#but man the fact that we go into their books and then Gerard pulls them all into his and it's just | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

pitviperofdoom · 3 years

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I really liked your 'Life Preserver' excerpt and I'd love to read more about it. I liked the interaction between Gerry and Georgie, their characterization and Gerry's description of his relationship with Jon, plus this exchange: “He thinks your mum’s a homophobe, you know.”“You know, he’s probably right? Think she might just hate the idea of love in general, though.”“Messy divorce, I take it,”“Rohypnol and garden shears were involved, so yeah, I’d say it was pretty messy.”

Thanks!

Yeah, Gerry and Georgie surprised me as a really interesting dynamic to explore. In spite of Georgie’s caution around the Entities, Gerry just feels like the kind of person Georgie would get along with, given the people she canonically ends up loving.

Anyway here’s another part I’ve written! This one actually has Jon and Gerry in it.

---

When Jon went in for his next shift, things went smoothly enough to be genuinely suspicious. Tina was his desk partner again, and she greeted him with the same cordiality as always. No one official-looking ever came by to speak with him.

The only hint that anything had happened that night was a campus-wide e-mail paying respects to Daniel Lattimer, one of the subject librarians, who was reported as having “passed unexpectedly”. The message held all of the usual official platitudes and nothing else; Jon had read it word for word several times to be sure.

Someone should have known, shouldn’t they? It wasn’t as if he had been careful about covering his tracks, beyond making his tip anonymous. The library had cameras. He was sure he’d left at least a few shoe prints in all the blood.

But nothing came of it. The first hour passed peacefully, with nothing more exciting than a couple of patrons he had to inform of overdue books.

Jon spotted the familiar dark figure out of the corner of his eye, even before Tina hissed a warning at him. He raised his head to watch Gerard Keay’s approach, chest suddenly tight with nervousness.

How on earth was he supposed to explain this?

“Hey.” Gerard was in front of him already, leaning his elbows on the desk as usual. “Any word on that book? I tried to come in yesterday, but you were closed.”

“R-right.” Jon hesitated. There were several ways he could answer this. He could, of course, be utterly truthful and tell him that he’d burned the thing on account of it being made of meat and killing one of the librarians. He almost laughed at the thought. At worst, Gerard would complain to someone about Jon being unhelpful; at best, he’d find it funny, but he’d demand a real answer once he was done laughing about it.

He could lie and stall by saying that the book was still on its way. But that was a temporary fix at best, and it would only lead Gerard to keep coming in and asking.

And would that really be so bad? Jon shook his head to clear away the thought.

“Right,” he said again. “A-about that. Unfortunately—” He slipped his bandaged hand behind the desk, out of sight. “—we were unable to find the book in storage. It seems to have been marked incorrectly. It happens sometimes. Though not very often, I assure you,” he added hastily. “But it’s been marked down as missing, I’m afraid.”

“Oh.” Gerard’s face was the very picture of disappointment. “That’s a shame. Really did need that one.”

“Terribly sorry for the inconvenience.” Jon tried to sound like he meant it.

It was hard to force down the sheer, overwhelming relief. Just last night he’d regretted his own paranoia, but now? If he hadn’t gone back, if he hadn’t checked for the book…

Well, the library might not have been closed yesterday. And he didn’t have the first shift at the circulation desk. And whoever did might have been someone who didn’t know, someone who wasn’t haunted by the name Jurgen Leitner, who might have taken the book from the cart and handed it straight over—

The unwelcome memory of Mr. Lattimer’s body rose up behind his eyes, juxtaposed over the young man standing before him.

As a child, he’d doomed someone else to a gruesome death that should have been his. So maybe this time… maybe he’d actually…

“Well then,” said Gerard, shaking him out of his bubble of thoughts. “Guess that’s—er, guess I’ll look elsewhere…”

“Right,” said Jon. “Unless there was anything else you needed…?” He tried not to sound too hopeful.

“No, thanks, that’s it,” said Gerard, already turning away. “Thanks for all the help.”

“Oh, I hardly—I mean, I didn’t really do much, in the end.”

Gerard regarded him for a moment, head tilted to one side with a thoughtful look. Then, quite without warning, he smiled at him. “Don’t sell yourself short. You were great.”

“O-of course,” Jon stammered as Gerard turned to leave again. “Oh, wait—wait a moment.”

Gerard looked back. “Yeah?”

Jon dug into his pocket, pulling out the lighter. “Is this yours?” he asked, placing it on the desk. “I found it on one of the tables in the reading room, and I remembered you had it the other day…”

Instead of taking it, Gerard simply flashed him one last grin. “Keep it,” he said. “I’ve got loads.”

“It’s really not good to keep ignition sources in a library,” Jon protested, feeling inordinately flustered.

Gerard laughed, a brief, bright thing, and—

“D’you want to get coffee?” Jon blurted out.

The smile froze on Gerard’s face, before giving way to surprise. “What?”

A stab of terror nearly robbed Jon of his words, before he found his voice again and forged ahead. “Do you—I mean. Do you want to get coffee sometime?” he repeated. Shit. Shit, he was doing this, how was he already doing this? “With me?” He wanted to kick himself, of course he’d know he meant it that way. “I—my shift ends at noon today. If you’re free. I-if you want to, I mean.”

Gerard blinked at him, so utterly bewildered that it might have been funny if Jon’s heart weren’t currently climbing into his throat. “You—wait. Is this… are you asking me on a date?”

He said it so incredulously, as if the idea that Jon would ask him on a date were utterly incomprehensible to him. Rapidly, Jon’s heart sank back down.

“Yes,” Tina leapt in helpfully. “He is. Aren’t you, Jon?”

She nudged him none too gently. “Y-yes,” he said, because it wasn’t as if he could dig himself any deeper. “That—that was the intention.”

“Huh.” Gerard shrugged. “Sure.”

The whiplash made Jon dizzy for a moment. “Really?”

“Yeah. Noon, right? See you then.” With that, he turned and walked out of the library.

Once he was out of sight, Jon slumped over onto the surface of the desk like a marionette with its strings cut.

