, Tim guesses—it’s going to lie to them. It might lie to his face, too, but at least he’ll have the evidence of his senses. And at least he can put it on alert, maybe. The Eye sees you. The Institute is aware of you. Timothy Stoker knows where to find you.

Yeah, right. This is the stupidest thing Tim’s done since he tried to jump off the roof using his grandmother’s umbrella with the bird handle as a parachute.

He turns the recorder over a couple of times in his hands. The Primes mentioned once that their Tim hated these things—the way they kept turning up without warning, the way they would turn themselves on at random times, what they might mean. Tim’s not exactly thrilled about this one just turning up in his pocket either, if it comes down to it, especially in place of his phone. A tape recorder won’t enable him to get in touch with anyone if things go tits-up, or if he’s running late or something. On the other hand…well, it’s better than nothing. And he has to admit it’s a little bit of a comfort to know he’s not technically alone. The Primes both swear they aren’t a tool of the Eye, and he has to admit their logic is sound as to why not, but still, someone or something is listening to him, which means he won’t disappear into nothing. If, God forbid, something goes wrong, at least there will be a record. Some kind of witness.

Tim pats down his pockets and locates a pen, then pops open the recorder. Nestled inside is a microcassette tape, ready and waiting. He considers for a moment, then writes RETURN TO ARCHIVES, THE MAGNUS INSTITUTE, LONDON on the label as neatly as he can. There isn’t anywhere on the recorder’s surface to write, and he doesn’t have any tape or anything, but he hopes that will be sufficient, should someone find it and need to send it back. He considers writing his name and the address of the Institute on his arm or something, the way his parents used to do with him and Danny whenever they went out someplace they might get separated, but decides against it. Based on where he’s going and what he knows about what’s there, the balance of probability is that if he dies, they won’t leave any skin to identify him. He’ll have to settle for tucking his wallet in the same pocket as the recorder and hoping they dispose of his jacket without going through it.

Tim is beginning to wish he put a little more forethought into this. Or, you know, any forethought at all.

Woodside Park is almost at the end of the Northern line, which gives Tim way too much time to think about turning back and consider that there’s no turning back now. He’s the only one who gets off at that stop, which is certainly not eerie at all. Nope, nothing to be concerned about here, perfectly normal. (Logically, it probably is perfectly normal, but Tim is so addled right now that everything looks spooky.) He fishes out the recorder and turns it on.

“Right,” he says. “Uh, this is Timothy Stoker, Archival Assistant at the Magnus Institute, and…if you’re listening to this and don’t know what that is, well, uh, stop listening and get this back to Jonathan Sims, the Head Archivist. You, uh, you should be able to look it up. Stop listening now.” He pauses a second or two, then continues, “Okay, should be Archival staff listening now…Jon, Martin, if it’s you, I’m sorry, but I had to do this. I’m, uh, I’m at Woodside Park right now, I just got off the Tube, and…well, I’m about to go into the Trophy Room. This statement is just…it’s too freaky to leave alone. I can’t risk any of you if it’s something serious and…I’m sorry. Anyway, I’m…going to leave this thing going in my pocket, kind of try to get a recording, so that if I can’t explain for whatever reason, you’ll know what happens. I don’t know what’s going to happen. Hopefully nothing too bad, but…well, we’ll see.”

He pauses for a moment, then tucks the recorder back in his pocket and says under his breath, “Fuck.” Then he takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders, and heads down the block.

The Trophy Room isn’t hard to find. It’s exactly as the taxman described it in his statement—an aged, grimy building with faded gold lettering and a dirt-streaked olive green awning. There’s even a stuffed big cat in the window, and the only reason Tim knows it’s a tiger and not a lion, apart from the statement, is because big cats were something of an obsession of his when he was nine or ten, back when he’d considered a career as a wild animal tamer for a circus, and he made a study of the physiology of them. This is unmistakably a tiger, long-faded stripes notwithstanding. That seems to him a somewhat irresponsible way to care for something you ought to put pride in, but what does Tim know?

The bell over the door clangs raucously when Tim pushes the door open, and he is suddenly confronted by hundreds of staring, glassy eyes. Tim quite likes animals and he’s seen many of the ones in the shop live and in person, including an up-close-and-personal encounter with a moose (this one must be a juvenile, he thinks, a full-grown bull wouldn’t fit in the space it’s crammed into), but the concentration of them looking at him, all at once, is disconcerting, to say the least. But it’s not nearly so disorientating as the smell. Danny once declared he was going to buy their mother something “unique” and purchased a titan arum for her before learning that it was more commonly called a “corpse flower” for a very good reason. This place smells like they’ve got an entire greenhouse of them under the floor.

Which is better than the alternative, really.

A man comes out of the back. True to the description in the statement, he’s a “fresh-faced twenty-something”; if he’s even Jon’s age, Tim will eat the entire taxidermied moose. He raises his eyebrows in Tim’s direction. “Can I help you?”

A nagging, persistent voice in the back of Tim’s head that sounds an awful lot like Martin suggests that declaring himself to be from the Magnus Institute would be the worst decision he’s made all day, which is saying a lot. Time to fake it. Luckily, Tim’s good at that. He switches on his most charming smile. “Hi! I sure hope so. I’m looking for a Christmas present for my sister.”

Is it Tim’s imagination, or does the man he presumes to be Daniel Rawlings relax, just a fraction? “Bit early for that, aren’t you?”

“Well, I mean, I didn’t know if you’d have something on hand or if I’d have to wait for you to get something in or bring something in,” Tim says, waving at the assorted animals. “I mean, she’s kinda picky sometimes. I don’t know how this works.”

“Ah. Well, let’s see what I can do to help you.” The man extends a hand and grins. “I’m Daniel Rawlings. And you are…?”

“Nick DiAngelo.” Tim Anglicizes his grandfather’s name; it feels safer than giving his real one. He accepts Rawlings’ hand; it’s cool, hard, and very dry.

“Mm.” Tim can’t tell if Rawlings believes him or not, but he shakes his hand and lowers it. “Well, all of these pieces are for sale, unless you brought something in. You’re not a…hunter yourself, are you?”

Tim doesn’t like the emphasis Rawlings puts on hunter, but he keeps up his smile. “Nah, not my thing. Never been one for guns or the like. I like my nature alive.”

“But your sister doesn’t?”

“She’s an animal lover, but she can’t have pets at this new place she’s moving to. So, stuffed it is.” Tim waves a hand at the room. “Don’t think there’s room in her flat for a whole moose, of course, but…”

“Of course, of course. Well, feel free to look around and see if anything catches your…eye.”

Tim manages not to react to that word. Instead, he, smiles again and ambles towards a shelf full of squirrels. The animals’ eyes seem to follow him as he walks, and he knows Rawlings’ eyes follow him, too.

“So how long have you been doing this, anyway?” he blurts after a moment, turning back to face Rawlings. “It must have taken ages to do all this.”

“Oh, I inherited it,” Rawlings tells him. “An old friend of my father’s left it to me. Apparently he didn’t have any other family.”

Mentally, Tim ticks off the first item on the list—the stories tally. Which, well, of course they would. “Do you like all this?”

Rawlings shrugs. Tim tries again. “You’re lucky, you know. Falling into a business like this. I’ve been having to work my way up from the bottom. Is it hard?”

“Not so hard as it could be, I suppose.” Rawlings looks around him. “At least it’s a good, steady business. No heavy lifting.” He smiles. “I’ve got people for that.”

“Hey, are you hiring?”

“Hmm.” Rawlings tips his head to one side, studying Tim. A prickle of unease crawls up Tim’s spine. The man won’t make eye contact, but something about that regard unsettles him. “I think we might be able to find a…fitting position for you. If you’re interested.”

Tim pretends to consider it. “Tell you what. I’ll let you know after the new year? Got a big project I’m in the middle of now.”

“Of course. There’s plenty of time.” Rawlings smiles. “It’s not like the animals are going anywhere.”

Tim laughs, despite the creeping feeling of dread. “That would be…strange.”

The word slips out before Tim can stop it, but Rawlings laughs, too. He seems genuinely delighted, and even comes closer. “Here, let me help you find something that would suit your sister.”

He lights a cigarette. Tim raises an eyebrow. “Aren’t you worried about these old things going up if you drop that?”

“I’d be desolate if they did.” There’s no doubt about it; Rawlings is dropping those words deliberately, but this time he sounds amused more than taunting. He either realizes Tim knows something, or he’s just showing off his own knowledge. Neither of which is good. “But no, they’re remarkably well-preserved.”

“That’s what they said about our uncle,” Tim quips. He does get another laugh out of Rawlings for that one. “How old are they, anyway? I know you said your dad’s friend did them…”

“He owned the shop. Many hands have worked these creatures.” Rawlings strokes the moose’s nose almost reverently. “Tell me, Mr. DiAngelo, what is your field?”

“History,” Tim lies easily. “Eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, with a focus on arts and industry.”

“Ah.” Rawlings still doesn’t meet his eyes, but there’s a glitter in them. “Then I think I have something worth showing you.” He gestures towards the back.

Tim’s not stupid, despite all current evidence to the contrary. He knows from the statement that the workroom is back there, behind the office. There’s a distinct possibility that he’s letting himself be lured into a deadly trap. But in keeping with his persona, and also in the interest of getting the information he needs, he says brightly, “Great! Lead on, then.”

If he survives this, Jon’s going to kill him.

The office is small, largely dominated by an old oak desk. Seated behind it is a petite woman with close-cropped brown hair, wearing a grey t-shirt and a light jacket, bent over what look like account books. Tim has a nasty feeling he knows who this woman is.

“Sarah,” Rawlings says, confirming Tim’s suspicions-slash-fears, “this is Nick DiAngelo. I brought him back to show him the skins…Mr. DiAngelo, this is Sarah Baldwin, one of my fellow employees.”

“Pleasure,” Tim says cheerfully. This is officially too much, but he’s got to see it through now. The smell of Death By Flowers is stronger here, and he remembers suddenly Melanie King mentioning in her statement that the Sarah Baldwin who did sound work for her Ghost Hunt UK episode had a sharp, faintly floral perfume, or something like that. He wonders if she’s been living here—so to speak—all this time, if the smell of the building has soaked into her skin or if it’s something that comes from her and Rawlings and whatever else might be part of all this.

“Hi,” Sarah says succinctly. Tim also remembers Melanie saying she was a woman of few words.

“Come look at these. She won’t mind,” Rawlings assures Tim. Sure enough, Sarah seems scarcely aware of their presence as Rawlings begins showing Tim the skins hanging on the wall. And if they’re genuine, if he’s telling the truth about their origins—and Tim has no reason to doubt him—they are impressive.

One skin seems to be missing, though. The man from Internal Revenue described a gorilla skin, alleged to be from the fifth century B.C., the oldest bit of taxidermy in the world. There’s nothing like that in this room. Tim’s not sure why that bothers him so much, but reluctantly, he has to admit that he probably shouldn’t ignore it.

“…And this,” Rawlings concludes, indicating a stuffed figure on the desk—a white hare in a waistcoat, “was part of the Great Exhibition of 1851. It helped drive Victorian England mad for the craft.”

Tim doesn’t like the emphasis he puts on mad, but since this is supposed to be his specialty, he says, “I am impressed. There was a lot of fantastic craftwork at the Great Exhibition. I saw a stereoscope card once while I was doing my graduate research, but I never dreamed I would ever see something that was actually displayed there.”

“Would you like to touch it?” Rawlings asks. “You can, you know. It’s quite safe.”

Tim tries very much to look like he’s hesitating out of reverence for the age of the piece and not because he wonders if he’s going to end up poisoned, sucked into an alternate dimension, or triggering a trapdoor to the mouth of a hungry monster, but he can’t actually think of a good reason why a historian would refuse to touch, well, actual history. So he reaches out, slowly, and runs his hand over the hare’s fur. It’s stiff and wiry, the effects of almost two centuries of existence, but still feels mostly soft under his palm. The body is solid and firm. If he didn’t know better, he would swear it has a heartbeat.