Tina patted his back. “Proud of you. Go get that goth D.”

***

It wasn’t that Gerry didn’t know it was a terrible idea—just that he’d had worse ones before. He was still breathing after years of them, in fact. So what was one more?

Jon the librarian was far from the first scarred survivor he’d ever met. They weren’t common, precisely, but nor were they unheard of. Technically he was one, and Mum had been as well, before she carved herself up.

But Gerry knew he was an outlier, and as rare as surviving one brush with the Fears was, meeting two of the things and escaping uneaten from both was on a level of its own. But against all odds, when he looked at the wispy little librarian who’d spent the past week being so divertingly helpful, Gerry could see two separate, distinct marks on him, where there had previously been only one. And they really were distinct from one another. The Flesh was like a shark sometimes, content to take one good bite before losing interest and wandering off, while the wisps of the Web still clung jealously. A scar like that could have been left years ago or the day before they met. You could never tell with the Web.

That added to the risk, of course. For all he knew, this was some ploy from the Mother of Puppets to catch him and draw him in. A little cliche, maybe, but Gerry couldn’t fault it for its efficacy.

He’d said yes, after all.

In his defense, it wasn’t every day he met someone with a nice face, a taste for burning Leitners, and enough luck or fortitude to walk away from two different Powers. Nor was it every day a person like that asked him to… well…

People didn’t flirt with him, was the thing. Anyone who knew enough to be worth talking to either wised up and ran the other way, or turned around and tried to take a chunk out of him.

So, yeah. Might as well give it a shot. See what it was like, while he had the chance.

He had til noon to brace himself, anyway. Not enough time to go back to Mum’s and freshen up, which was a shame. She’d just faded out a couple of days ago, so he knew he’d have the place to himself.

Ah, well.

In spite of himself, Gerry found himself turning his face upward with a grin and an excited spring in his step. It’d be a bit like traveling abroad, or visiting tourist traps, or all the other things he indulged in when Mum was gone. See as much of the world beyond his own as he could, before she finally fucked up and got him killed.

A date! Who’d have thought he’d get to check that one off the bucket list?

#tma fic #jongerry #jonathan sims #gerard keay #safe harbor au #tales from the pit #lady-with-a-deathwish

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yellowocaballero · 3 years

Text

Desolation Destroyed My P****: Web!Jon, Gertrude/Agnes Repressed Homoeroticism, and Gerry faking his own death

Another installment in the slowly complicating Web!Jon AU based off The Convention on Chronographer Lane/The Monster at the End of This Book. You don’t need to know anything about the other two installments, the main story, or the actual Web!Jon story that will get WRITTEN once I’m done with Space Cadet. Full story under the cut. GERTRUDE POV BABY LET’S GO DON’T BE A COWARD AND EMBRACE THE GERIATRIC LESBIANS.

CW for body horror

2002

People did not call Gertrude for favors.

Somehow most of the community had fallen under the impression that it was a bad idea to owe a favor to Gertrude Robinson, because she always came to collect. Gertrude had worked hard to enforce this. Most of those in her...field knew better than to ask an enemy for favors, and Gertrude made a habit of collecting enemies. She was not in the habit of collecting friends.

Allies, maybe. She could count her allies on one aging hand and have fingers left over. Unfortunately, Agnes Montague was one of them.

Also unfortunately, Agnes disliked and distrusted the Institute so severely she only ever called when she knew Gertrude would be in her own home - so, at one am, on a Saturday. The shrill blaring of Gertrude’s almost unused home phone startled her from her nightly reading, and she was forced to bookmark her place before picking up the phone.

She never spoke first on the phone, and old precaution, but Agnes knew that. “Don’t worry. I’m only calling for business reasons. I need another favor.”

Gertrude’s lips thinned. “Agnes. It’s been a while.”

Six months and a week, not that Gertrude was counting. The last time Agnes had called her up asking for a favor was the first time they had ever spoken: a request for help escaping her cult. It had been a long, messy business. The burn scar had only just healed.

They had a moment of sentimentality, then. A moment of sentimentality that had begun so many years ago as their lives were tied together in that forest, and stretched forward in time and space to culminate in a single mistake. It was a mistake Gertrude was afraid she was still making now.

“I would have called, but it was still dangerous,” Agnes said cheerfully. She had been a morose and sulky woman, when Gertrude first met her. She had brightened considerably since they had won her freedom: like the turn of winter into spring. “It’s settled down quite a bit, which is why I need the favor.”

“You still haven’t paid me back for last time,” Gertrude said mildly.

But Agnes just laughed, warm and soft, despite the cold welcome. “I feel like we both got something out of that arrangement, don’t you?”

They did. Gertrude wasn’t sure which arrangement Agnes was referring to. “Fine. What is it you need? Within reason, Agnes. I’m not sure I have another great escape in me.”

“I need three false identities,” Agnes said, shocking Gertrude deeply. People only tended to call Gertrude when they need something murdered or blown up. Not that she minded. “You know everybody, and I’ve been a bit cloistered these past few years. I have a source who knows some people, but the person that we’ve been avoiding also knows those resources, so they’re right out.”

“Running an underground railroad, are we, Agnes?” Gertrude asked archly.

Agnes laughed again, and despite herself the sound still rang something buried and cold in Gertrude’s heart. “I figured I’d try my hand at the good guy thing. What can I say, Gertrude? You were a good influence on me.”

“Don’t mock me.” But Gertrude sighed anyway, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I’ll get you in touch with who I use. If you give me your email I can connect you.”

“...what’s -”

“Never mind. I’ll pass your phone number along. Goodnight, Agnes.”

But the line crackled and fuzzed, and Agnes didn’t hang up. Neither did Gertrude. When Agnes spoke again it was soft - not hesitant, Agnes was never hesitant, but gentle. Agnes, Gertrude had found, could be more gentle than anybody else. “We never visited that lake.”

“Those are just dreams, Agnes,” Gertrude said - harshly, maybe unkindly. She didn’t know how to be anything else.

“Not to me. I - no, John, don’t eat that, you don’t know where it’s been!” Agnes sighed, sending a crackle of static over the line and catching Gertrude’s attention severely. “I have to go. Goodbye, Gertrude. Thank you for your help. Call me sometimes, will you? For personal reasons. I gave you my number for a reason.”

Gertrude hung up on her, deciding not to dignify any of that with a response. She hardly had the time to make - personal phone calls.

What foolishness. Agnes had infected her with such foolishness.

Gertrude went back to her book, mind working furiously, trying to remember if she had ever read of a ‘John’.

*****

Unfortunately, ‘John’ was about as common a name as they came.

Gertrude herself scarcely had any time to follow-up. Judging from Agnes’ words and tone, John was a child of some sort - had Agnes kidnapped somebody else’s child? Her child? (Gertrude had a very ridiculous thought for a moment before dismissing it, before grudgingly accepting that Agnes was made out of wax and that nothing was technically impossible). She gave Agnes her guy’s phone number and wished she could wash her hands of the matter. What Agnes did from now on would hopefully be none of her business.

Gertrude wished she could delude herself into believing that.

But Gertrude’s work was picking up, the rituals coming in faster and faster, and she found herself running about much more than she should at her age. Emma was invaluable, Fiona worked hard in research, and Michael was...sweet, but she trusted them with little information and trusted them less to watch her back. She couldn’t dedicate the amount of time she wanted to a hunch.

To make matters worse, Mary Keay had seemed to misplace her child. She was torn up about it, in her...own way. Gertrude wasn’t concerned. The boy was seventeen. He’d be back in three months with another two piercings, a Grateful Dead shirt, and no money. Goodness knows Gertrude had done it enough at his age. Did kids still trail along at Grateful Dead concerts? What was Gerry always listening to these days, Green Day? Green Day concert.

As such, it was two weeks before Gertrude even had time to follow up with her contact. It only took minimal application of her blackmail before he spilled what Agnes had him make, and the full details therein. Most importantly, her new listed address. That, at least, ought to be real.

As Gertrude rode the Underground to the humble London neighborhood where Agnes had apparently escaped her followers, sneering at young men who tried to give her their seats, she flipped through the paperwork. Agnes Montague, twenty seven - my, wasn’t she vain - born in London, England. All of her details seemed fairly legitimate. New NIN, credit score, false history, the usual. So it wasn’t her she was trying to hide.

The second file was more interesting. There was her mystery John. Jonathan, apparently. Jonathan Montague.

Gertrude’s eyebrows crawled up. What was her game?

The announcement of her stop echoed smoothly through the train, and she quickly folded up the papers and stuffed them back in her purse. It was a short walk from the station to the flat complex where Agnes was now staying, and she found herself ridiculously wondering what Agnes would look like.

Would her hair be the same color, the color of licks of fire straining into the night sky? Her eyes the same forest green, a rainforest any woman could drown in? Her skin rosy and soft, with full appearance of youth and longevity, never to age or decay? Gertrude was only barely sixty, but she was feeling her age with every year. Her living had been hard, and it was finally catching up with her.

What else would catch up with her, once she knocked on Agnes Montague’s door?

Apartment number 426, 1446 Frederick Street. The strange thing about it was the welcome mat set outside the door. There was a little smiley face. It was so incongruous with Agnes, yet so oddly fitting, that Gertrude found herself smiling.

She knocked once, twice. Her lockpicks were up her sleeve. Hopefully Agnes wasn’t home and she could snoop, but -

The door opened to reveal Gerard Keay, looking down at a loose crumple of bills in his hand. He was so busy counting them out that he didn’t see who was standing at his doorstep.

“Thanks, mate, we -” Gerard finally looked up, and his face whitened. “You aren’t pizza.”

“So I’ve been told,” Gertrude said dryly. “Are you going to let me in?”

He let her in.

******

So that was where Gerard had gotten to.

Agnes, who had been pulling soda out of the fridge in their small kitchenette, was much happier to see her than Gerard was. It was the first time anybody had been happy to see Gertrude suddenly turning up at their doorstep in a very long time, and it made Gertrude almost uncomfortable.

“I’m here for business reasons,” Gertrude felt the need to tell her, as she glared Gerard into sulking miserably on the couch. He had dyed his beautiful hair some nasty black color, which was either for disguise purposes or for...what was the word...goth? Goth purposes? Gertrude was very thankful she did not have children.

But Agnes just smiled at her, as if she saw straight through. Which was ridiculous. There was nothing to see straight through. “It would be pretty strange if you stalked me until you found my address and showed up at my home in the middle of the day holding lockpicks for business reasons, Gertrude!”

“It’s for personal reasons.”

“There we go. I would offer you some pizza, but it seems that it’s not here yet.”

“So it seems.” Gertrude turned her eyes on Gerard, who wilted. “I hope this is a valuable lesson in checking to see who is at the door before you answer it, young man.”

Gerard mumbled something.

“I know for a fact your mother did not raise you to be this careless.”

“My mother barely raised me at all,” Gerard grumbled.

“Fine. Then I did not teach you to be that careless.” That got an actual flinch out of him, and Gertrude sighed. “What is going on here, you two?”

“It’s a very long story,” Agnes said.

“Containing very many events I am under pain of death not to tell you about,” Gerard added. “Are you going to tell Mum I’m here?”

Gertrude sighed.

The flat was small, clearly newly rented. They had very little furniture, and what they did have was clearly liberated from charity shops and kerbs. Their living room held a battered television, one of those gaming consoles Gerard liked so much, a scuffed and thoroughly singed coffee table to match an equally singed couch, and a pair of overstuffed bookshelves. A cutaway wall revealed a small kitchen, with a nook that held a rickety kitchen table. None of it seemed particularly out of the ordinary for two young people, strongly resembling Gertrude’s own first flat.

She cautiously sniffed the air. No smell of candles. Hm.

She was just about to push the matter of how exactly the Messiah of the Eternal Flame and a bookseller’s son met and became flatmates when a crash and a thump echoed from the hallway. Gerard jumped off the couch, and Agnes bit her lip. Another rattle echoed from the hallway, and something deep in Gertrude’s mind recognized the sounds as those of a caged animal.