“That’s brilliant,” he breathes. Hopefully he still sounds awed and not terrified. He takes a risk. “Is this the oldest piece you have?”

“Wolf,” Sarah grunts, jerking a thumb over her shoulder at the wolf pelt hanging on the wall.

“It dates back to the Middle Ages,” Rawlings explains. “We had one even older, but, well, it was stolen some years ago.”

“Stolen?” Tim is genuinely taken aback by this. “Did they ever find it?”

“No, sadly. It was never sold, at least not publicly, so who knows?” Rawlings sighs. “It was a gorilla skin, from Carthage. Brought over by Hammo in the fifth century B.C.”

“It must have been worth a pretty penny,” Tim whistles.

“Its value is immeasurable,” Rawlings says earnestly. “It means the world.”

Something about that phrase makes Tim’s blood run cold. Not it means the world to me, or to my dad’s friend, even though he guesses that’s a fiction. Just it means the world. Whatever that means, it can’t be good for humanity.

“Well,” he says, as sympathetically as he can. “I hope it comes back to you in the fullness of time.”

“Oh, I’m sure it will. If it hasn’t been destroyed…I’m sure there’s someone out there who knows where to look.”

Tim would like to go now, he decides. He’s pretty sure he has all the information he needs, and surely the Primes can fill in anything he’s missing. “I’m glad you showed me these. They’re really impressive. But I’m sure they’re well out of my price range.”

“Maybe,” Rawlings says. “But that could change. We’ll discuss that later, if you’re still interested in that job.”

Tim definitely does not like the sound of that. “I’ll be in touch about that. And I’ll be back for sure about something for my sister, once I’ve had time to…reassess things a little. You know, get an idea about her flat layout and what sort of thing would work best for her.”

Rawlings smiles. It sends chills down Tim’s spine. “Don’t be a stranger.”

He holds out his hand. As they shake again, for the first time, Rawlings looks Tim dead in the eye, and Tim realizes two things. First of all, the taxman wasn’t kidding; Rawlings’ eyes are as dead and lifeless as the animals’, and like theirs are made of glass, fixed in place where his real eyes should be. They should stare without seeing, but unlike Martin Prime’s eyes, which are still warm and expressive but stare right past or through you, these bore into Tim’s and he is one hundred percent aware that Rawlings can see him perfectly clearly.

Second…his eyes are glowing faintly, a deep and vibrant indigo, like they’re lit from within. Which is frankly beyond disturbing.

“I won’t,” Tim assures him, and means it.

He comes out of the office ahead of Rawlings and is about halfway to the door when it happens. The bell jangles again, and two men come in—two men Tim would prefer never to see again, dressed like deliverymen and crossing into the shop.

It’s Breekon and Hope.

One of them notices Tim and stiffens. “Hey, you.”

“What are you doing here?” asks the other, eyes narrowing suspiciously.

“Come to spy on us?”

“See what we’re doing?”

“What?” Rawlings asks sharply.

Tim bolts. He has surprise on his side and manages to get out the door before anyone can grab him, but unlike the man who gave the statement, he knows they’re not just going to let him get away. He considered a lot of possible fates for himself should he visit the Trophy Room, but somehow, Breekon and Hope turning up while he was there, and recognizing him, never occurred to him. Stupid. Stupid.

It’s a good stretch to the Tube station, and Tim expects every step to feel them on his heels, but either they can’t move as quickly as him or they’re not chasing him for their own reasons. Still, he hears a rumble behind him and doesn’t stop to check if it’s them or not. Instead, he sprints for the entrance to the station and leaps down the steps three at a time. He lands wrong at the bottom and his ankle buckles, but he shakes off the pain and manages to just make it to the train before it pulls out, which at least has the advantage of giving anyone who saw him come flying in a possible explanation for his hurry beyond “being chased by something out of a horror film”.

He collapses into his seat and catches his breath as the train pulls away, heading back towards central London. Once he’s breathing normally, he takes stock. His ankle throbs, but the pain is relatively mild. He’ll live and, most crucially, he’s not in the back of an ersatz delivery van…or worse. Tim honestly can’t say what he would have done if they’d caught him, but he’s glad he doesn’t have to think about it.

After a moment, he reaches into his pocket and checks for the recorder. It’s stopped, which might mean it cut itself off when the danger had passed, or might mean he hit the end of the spool, or might mean he screwed up and turned it off and it didn’t catch what happened in there at all. He’s going to have to hope he got everything, though, because no way is he risking playing this on the train. There are other people here, after all, although not many. He does rewind it, though, and he’s comforted to hear the length of its backwards spool. There’s something on it at least.

He makes the connection with seconds to spare; the Central line is a bit more crowded, so he ends up standing near the door, which does at least mean he’s the first one off at Sloane Square. He tries to hurry without running—the last thing he wants is to draw attention—but even now, he finds himself glancing over his shoulder periodically to see if anyone is following him. Luckily, it appears he’s managed to give them the slip. For now, anyway.

As he gets closer to the Institute, he slows up and tries to straighten up his appearance. The last thing he wants is to make it look like he had to run for his life, or might still be running. He’s got the tape if Jon doesn’t believe what he says, but maybe he’ll get lucky and he can avoid having to play it, so Jon—and Martin, for that matter—don’t have to know how close a shave he just had.

Yeah, right. And maybe he’ll finally get that phone call about his audition for Jersey Boys.

He’s still limping as he reaches the Institute and lets himself in the door to the Archives. For just a minute, he pauses when he comes in, wondering why they swapped out the light bulbs for novelty green ones…but no, he blinks hard and the lighting goes back to normal. Just the regular old Archives, rows of shelves littered with files, pod of desks in the work area, three people grouped around it. Tim’s not sure what’s going on, but from the looks of it, Sasha and Jon are sitting down and Martin is fussing.

Martin looks up as Tim comes closer, and his face goes slack with relief. “Tim!”

Sasha’s head whips around. “Are you all right?” she asks.

Tim tries for a grin. “I’m not dead.”

“Yeah, that’s not exactly comforting. You get why that’s not comforting, right?” Martin tugs at his hair in evident frustration. “Wh—” He stops and presses his lips together tightly for a second.

“You’re late.” Jon’s voice is soft but accusing. He gets to his feet and wobbles for a second before steadying himself against the back of the chair.

Suddenly worried, Tim takes a step towards him. His ankle chooses that moment to remind him that he’s already fucked it up and buckles under him, nearly sending him to the floor. He doesn’t fall far before Martin is there, catching him and half-dragging, half-carrying him over to his chair. “You’re hurt.”

“Master of the obvious,” Tim tries to joke, and then he sees the look on Martin’s face and realizes what’s going on. They’ve all realized that Martin has acquired the ability to compel people to tell him things, especially about how they got hurt or why they’re scared; he’s trying to learn how to control it, just like Jon and Sasha are trying to learn to control their new powers, but Jon Prime warned them already that it will be harder for them to not let it slip in involuntarily when they’re upset or stressed. Martin is trying very hard not to force Tim to tell him anything. It’s a courtesy Tim doesn’t think he deserves, but he swallows down on the guilt. “Just twisted, I think. No big deal.” He eases away from Martin and stands; it hurts a bit, but he’s at least able to do it on his own.

Martin lets him, but he’s still hovering, around both him and Jon. Jon stands facing Tim, looking grim. “You didn’t have your phone with you, Tim. We couldn’t contact you. It’s been two hours.”

Tim winces. “I didn’t realize I’d left it behind until it was too late to come back, and then I just…I thought I’d be back sooner. Sorry, boss. I’ll make up the time.”

“I’m not worried about the time, Tim!” Jon throws his hands up in frustration. “I’m worried about you. You were gone longer than you should have been, and we had no way of getting in touch with you, nor any idea where you were.”

“I—I was going to text you, but—”

“No, Tim, we didn’t know where you were,” Martin emphasizes. “Sasha tried to Know where you’d gone and gave herself a nosebleed. Jon tried and passed out! I-I finally asked downstairs, and all he’d say was that you were safe and on the way back, but that’s really not as comforting as he made it sound.”

“I know how you feel about…all of that,” Jon says, his voice sounding strained, “but we were worried. We were scared. Especially since…” He gestures at the files on Tim’s desk. “I wasn’t sure which one you were investigating.”

And Jon’s avoiding actually asking questions, too, out of fear of forcing Tim to answer against his will. They’re all better than he deserves, he thinks distantly, and it would serve him right if—no. He’s hurt them enough.

“The Trophy Room,” he says quietly. He reaches into his pocket and fishes out the tape recorder, which he hands to Jon. “Pretty sure I got the whole thing on there, but I haven’t had a chance to check.”

“The Trophy Room? The taxidermy shop in Barnet? The one we’re pretty sure is a stronghold for the Stranger?” Martin’s voice rises in pitch. “Are you out of your mind?”

“What were you thinking?” Jon says, clearly upset. “You’ve read that statement, you know how dangerous it is. If I had wanted someone to go there to investigate, I would have sent someone, and you would have been the last person I would choose—”

“I wasn’t going to let any of you go out there,” Tim argues.

“Tim, you’re already marked by the Stranger,” Jon says sharply. “Remember what they said? The marks make you a bigger target. It means they’re more likely to try something on you. That—whatever it was in the basement, the anglerfish thing—if Rawlings had opened the door, it might have lured you down. My God, Tim, you could have been killed and we would have had no idea where you were.”

If Tim did this to make himself feel less guilty, he failed spectacularly. He inhales sharply and tries to meet Jon’s eyes. For just a second, they seem to glow a vivid and vibrant green; Tim blinks and they go back to their normal brown. “I—I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking about that, I just—all I could think about was that I needed to protect you all. I knew someone was going to end up investigating all this, we couldn’t get the truth over the phone, and I—I didn’t want to risk one of you going over there. I knew it was dangerous, but…I haven’t done enough, so I thought it had to be me.”

“Tim.” Jon’s jaw works for a moment, and then he just surges forward and hugs Tim tightly.

Tim hugs him back, feeling the tears pricking at his eyes. A moment later he feels the comforting weight and warmth of Martin’s arms around them both, but instead of making him relax, it just makes the tears flow harder. He doesn’t deserve this.

He must say that aloud, because Jon releases him and steps back to frown at him. “Don’t deserve what? What are you talking about?”

“This.” Tim gestures to Jon and Martin hovering around him, then to Sasha, who evidently was part of the hug, too, at least peripherally. “I didn’t—I fucked up, Jon. I shoved you all away and I made you feel—I was hurting, so I hurt you without any reason, and I—”

“We were all hurting,” Martin interrupts him, his face tight with sympathy. “And we all did things to hurt each other—”

“You didn’t,” Sasha points out.

“I could’ve stepped in any time, or spoken up about what was bothering me, instead of acting like I thought you’d hurt me if I tried,” Martin says. “I didn’t. I let myself class you all in the same category as my mother, and that isn’t fair to any of you. I know better. What happened this month between us is as much my fault as anyone else’s and I’m not going to sit by and act like I’m the victim in all this, because that isn’t fair to anyone. Including me.” He takes a deep breath. “We’re a team. We’re a family. We’re supposed to work together, right?”

“Right.” Tim swallows hard and wipes his eyes. “No more unauthorized field trips. Promise.”

Jon nods. “Thank you.” He glances at the tape recorder. “I’ll listen to this later, if you need me to, but meanwhile, why don’t you tell us what happened?”

Tim sighs. “Might want to sit down. This could take a while.”

#ollie writes fanfic #leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall)#tma #the magnus archives #canon typical stranger content #guilt tw #implied past emotional abuse #tim stoker stop being a dumbass challenge

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storysofmyown · 3 years

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Seven stages of love Chapter 4: Pragma

Summary: Ever since the Celestial War, since they all fell, Asmodeus has dedicated himself to his sin. Not caring about anything else, but drowning himself in the pleasure and ecstasy of it all. But not anymore, now he cant even handle the idea of it. But, what else is there to want? After so long of having indulged in his sin, what is there than Asmodeus is looking for, something that will fill him, and that wont drive him to destruction? Perhaps his brothers can help him with that. Warnings will appear in each chapter.