“What is that,” Gertrude said flatly.

“I’ll check on him,” Gerard said quickly, fleeing into the hallway. He knocked on one of the doors - Gertrude noticed that there were two on each side, three bedrooms and a bathroom - and said something quietly against the door, before cracking the door open a few inches. Gertrude couldn’t see what was inside, and she couldn’t maneuver herself closer without alerting Agnes.

There was another crash, and Gerard slammed the door shut quickly. He grinned broadly yet anxiously at Gertrude, tittering a laugh. “It’s nothing! Nothing to see here. Would you like a cuppa, Gertrude!”

“Hm,” Gertrude said.

They gave her a cuppa. She sat on the couch, Agnes and Gerard anxiously standing in front of her wringing their hands, and pretended to sip the cuppa.

“Promise there’s no human flesh in it,” Gerard said. Gertrude arched an eyebrow at him until he sighed, took it, took a small and exaggerated sip, and then passed it back.

It was only then that Gertrude tried some. She couldn’t help but smile. Agnes’ tea was always perfect.

“Can one of you tell me why, according to the government, you are now legally siblings?” Gertrude asked archly. She put one hand down on the cracks between the sofa cushions beside her, pretending it was for balance. “Without lying, please.”

Agnes shrugged helplessly. “Gerard didn’t want to live with his mother anymore and I wasn’t doing anything important.”

“We thought about faking a corpse but was afraid that would just excite her,” Gerard said, depressed. “Hopefully when I don’t turn up she’ll just assume I was eaten by a book.” He affected a faux-nasally tone that did, admittedly, sound a lot like Mary. “ ‘If he’s too incompetent to survive he’s no good to me as a son. Good riddance to bad rubbish, his whole line’.”

“Gerry won’t let me immolate her,” Agnes said seriously.

“She’s my mum, Agnes!”

“Immolating parental figures is very therapeutic.” Agnes patted him reassuringly on the shoulder. “When I set everybody who ever loved me on fire, I felt great about it.”

“It seemed very cathartic,” Gertrude said dryly. She dug her fingers deeper into the crack between the cushions until something soft and thread-like rubbed between her fingers. Bingo. “Why the false identities? Why not simply let Gerard live with you until he turned 18?”

“We want him declared dead,” Agnes said simply. “And we want him to have an actual identity for when that happens. This is the best way to keep him away from his mum. Besides, Gerard Montague has his A Levels and a diploma for uni. ” She shrugged. “And hopefully he’ll be staying with me for quite a bit longer than a year.”

Interesting. They really did know each other. Maybe they were even really friends - although Gertrude was forced to wonder what a woman in her sixties and a teenager had in common. Gerard had mentioned wanting to go to university, but they had all known it was a pipe dream. Dreams like that often were. Gertrude neatly withdrew her hand from the cushion, folding her hands over each other in her lap. She rubbed the thread between her hands, satisfied when she felt its loose, sticky elasticity.

How interesting.

“And Jonathan?”

Both of them froze.

Gerard broke first, laughing nervously and high pitched. “Who’s that?”

Gertrude lifted her hand, showing both of them the thin strand of spider-silk pinched between two bony fingers. Both Agnes and Gerard whitened. “I imagine it’s whatever Avatar of the Web you have locked in the back room that is responsible for these.”

They winced simultaneously, glancing at each other. Doubtlessly trying to come up with a cover story. Gertrude sighed, standing up from the couch and straightening her skirts. Nothing for it then. Her Glock was still strapped to her thigh, and a hunting knife at her other.

Gertrude knew very little about the Web. Just, she suspected, as it liked. It had no rituals, and held no explicit threat to the safety of the world. It was a threat, for sure. Even worse, a threat that Gertrude knew infuriatingly little about. But it was not the most immediate threat, and as Gertrude spent every day drowning under more and more immediate threats she held very little time for those which weren’t promising to end the world anytime soon.

Maybe that was why Gertrude was fully planning to leave this flat and never mention its inhabitants again - not to Mary, not to Dekker, and not to whatever scattered remnants of her cult that Agnes had left alive. Whatever Agnes wanted, it seemed to be closer to a normal life living with her friend than anything world-destroying. And whatever Gerard wanted...well, he was a good boy. He wouldn’t do anything dangerous to anybody other than himself. Mary didn’t have to know. Perhaps it was even for the best.

“You really don’t want to go in -”

“Gertrude, please, he’s in a rather delicate stage right now -”

Another thump against the door. As Gertrude left the living room, crisply walking down the thin and crowded hallway until she stood in front of a thin and battered-looking door, she could slowly begin to hear the faint but distinct sounds of...chittering. Skittering. It was a sound she had heard only once before, during a brush with the corruption.

Gertrude raised a hand to knock at the door.

A hand shot out, pale and thin, and clasped Gertrude’s wrist in its grip firmly. Despite herself, Gertrude’s breath caught. Agnes’ touch still did that to her, it seemed. When she glanced to the side, she saw Agnes standing next to her, mouth stubbornly set firm. Her long and silky orange hair tumbled over her shoulder, glimmering under the soft lights.

“The world’s a cruel place, Gertrude,” Agnes said. “We’re just trying to look out for each other.”

“We all chose this life,” Gertrude said, voice tinged with reproach.

But Agnes just set her jaw stubbornly. “We didn’t.”

It was a we that didn’t include Gertrude - but, of course, so little of Agnes’ life did.

Gertrude let her hand drop to the doorknob, and she didn’t meet Agnes’ eyes as she twisted the knob and let herself in.

Some part of her felt it very idiotic, to walk into what she knew was a spider’s lair. A ridiculous part of her mind couldn’t help but hum the little nursery rhyme she had learned as a girl. But if it was truly dangerous Agnes would have prevented her from going in, instead of asked her to. Some part of Gertrude trusted that, a part of Gertrude that somehow still survived despite everything.

It wasn’t that Agnes appealed to the softer side of Gertrude. It was more that Agnes appealed to the hardest and cruellest parts of her, her tough outer shell, that ached for a reassurance that even a woman raised in utmost cruelty could make the choice to be kind. That there was still goodness in the world. If even a Messiah of the Eternal Flame could smile like that, could look at Gertrude with those deep and unfathomable eyes, then maybe all of Gertrude’s efforts weren’t for nothing.

The room was white. No, not white - just covered in long, ropy strands of spider-web. Different shapes and sizes, different lengths and thicknesses. Some of it was wispy and gentle, like cotton fluff, while some of it was closer to rope. It wasn’t arranged in a spider’s beautiful pattern, an elegant nest: it was more like an explosion, as if it was thrown anywhere and everywhere without regard.

The webs didn’t cover everything in the room. A bed was clearly visible, draped with webs as it was. There was a closet, and several boxes stacked in the corner with loose clothing draped over them. That was every piece of furniture and personal item in the room. It was a minor miracle that the living and dining rooms didn’t have more spidersilk in them - a testament to Agnes and Gerry’s tidiness, or a sign that the inhabitant rarely left the room.

The inhabitant of the room was curled on the bed. It - he, perhaps? - was sitting upright against the wall, knees curled up against a chest, forehead resting on the knees. He was half-obscured by webs, but Gertrude could immediately tell that the figure wasn’t very old. Gerard’s age, or perhaps a bit younger.

The webs did little to obscure the four arms - two flesh, two hinged and black and hairy - curled around the boy’s body.

The boy didn’t look up when he saw her. Gertrude wondered if he even noticed. She was only just beginning to wonder what the thumps were when one of the spider arms lashed out and crashed against the wall, shaking the room.

Hm. This was Gertrude’s first Web Avatar, but if they all looked and acted like this then she could only assume that they would be much more obvious than they are. New, then. Maybe as new as those identities Agnes had applied for.

Normally she’d torch it and go home, but with both Agnes and Gerard in residence that option was out of the question. Her curiosity had been satisfied: she could turn around now and leave the room, knowing what it was Agnes and Gerard were protecting. She could let the inhabitants of this flat fade into obscurity, secure in the knowledge that none of them wished to harm her or the world.

But Gertrude was a bit too curious for her own good, or perhaps a bit too soft, because she found herself stepping forward.

Her low-heeled boots didn’t slide on the web, but it did stick. When she lifted her feet they tracked up thin spiderweb, and she resolved to burn this outfit once she made her way back to the Archives. After a few breathless moments, Gertrude found herself standing in front of the boy, who hadn’t seemed to notice her yet. Poor situational awareness. He’d fit in well with Gerard.

“Jonathan.”

The boy looked up at her, and anybody else would have bit back a scream.

He had eight eyes - black, glistening, unreal. Bulbous and unsettling, they skittered and twitched in strange directions, as if uncertain how to work or how to see. New, brand-new. Uncontrolled. The boy’s mouth parted in slight surprise, but it was obviously difficult to read any sort of expression.

He didn’t say anything. Gertrude found herself absently wondering if spiders had tongues.

“Do you know what is happening to you?”

The boy stared at her, long enough that Gertrude found herself wondering if he still clung to sentience, before slowly nodding his head. Good.

“Then you know how to stop it,” Gertrude said sharply, and the boy sat up straighter. “Stop moping about, now. Look around. You’ve destroyed your room.” She gave the boy a moment to look around, expression still inscrutable, before she went back on the attack. “You’ve sulked long enough. Put away those arms, now. Go on.”

The boy stared at her, coarse black spider arms twitching and curling.

“You know what’s happening,” Gertrude said firmly. “It’s your body. Not theirs. It’s your body, Jonathan. Bend it to your will. Not theirs.”

Slowly, disgustingly, the arms began to recede. They slid back inside his torso, sucking into his ribcage, shifting and clicking and chittering, until there was nothing left but an ordinary chest. Gertrude was even now able to recognize his shirt. It was one of Gerard’s. Green Day.

“Your eyes now. Come on, hurry up. I haven’t got all day.”

The eyes pulsed and twitched, bubbling strangely. One of them whirred, glistening with a thousand fractals.

The boy opened his mouth, and garbled speech came out. “I can’t...I can’t…”

“You have no choice. You must, so you will. Come on, Jonathan. Listen to me. It’s your body. It’s not theirs.”

The eyes melted back into Jonathan’s face, and that was so disgusting Gertrude politely looked up. She had seen worse, but no point in subjecting herself to it. When she looked back down she was shocked to see, for all appearances, a teenage boy.

He had a thin, severe face, and large cloudy grey eyes. His hair was curly and matted, and despite his posture Gertrude could tell that he was the kind of short and built that was straining up against an imminent growth spurt. His skin was a light brown, with thin lips and features that suggested mixed ancestry. He looked very much like a regular, if somewhat striking, teenage boy.

“There you go,” Gertrude said, “that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“Who the fuck are you,” the rude child said.

“Jon!”

She had been so focused on Jonathan, that she hadn’t noticed when Gerard and Agnes entered. Gerard practically jumped onto Jonathan’s bed, mindless of the spiderwebs, and folded him into a tight hug. Jonathan clung back desperately.

“Don’t worry us like that,” Agnes said. She had appeared at Gertrude’s elbow, and moved forward to sit on Jon’s other side and give him a tight hug too that he returned just as fiercely. She looked up at Gertrude over Jon’s shoulder and mouthed ‘thank you’ to her, which she waved away. It had hardly been anything.

“I think I’m rather owed a full explanation now,” Gertrude said pointedly. “And I think young Jonathan needs a bath.”

“What? No, I -” Jonathan separated from Gerard, and sniffed his shirt. He pulled a disgusted face. “Ew. Yeah, okay.”

******

They did not give her the full story. Gertrude wasn’t sure what she was expecting.

Oh, they gave her the broad strokes of it. All three of them were ‘old friends’, despite one of them being sixty and the other two being actual teeangers. Gerard and Agnes, especially, gave off the air of having known each other for years. They both seemed less familiar with Jon, though no less affectionate. Gertrude felt like she was trying to put together a puzzle with mittens and no idea what the final image would be.