Trigger Warning: Anger, insults, alludes to intimate moments.

Word count: 3079

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“…okay that’s it!”

Mammon’s voice echoed in the dining room as he slammed his hands on the table. A small, and yet determined glare on his face as he starred at Asmodeus. His sudden reaction making the younger demon jump, as Belphegor kept napping like nothing had happened. Asmodeus looked almost uninterested at his older brother, raising an eyebrow as he placed his cup down before sighing.

“Mammon don’t be so loud. I barely got any sleep last night.” He stated, fixing his gaze to be back on the cup. He was beyond tired. He hadn’t been sleeping or eating well, his head was a mess, confusion, doubt, and strange feelings deep inside of him. And like always, he wasn’t step closer to figuring anything out.

Every time he took a step it felt like whatever answered was bestowed upon him made him walk five back. He didn’t know what to do…what he needed. Another term got in the way, a contradiction that put everything on another angle, it was never-ending, it was soffocating. First it was Belphegor, then Leviathan, and the most recent being Satan. His head was a total mess that kept him awake at night. And even if he tried to sleep at night, the voices that came along with the long lasting feelings; the visions on his mind just made it utterly impossible to get even a second of rest. If it wasn’t because Beel had forced him to come down to eat something, he wouldn’t have left his room today at all either. He was thankful that they had the decency to not be all on the dining room at once. But then again, they had left him with the loudest of his brothers, and he already knew this day was going to be anything but peaceful.

“Don’t be so loud my ass. You have been acting like Leviathan lately, which is totally freaky. So,” Mammon, smirking, slammed his hands on the table again, getting him a glare from Asmodeus. “I am taking you out tonight. And be grateful, little brother, your favorite big bro will be paying!” Mammon had an almost satisfied smirk at his declaration, making Asmodeus raise an eyebrow.

“…you didn’t say anything about Lucifer joining as well.” Asmo teases, which merely gets him a glare from Mammon.

“I meant me and you know it!” He hisses, before shaking his head. “That’s beyond the point. Get ready, tonight we are going somewhere, and I will NOT take a no for an answer!” Mammon pointed his finger at Asmodeus, making him sigh yet again, letting his head rest on his palm as his elbow rested on the table, a distant expression in his eyes.

If Mammon had proposed that at least a month ago, Asmodeus would have jumped on the opportunity immediately. It was rare for his brothers to join him, and while he used to have a lot of fun, their presence just made it better. Correction: he thought he had lots of fun. Now…well, he wasn’t so sure. Could that be considered fun? The dancing, the touching, the loud music, the screaming, his skin burning as some stranger pulled him away from the entire night… He didn’t want that again. At least not at the moment. He wasn’t sure if in the future he would be able to go those places again, experience the same euphoria he felt the after falling; but right now he would rather stay where no one could bother him.

He understood Levi a little better now. In his room…he could just be. No other soul to bother his solace, as he could keep digging deeper into those thought that slowly intoxicated and even suffocated him. The feelings of loneliness and that hatred that made its home into the demon’s mind, just kept growing as every day passes…no, ‘days’ was a large stretch, from the moment Asmodeus sat down to this very second, he already had sunk far deeper into the silent desperate pleas the unknown made to him. Asmodeus starred for a second more at Mammon before shaking his head, only for his sight to fall on the table, making his older brother frown. They were worried, and he had thought maybe coercing Asmodeus to go out would cheer him up a bit, it used to be his whole life after all. But now…it seemed like he had just made things worse.

“…I’m tired. I don’t want to leave the house.” He stated, getting up from the table, leaving his glass forgotten, Mammon merely frowned before sighing. There must be a way to make Asmodeus feel better, somehow. “Oh, and Mammon?” Once he looked up, he saw Asmodeus had stopped just in front of the door, his face still turned in the direction of the hallway, only for him to give Mammon a side look as he smiled for what could be the first time in a while. “…it’s you and I, not me and you.”

“…why you little-! If ya have enough energy to make fun of me then ya should use it elsewhere!”

Asmodeus let out a soft chuckle as he walked away from his brother, who had woken up Belphegor and was now facing the consequences of such a deed. Consequences… Was that it? Is that the reason why he was feeling so tormented? Why he no longer could stand the thought of someone setting their eyes upon him? Had he gone so long misbehaving in ways that utterly destroyed his mind and body, but he kept pushing them down on that thin layer of narcissism, and it had finally broken open…Was that it? Was he facing the consequences of all he had put himself through, of everything he forced himself to do? If so, then no wonder his body had started to tense up whenever a memory of a touch slipped his mind. The whisper of a name made him ache. And if the moments ever came to him in dreams, then all he could do was cry himself awake, in a position so still one might mistake him for a corpse, if not for the cries.

Like the one that happened that night. The memories, the cries, the phantom touches, it was all too real. But now, instead of feeling the intense desire he had felt those nights, it all felt like needles poking in his skin, making him regret his mere existence. He could feel the hair pull all too vividly, the bites so harsh he could have sworn if he touched the spot they would be there. He didn’t know when, but he had woken up at some point, and had noticed how his nails were the ones digging on his own skin to the point blood was pouring out. Yet he couldn’t move or do anything about it. All he could do, was keep crying. The nightmares were always like this, they incapacitated him, the only thing he had left, the control over his own body, over his own pain, was taken away. And all that was left was the sobbing mess of a demon. Who could only wonder how had he left himself fall even further.

The worst was…the doubting, the confusion, the wondering. The way no one could explain it to him, the fact that all they did was make him even more confused. Levi and Satan…they could have chosen to just keep quiet, to not answer his question, to ignore him! Belphegor could have kept walking, had he not come inside his room to make such a claim, a claim that now had him wondering and asking himself about everything. They should have just let him stay on that path he had already chosen! He had gotten used to being a demon, he had gotten used to all of it, if they had just kept quiet then he would be back to his normal self now, not caring about that stupid word and what it all meant! He wasn’t supposed to be anything else from just lust, he didn’t need anything else!