“I’ve been keeping an eye on Jon for a while,” Agnes said apologetically. They were all sitting around the rickety kitchen table now. Gertrude passed her teacup to reheat, which she did with a smile, and Gerard was at the door accepting the pizza from a confused deliveryman. Judging from the amount of takeaway containers, these two hadn’t been doing a lot of cooking. “He ran away from his grandmother’s a month ago. He made it to London and lived on the streets for a few weeks until I finally tracked him down. He’s been staying with us ever since.”

“When Agnes got in contact with me and told me that she found Jon, I figured it was time to bounce.” Gerard put some plates on the table and slid the pizza box into the center. Agnes eagerly grabbed the pizza and put a slice on her own plate. At Gerard’s look, Gertrude held up a hand in a ‘no thank you’ motion, and he shrugged. “Agnes has been trying to get me to stay with her since she lost her cult, but I figured I would just ditch Mum once I hit eighteen. Then...stuff happened...and I don’t really trust Agnes alone with a teenager anyway, so I left. Easy.”

“Thank goodness she’s only left alone with two teenagers now,” Gertrude said. She glanced at Agnes, who seemed unrepentant. “Is anybody looking for Jonathan?”

She shook her head. “Parents long dead. His Gran...she won’t look for him. Nobody will. I doubt any of them remember he exists. ”

“Did Jonathan make sure of that?”

Abruptly, Gerard looked very uncomfortable, but Agnes just nodded calmly. “Yes, likely.” At Gertrude’s ticked eyebrow, she continued, “She’s alive. But Jon...he’s convincing. We think. So far as we can tell. Nobody’s going to be looking for him, even the police.”

“Did we tell you how he was getting money while he was on the streets?” Gerard asked gleefully. “Apparently he can walk up to Canary Wharf bankers and convince them he’s their cousin visiting from out of state and ask them for spending money. They just believe him! Isn’t that wicked?”

“It’s easy. All you gotta do is make them feel guilty for forgetting you were coming.”

Jonathan, dripping wet from the shower and dressed in some cleaner hand-me-downs, appeared in the doorway. He walked forward until he was leaning against the kitchenette wall, accepting the pizza Gerard quickly passed to him. Clean and human, he looked like any other teenager. The only thing that revealed him for what he was were his eyes: empty, lifeless, and dull.

“Hey, you’re still human!” Gerard said, perking up. “Are you feeling any better?”

“Yeah, tons.” Jonathan masticated his pizza, grease dripping down his chin. He locked eyes with Gertrude, who was careful not to blink as she stared back at him. “Who’re you?”

“The Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute,” Gertrude said crisply. “Gertrude Robinson.”

Jonathan’s mouth slowly fell open, revealing the primordial mass of globby cheese. Gerard was nearly bouncing in his seat, mouthing ‘It’s her!’ over and over again.

“I told him about you,” Agnes said quickly - so quickly that it could have only been a lie. “Only good things, believe me!”

“I’m sure.”

“Wait,” Jonathan said, eyes darting back and forth between Agnes and Gertrude - who, Gertrude was somewhat embarrassed to find, were sitting somewhat close. “She’s the girl -”

“Girl who helped me get those new IDs for you guys,” Agnes said desperately. “Although she’s more of a woman. Say thank you, boys.”

Both boys mumbled thank-yous through mouthfuls of pizza.

“How did it happen?” Gertrude asked Jonathan carefully. She was careful to keep that - pressure off her words. Very few reacted well to it, and she didn’t want to deal with a rampaging spider teenager again. “Your transformation. And don’t speak with your mouth full.”

Jonathan sassily made a show of swallowing the whole mouthful of pizza before he spoke. “I trapped my entire secondary school in a nightmare web where they all got turned into flies and eaten by spiders,” he drawled. “Oh, wait. I got bitten by a radioactive spider and ran away to London to fight crime.”

Gertrude gave him a very, very unimpressed stare. Jonathan smashed more pizza in his face. For a boy that must have been raised by his grandmother, he had no manners.

A grandmother that he had likely done something to, to guarantee that she wouldn’t look for him. To ensure that an entire town wouldn’t search for him. Wiping a life off the map like that - what kind of teenager would do that without a second thought?

A boy who found himself turning into a monster, fleeing the people he could hurt so he could reconvene with friends that understood?

Or a newly born monster that shed its old skin the minute it could?

Gertrude, as a younger woman, would have tended towards the latter. As an even younger woman, a child, she would have said the former. Now, she knew better than anyone how it could be both: a boy’s motivations propelled by a monster’s impulses, until even limbs of flesh were puppeted by silken threads.

The Web was the fear of manipulation and being controlled, Gertrude repeated to herself, a mantra so familiar that it had worn grooves in her mind long ago. Jonathan had already proved adept at the art: swindling money to survive, erasing the imprints that a life left behind.

Was she being controlled now? Was it any coincidence, that Jonathan ran into the arms of the one supernatural force in England that Gertrude wouldn’t shoot on sight? That he was lying in wait with the disappeared son of two people who had once been prominent in Gertrude’s life, a little boy she had seen grown up into a kind man despite all odds?

Jonathan had inserted himself neatly, cleanly, and absolutely into Gertrude’s life. And he had done it almost even without her noticing.

Of course, it was also the nature of the Web to make one ask these questions. It wasn’t just controlling - it was the fear of being controlled. By even thinking about this, Gertrude was playing straight into his hands -

“Gertrude.”

It was Agnes, sitting by her, looking at her with a softly sad expression. Her hands were in her lap, but they were twitching as if she wanted to reach out and take Gertrude’s hands in her own. They would be so different - they had always been different - but occasionally it felt as if whatever warmth they carried was the only heat that warmed Gertrude at all anymore.

“If you don’t trust him, trust me.” Something flickered deep in Agnes’ eyes, like a hearth. Maybe that was Agnes: a hearth, house and home. “You can trust me.”

“Can I?” Gertrude asked, mouth unexpectedly dry. “How can someone like me trust someone like you, Agnes?”

Agnes smiled, baring teeth white and perfect as wax. “There’s nobody on Earth like you, Gertrude. You know that just as well as I do.”

Both boys had their hands slapped over their eyes, horrified.

Maybe that was what convinced Gertrude: not Agnes’ promise of a safe place to rest in a tumultuous and dangerous world, but the fact that both these boys found that promise horrendously yucky. It wasn’t human - Gertrude had the feeling that no emotion from Jonathan could truly be human - but at least it was benign. In this world, sometimes that was the best you could ask for.

“Fine. I put them in your charge, then, Agnes.” Gertrude drained the rest of her tea, eyeing the leaves critically in her cup as the boys whooped and Agnes exhaled heavily. Her tea leaves read a bad omen. That was comforting: she liked to know what was ahead of her. “If I hear any statements about a strange boy swindling businessmen out of their salaries then I’ll know exactly who is responsible. Am I understood?”

“They weren’t missing it,” Jonathan grumbled, before Gerard elbowed him in the side. “Fine! Fine, you won’t hear anything about it.”

Not what she had said, but she’d take it. The supernatural was at its least dangerous when it felt scared and hidden. Nothing was more dangerous than an Avatar who felt themself above human laws and rules. Or, at best, Gertrude.

They never tended to live long.

“Uh. Ms. Gertrude.” Gerard awkwardly creased his greasy napkin, expression tight. “Are you going to tell Mum?”

“Tell her what?” Gertrude asked archly. “I hardly think what Gerard Montague does is any of Mary Keay’s business.” As Gerard broke out into a relieved smile, Gertrude added, “Don’t give me any reason to charge after you, Gerard. You’re impulsive and reckless. Your mother’s kept you safe from yourself so far, but you’ve decided that you no longer need that protection. Don’t make me regret keeping my mouth shut.”

Jonathan snickered, ignoring Gerard’s flush. “Whipped.”

“I’ll speak to you outside, Jonathan.”

This time it was Gerard’s turn to snicker as Jonathan flushed and straightened away from the wall. “You’re in trou-ble!”

Good lord. This was why she hadn’t had children.

But he followed her out the flat anyway. The flat complex was smaller, just a few buildings connected by sidewalks and catwalks, and the flats opened into the fresh air. As they emerged onto the first story, Gertrude let Jon lean against the railing and turn his head towards the sun. The wind blew softly, and Jon exhaled softly as he closed his eyes. Issues controlling a human form meant that he likely hadn’t been outside very often lately.

“Tastes weird,” Jonathan decided finally, as if they had both been waiting solely for his judgement. “Air back home always tasted like salt. Everything was fresh and clean. It wasn’t anything like dirty, smoggy London.”

“Go back home, then.”

Jonathan snorted bitterly. He had turned his back to Gertrude, leaning on the railing to stick his head out. As if she wasn’t a threat. “Can’t. Gran doesn’t know I exist anymore. Trust me, nobody’s missing me back home.”

“How can that be? There must be school records, any kind of documentation. You must have known dozens of people.”

“Ah, that’s the genius of it.” Jon turned around, grinning lazily at her. He leaned against the railing, elbows back and resting on top of the metal frame. “All I needed to do was implant a few strategic suggestions. Just on the people who interacted with me the most, or the people most responsible for me. Gran, Mr. Heathcliff, Ms. Robbins, Dr. Yung.” He wriggled his fingers experimentally - like a magician doing a magic trick, or a puppeteer pulling strings. “Every time someone asks them where I am, they tell them that I never existed. And, you, know, wouldn’t they know? Jon’s Gran would know if Jon existed or not. So they doubt themselves too. Maybe Jon was never here, not really. Maybe he was just...a faint dream. The kind you forget the moment you wake up.”

“And the papers?”

Jon shrugged. “A person’s in charge of those papers. Ms. Hastings, school secretary. When she sees my student file, she’s going to ask my headmaster about it. And he’s going to say - who? And she’ll remember that I was nobody to remember at all. And those papers will become just so much garbage. When the cop, the government clerk, whoever, remembers that there’s no Jonathan to remember, that’s it.” Jon grinned at her, a proud kid showing her a perfect score on a report card. “Anything is beatable, Ms. Gertrude, if there’s human error involved. You can build the most perfect machine in the world, but so long as a human’s involved in any step of that process then it can go wrong.”

“Did the Web tell you that?”

“My Mother trades in lots of secrets, Ms. Gertrude,” Jonathan said, and in the turn of a second his eyes hardened into beetle-black shells, black and inhuman, before he forcibly pulled them back in again. Jonathan grimaced, gritting his teeth as he kept the transformation at bay. “Sorry. Sorry. I - I don’t want to hurt anyone. I won’t. Agnes and Gerry are going to help me. I’m going to choose what kind of mo - person I am. I’m going to choose right.”

“See to it that you do.” Gertrude stepped closer, and she knew that her face was stony and cold. Revealing nothing, with no weaknesses or cracks to exploit. She had lost every weakness long ago, save one. “I know where you live, Jonathan. I know what you’re capable of - even more, I suspect, than you yourself do. Mind yourself, and I won’t have to find a solution to your problem.” She let her eyes glint, just once. “I’m very good at finding solutions, Jonathan.”

Jonathan looked away first, of course. He swallowed heavily. “Mother told me about you.”

“All good things, I’m sure,” Gertrude said dryly.

“She says I’m not ready yet. She said we have someone else for you, but I’m not ready yet. She says I’ll be the King one day, maybe, but not today. I’m...still hatching. It’s uncomfortable. It’s so -” Something haunted flashed through Jonathan’s lifeless grey eyes, and he shivered. “It hurts. So much.”

“So I hear,” Gertrude said, no trace of sympathy in her voice. “Good day, Jonathan.”

She left Jonathan there: shivering, alone, and human for now.

She would see him again, she knew. A frightened teenage boy who promised her that he’d be king of the Web one day was a warning sign if she’d ever heard one. But if it was a warning sign, then it was one Gertrude was meant to hear. A shake of a rattlesnake’s tail: a creature that wants to go through the energy of biting you as little as you want to be bit, so save us both the trouble.