The next thing Asmodeus knew, he had barged into Mammon’s room, his older brother looking at him with a startled expression as he had not even bothered to knock. One half serious look at the younger demon’s face told Mammon all he needed to know. His brother wasn’t okay, and he was forcing himself to be. Perhaps it was the way the younger demon looked lost like he had looked that morning on the dining table, or maybe it was that look that screamed for some type of…of catalyst. Perhaps the same one they all expected to be coming soon. Was it now? Mammon could only stay silent as he starred at his brother, not knowing if he should talk or if he should wait for the demon to speak first. After all, he was the one that had barged in, and Mammon could only determine so much from his expression.

“…let’s go.”

“Huh? What-?”

“Let’s go! Now! Just like you said earlier! I changed my mind!” Asmodeus took a few steps towards Mammon, slamming the door behind him. His actions painting a frown on the avatar of greed as he watched his brother closely.

“…you changed your mind?” This was…wrong. Just a few hours ago Asmodeus was more than determined to NOT go out at all. Even to the point where the mere thought and the proposal made him retreat to his room like a scared animal looking for shelter in the middle of a storm.

Then again, perhaps that’s how Asmodeus felt. Like a lost animal who was passing right through the eye of the hurricane. The past few weeks had been the first stage, it was bad, it was bad because it had hit Asmodeus with no warning, it came and hit him with a force Asmodeus had not ever prepared for, stripping him from all the walls he had built around himself to protect the fragility that inhibited in the body of a weak and broken demon. The first stage had just passed. And right now, as Asmodeus glared at Mammon, wearing some party clothes and that pain he could still see in the eyes of his brother, Mammon knew the eye of the storm had just arrived. And with it, the calm…the calm that only announced the arrival of the worst to come. Faster winds that instead of stripping the poor demon from all what he was they were going to make him crumble.

“…no.” They had to be there for Asmo, and he knew this was the last thing Asmodeus needed. Asmodeus had said it before, and although he wasn’t aware what made him change his mind, he was right…He knew that now, and he was seeing just how badly Asmodeus wanted to deny it.

He wanted the Asmodeus they all knew back. The happy brother that was quick to compliment any of them and had no regards for personal space, the one that always had a smile…but that wasn’t Asmodeus. That’s a veil he had put on that was being kept on from the moment he crafted that personality to merely weeks ago, the one who was standing right now in front of him, was not Asmodeus either. It was the shreds from that veil trying to get back to that balance that he had managed to escape from. The real Asmodeus…no one knew him. Not even the demon standing right in front of Mammon. The demon needed to know who he was and understand whatever it was bothering him before he should be allowed to go back out there. And as much as Mammon wanted to keep the peace and wanted his brother to be okay, it would be nothing but cruel, submitting him to the very thing that had broken him in the very first place.

“…no?” Asmodeus blinked. “Seriously? You are saying no now?! Mammon, I know you like being annoying, but this is going too far!” Asmodeus stomped his feet, he felt like a child throwing a tantrum, almost as if he wasn’t in control of his own words. But here he was, glaring at his older brother as he crossed his arms and glared. How dare he act like he knew what was going on in Asmodeus head and what he needed? What he needed was to go back to who he was and stop with those feelings that had taken root in his being.

“Oi! I’m only trying to help here! I ain’t taking ya there, aight?! I thought it might have helped earlier but giving how you are now I doubt so! Someone could do something to you and you wouldn’t even know what is happening-”

“That’s the point!” Asmodeus shouted, glaring at Mammon worse than before. “That is exactly what I want! What I need! I want to just forget everything and go back to how I was before! I just need to stop all those insane thoughts and go back to the care of the world! S-So! D-Don’t tell me no now!”

“Asmo…listen to me now.” Mammon walked closer to his agitated brother, noticing how desperate and how hurt the younger demon was. It hurt all of them seeing him like this, but if he went out now, as Asmodeus wanted, or as he thought he wanted, it would only make it worse “…what you need, ya ain’t gonna find in a club or anything.”

“Then what is it that I need, then?! If it isn’t to try and go back to my old life…if it isn’t forgetting everything that just happened and try to be who I am supposed to be, then what do I need? What should I do? I am tired of feeling so bad, I don’t want to care about anything else! I just want to go back and forget all of those new feelings! All that Levi and Satan said! I don’t understand it, and the more I try to understand it the less I do! I just want to go back out there, and maybe, just maybe, finally be okay once more.”

Mammon starred at his brother as the pleas and begs left him, eyes closed tightly as the Avatar of Lust held back the tears. It was all wrong, seeing him like this, this desperation rooted inside of him as he didn’t give himself time to think about everything, to think about himself! But…he kind of understood Asmodeus. Back when they all arrived, when they were all scared and didn’t understand anything about themselves, he was so confused and scared of those new desires of his, but he took time to understand them. Asmodeus hadn’t, the moment he recuperated from the fall it was like the angel they had all known once had vanished. But right now, although broken and sad and utterly desperate…he was asking for help, and Mammon was going to be right there for him. Slowly, the demon walked over to his brother, and before Asmodeus could even ask anything else, he was engulfed in a tight hug.

“…Listen, there is lots of stuff that I don’t know, that’s a given, and there are even more that I don’t understand, but I know how you are feeling…how lost you feel. But Asmo, what you need, isn’t out there.”

Asmodeus hesitated, not daring to hug his brother back as he held back tears, hiding his face on the demons neck for a moment. Shaky breaths that Mammon could feel as he hugged him even tighter, hoping that it just might help to keep him together long enough until he was ready to rebuild himself. But the way his younger brother hand suddenly grasped at his shirt, and the way his trembling voice came out…he knew that no matter how tightly he held him, the demon was already crumbling.

“…I s-still don’t understand. I don’t know…I don’t know what I need…” Mammon chuckled a little sadly as he kissed Asmodeus forehead, pulling away and grabbing him by the shoulders.

“Oi, that of course is for someone to truly care about ya. Asmo, ya don’t need people to constantly praise you or to pull you away from the world. You need someone that cares so deeply for you, they are willing to make you happy, someone…someone that understands you, someone that truly **** you”

…again with that word. Asmodeus couldn’t do anything but stare at Mammon for a few seconds, before the dam broke, and the water started spilling from his eyes like nothing could stop it. One would think he had not cried in years by the way he was now sobbing and clinging to his brother. With Levi it was one thing, as well as with Satan, and now with Mammon. They had mentioned such different thing, unique sentiments, yet they had used the exact same word. Was it…that perhaps it was all of those at once? But at the same time neither? And if so, how could Asmo tell which was that he truly needed? Asmo said it was for someone to understand him, but he wasn’t so sure. How could someone else understand him when he couldn’t even understand himself?

“…that’s the exact opposite of what Satan said!” Asmodeus exclaimed, he refused to believe that there could be so many aspects to it all.

“W-well…that’s because he is an idiot, aight?! Just listen to me, I am your bug brother, after all.” Mammon sighed, still embracing Asmodeus. “…Asmo, I know its hard to understand, but you don’t need someone to pass the night with, okay? Its…different, you don’t need something that can vanish and its just superficial. Its meant to be deep and last, and they are supposed to make you feel the best anyone has ever!”

Understanding, playfulness, friendship…all or none, maybe a mix? No…none of them felt quite right. But…what felt right was the fact that he could cry feeling in his brothers arms, just like he had done so a while ago when Belphegor found him. Even if he hated showing anyone this side of his, and even thought his entire being was in a total disarray of concepts and all, it felt right. And he wondered if this was yet another definition for that word. One rooted in the comings of the broken family they were.

Pragma: Commitment, compromise, understanding, long term rooted love. Eros can turn to Pragma with time.

Hello! Here is the next chapter in this little fic of mine! I truly hope you all had enjoyed it even though I think that this one turned out a little different than the last few. But either way, i will once more post the next chapter on Saturday, until then!

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lefaystrent · 6 years

Text

Lifeline ch.3

Fandom: Thomas Sanders, Sanders Sides

Pairings: platonic lamp/Thomas

Summary: Unable to help himself, Patton reached out to ruffle Thomas’s hair. The other sides rolled their eyes, knowing what would happen, except—

Patton’s hand.

It made contact.

Chapter Navigation: one , two , four

AO3 Link

When his sides inevitably did reappear, he didn’t expect Logan to be the first to show up.

“If you fail to correct your posture now, it could negatively affect your health.”

“Logan!” Thomas exclaimed, flinging out his arms to keep himself from falling out of his seat. He’d been sitting at the dining table going through his business email on his laptop. Behind him, his logical side stood in his usual spot by the stairs.

Logan adjusted his glasses calmly. “Salutations, Thomas. As I was saying, though you may not notice it at the time, sitting at your computer as you were doing attributes to back and neck pain, stress on your joints which could lead to arthritis, digestive issues which can lead to acid reflux or—”

“Careful, Logan,” a deep, graveled voice interrupted. “You’re stealing my thunder.”

Thomas snapped his head to his left to find Virgil sitting on the table beside his computer. Although his sides tended to like their living room spots the most, they could pop up anywhere. That didn’t mean it wasn’t odd to see Virgil away from his regular spot while Logan remained in his usual place.

Or maybe it was just because of all the thoughts that had been plaguing Thomas since he last saw them. That was sure to make anything weird.

Logan glanced over at Virgil, expression unreadable. “I’m always careful. As for the latter part of your statement, I suppose you mean to say your metaphorical thunder; however, I’m not sure how I could ‘steal’ that.”

“It’s supposed to be my job to stress Thomas out.” Virgil leaned back on one arm, hand braced against the tabletop while his feet rested on one of the dining chairs. His position should have been a relaxed one. Head angled down, he looked through a fringe of purple-stained bangs to level a hard stare at Logan.

“I only seek to ensure that Thomas maintains a healthy lifestyle through the use of facts. And as you are well aware, that is my job.”

“If your job is to be a nagging mom, then yeah, I’m aware.”

“What is it with all of you likening me to a mother in a negative context?”

“Guys?” Thomas questioned quietly. He thought this would be one of those times where they’d keep on going, not having heard him. Instead they zeroed in on him immediately. The sudden intense stares pierced into him. He tried to smile. “Why so serious?”

Logan scoffed, shoulders stiff and hands held together in a lecturing stance. “I’m always serious. I have to be if anything is to be done around here.”

“Logan, that’s not—” Thomas went to say because they had been over this kind of conversation before, but Virgil beat him to it.

“Maybe nothing needs to be done at the moment,” he growled, teeth bared.

Logan’s brow raised. “And this is why I have to always be the serious one, because frivolous nonsense is reserved elsewhere.”

For a second, Virgil’s mouth hung open. The air chilled between them, cold enough to suck breath from lungs. Thomas suspected a lot more was being said than he understood. It was like watching parents trying to act normal in front of their kid after having an argument in the next room. And wasn’t that a freaky thought? Thomas knew that they had conversations away from him, inside the mindscape, but it had never felt more disconcerting than it did now, to think of what the pieces of him did unbeknownst to him.

Almost like they were real people, people who he suddenly felt like he didn’t know so well anymore.

Virgil shot a hurried look at Thomas. He didn’t know what he must have saw there, but Virgil quickly schooled his lips into a scowl.

“This is bullshit,” Virgil muttered, turning away. “Princey! Code stupid, or whatever.”

“Virgil!” Roman rose up in front of the tv, arms falling from his regal pose to point accusingly at the darker side. “We agreed that it would be ‘code blue’ considering— wait, why are you all over . . .”

Roman frowned in observation at their location. Upon spotting Logan, his eyes widened for a brief second before he dived into action, running to hop over the couch with a grunt of, “Parkour!” He landed between the table and Logan.

“Whenever troubles block your way, your prince shall come to save the day!”

“If by ‘save the day’ you mean ‘interrupt an ongoing conversation that has nothing to do with you’ then yes, I suppose you’re right.”

“If it had nothing to do with me then it was obviously not a conversation worth continuing.” One hand on hip and eyes closed as his head turned to the side dramatically, Roman raised a hand to gracefully gesture at his face. “Go ahead, you may shower me with praises.”

Virgil rolled his eyes, sharing a glance with Thomas to shake his head. Thomas smiled weakly, more focused on Logan at the moment.

Arms crossed, Logan stood there unimpressed. He offered no retort. Which was a good thing, right? Because Thomas worried that this would turn into a full-blown argument, and he felt unprepared to play mediator at the moment since usually that was Patton’s—

Logan turned to look across the living room, gazing for a long, drawn-out minute at the white blinds.

“At this rate, nothing will get done,” he commented. Then he sank out.

Roman drooped, pouting. “He could at least put up a decent fight.”

Virgil smacked his arm. Roman gasped and smacked his arm right back.

Having grown up with brothers himself, Thomas knew they were about to squabble. He knew it and he couldn’t take it.

“Hey,” he called their attention sharply, throwing an arm out between them. Both of them flinched and avoided the limb at all costs, Roman jumping back and Virgil nearly falling off the table.

. . . okay, that kind of stung a little. Even worse was the spooked way they watched him now.

Were they afraid of Thomas? Or of themselves?

Thomas swallowed. He tried his best to remember Joan’s words and let that give him the determination to do what needed to be done.

“What was all that about?”

They looked at each other first in that way that screamed they knew exactly what Thomas meant but didn’t want to be the first to spill the beans. Roman stood up straight, offering a dazzling smile.

“Whatever do you mean, Thomas? You know how things usually go with us. We’re a rowdy bunch!”

“No, no.” Thomas denied, shaking his head. “I know how things usually go and that wasn’t . . . usual. There’s something going on here, something that you aren’t telling me, am I right?”

Virgil avoided looking at Thomas altogether. He let Roman do the talking. “Nothing that you don’t already know, I assure you. You know how Sir Thinks-a-Lot is, repressing the fact that he’s as human as the rest of us.”

Thomas could leave it there. It’d be the easy way out. Laugh it off, let things go back to normal. Forget the looming sense of unease and uncertainty.

Forget the other day ever happened.

Thomas folded his hands in his lap, eyes fixed on Roman, imploring and earnest. “I don’t think that’s all there is to it.”

“What you don’t know can’t hurt you,” Virgil muttered.

“There’s already a lot that I don’t know,” Thomas pointed out, “and I’m not the only one it’s hurting.”

Silence fell on them. Not for the first time, Thomas wondered where the line was drawn between himself and his sides. How similar had their thoughts been running these past days? Or could he fathom what they were going through?

Roman put his back to them, bracing his arms on top of the couch, head bowed. Likewise, Virgil refused to look at him. He sat there hunched in on himself, hood having been pulled up. Without being able to see their faces like this, Thomas could imagine they were anyone. Anyone with their own problems and fears. Anyone he could reach out to, if he dared.

What would it be like? If he were to grip at the arm of Virgil’s hoodie and tug. Or to place a steady hand at Roman’s back? Could they feel the weight? Would they want to?

You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to do this.

That’s what Patton had said. But that was Patton. Did the others . . . did they ever think that way too?

“Please talk to me,” Thomas whispered, unable to bear the pounding silence.

They said nothing. Thomas drowned in the absence of sound, the tide of questions cresting over him, until an ocean spanned between them. His heart twisted in his chest, and he felt the inexplicably urge to cry.

More than anything, he wanted to understand himself.

Because they made his life better, right?

I want to make their lives better too.

From behind him, someone spoke softly, “This is my fault.”

Thomas looked over his shoulder to see Patton round the corner from the kitchen. His eyes were as sad as his smile. The other two sides seemed taken aback at his appearance. Virgil slid off the table, ready to approach Patton if Roman hadn’t gripped him by the elbow. Amazingly, Virgil let him without protest.

“Patton?” Thomas questioned. “How is any of this your fault?”

“We’ve all been thinking about it,” the fatherly side chuckled. “Even if it’s hard, or we might not want to. What happened, happened. We can’t change the past, just how we deal with it.”

“Pat,” Roman began but Patton hushed him gently.

“It’s alright, champ. I know what you’ve been up to. I know you care, but I don’t need you to protect me.”

“Protect you from what?” Thomas asked, glancing back and forth between his sides. What in the world was going on?

“From myself?” Patton confessed with a chuckle, scratching the back of his head. He took one step in front of the other, stopping almost a foot away from Thomas. They were the same height, all of them, but from where Thomas sat, he’d never seen Patton look taller. “I don’t think I’ve been setting a good example for my kiddos, lately.”

“What do you mean?” Thomas asked, voice barely a whisper.

“It’s okay to be scared, Thomas,” he said, smile understanding. He leaned forward, hands on his knees, their eyes at the same level. The corners of his eyes crinkled with fondness. “It’s okay to hide when you need to. But Thomas?”

A hand rose, palm facing up.

“We can’t hide forever,” Patton said and waited patiently.

Thomas scrutinized the hand. It was his, same lines drawn on skin, same tiny freckles scattered here and there, same thick fingers spread out. But at the same time, it wasn’t. This was Patton’s hand, and Thomas could feel everyone’s eyes on him, though he didn’t look up to check.

If Patton could do it, so could he.

He hung his own hand above Patton’s for a moment before bringing it down.

Tag list: @spectralheartt @a-pastel-pan @notalwaysthevillian @rose-gold-roman @ijustrealizedhowdumbmynamewas @katie-the-noble-fangirl @yourroyalydramaticanxiousness @aroundofapplesauce @merlybird500 @beach-fan @jemthebookworm @whats-going-on-kiddos @5am-the-foxing-hour @sevencrashing @ryuity @sanders-s1des-blog @pridefox @romano-cheesey @fandomsofrandom @book-of-charlie (let me know if you want to be added or removed from this story’s tag list)

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