And maybe Jonathan’s comment, so offhand he may not even have realized that he was making it, was a warning of its own: a spider in her own camp. Who?

Agnes was waiting for her, by the Underground station. She didn’t know she got there before her. Young people moved so fast these days. She smiled and waved when she saw Gertrude, as if they both had arranged to meet there.

“What is it now?” Gertrude asked, exhausted. “Another favor?”

“Just a thank you for helping me keep the boys safe,” Agnes said cheekily. She stepped up, carefully, brushed a kiss to Gertrude’s cheek. Gertrude, idiotically, let her. “Call me, okay? For personal reasons.”

“Maybe,” Gertrude said, to the hearth that burned low in her heart, “if it’s for personal reasons.”

It wasn’t until she was halfway home on the Underground, thinking about noting down the address of Agnes’ apartment, that she found herself wondering what the address even was. Thomas Street...No, Jackson? 144...5?

What was she trying to remember?

No matter. Getting old again. Gertrude continued making notes in her notebook, reminding herself to search for a spider’s web, as the train rattled on for home, and the warmth of a kiss lingered on her cheek.

#my writing #tma #gertrude robinson #agnes montague #gertrude robinson/agnes montague #gertrude/agnes #tma fanfic #the magnus archives fanfiction #gerard keay #jonathan sims #web!jon

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Text

Cold Night - Gerard Way x Reader

Request: The “but there’s only 1 bed...” trope with basement Gerard?

Summary: you’re spending the night in a small motel, and of course it’s Gerard and the reader who end up in the single bed room.

Word count: 3 327

A/N: kinda the wrong season for this but who cares, right? Also the dialog between Frank, Ray and Mikey: I read it again and actually got annoyed at them…

The air in the van was freezing cold and used, but you had been breathing it for so long now that you did not even notice. Ray was confidently steering the old, rusty car down the highway with Gerard asleep in the passenger seat while you were squeezed between Frank and Mikey in the backseat. You were shivering from the cold, but their body heat kept you a little warmer. It seemed like a lifetime ago since you had been able to feel your legs the last time, thanks to the amplifier that successfully stole all the space for your legs. You had tried to vary your sitting position as often as possible, but since Frank had sleepily cuddled into your side and effectively immobilized you, it had become impossible to move. While your legs were completely numb, your butt sure was not as lucky, and instead itched from all the sitting.

Just when you were certain you would eventually scream, just to get rid of some of the built up tension from not being able to move all day long, the van passed the sign that announced you had reached the city where the band would play their next concert tomorrow evening. A sigh of relief escaped your lips, and as if Ray had felt your despair, he pulled into the gravel parking lot of a motel just a couple of minutes later.

The motor was not even turned off yet, when you had already pushed Frank off of you and jumped out of the car, trying to get your legs to work again. It felt like thousand ants were biting you, and while you jumped around to get your blood flow working, Gerard slowly lifted his head, and looked out of the window. He decided that you, even if it was while jumping around like a maniac, were the best thing he could possibly wake up to.

When the feeling of the ants finally disappeared again, and even your behind had forgiven you for the torturous drive, you calmed down a little. Out of breath you stretched your arms over your head, shivering once more from the icy breeze that blew over your skin where your shirt had ridden up just enough to reveal a tiny bit of your stomach and back. Right now you could not care less. Turning around your own axis, your arms still stretching in the hopes to feel more human again, you took in your surroundings.

The motel was pretty small, and from what you could tell, most of the rooms were taken already. Fog started building over the parking lot and the street, and all that was missing was the moose appearing from behind a tree in the deep forest. You continued turning slowly, and noticed that Ray was already walking over to the door that had a big red sign saying “reception”.

Mikey and Frank had climbed out of the van too, and were stretching just as much as you, while starting to fantasize about a bed for themselves out loud. And then there was Gerard. The passenger door was open, his legs hanging out of the vehicle, but he was still sitting, his piercing eyes carefully watching every single one of your movements. When he noticed that you had seen him, he quickly turned away, but he had not been fast enough to hide the dreamy expression in his eyes.

As if you had been caught doing something forbidden, you quickly lowered your arms, allowing your shirt to cover your upper body completely once again, while you tried to ignore the racing of your heart which you got every time you thought of the nerdy lead singer. Instead you decided to follow Ray, in the hopes to forget the way Gerard had looked at you as if he actually liked what he had seen.

The small room that hosted the reception was air conditioned, much to your relief, and cosily warm. Ray had already told the man behind the counter what the five of you were looking for, but the man just shook his head.

“I got a single and a double bed room,” he told Ray, who sighed barely audibly.

“Are there no other rooms available,” he asked desperately.

“None, now do you want to take the rooms or not?”

Ray and you exchanged glances. There was no way any of you would get back into that van before tomorrow.

“We’re five people. That still okay,” you inquired.

The man shrugged and noted something down in a book before telling Ray the price for two nights, and handing you two room keys.

The metal felt foreign between your icy and numb fingers, and you quickly turned around to tell the boys about the development while you thought about the chance that you would end up sleeping right next to Gerard. Not that you wanted to. Well, maybe you wanted to.

“Two rooms,” Mikey asked shocked.

“I’m not sharing with Gerard, he’s always snoring,” Frank immediately claimed.

“So are you,” replied the black haired man.

“Hey (y/n), do you wanna share the single room,” Frank asked, trying to make sure he would not have to share a bed with Gerard.

“I was thinking we could pair up,” Mikey interrupted, throwing a hopeful glance your way.

“I really don’t care,” you answered, giving an indifferent shrug towards the young men while a secret voice in your head was screaming to ask to share a room with Gerard. What you really wanted though was to get out of this bloody cold of tonight’s late march evening.

“If you have to fight about it, I get to share the room with (y/n),” Ray, who had reached the van too, decided.

“Who decided I have to sleep in the single room,” you tried calming the situation, but Frank had already started talking, far louder than you.

“Oh yeah, who made you the boss?”

“Well, judging by height, you definitely aren’t” Ray bit back, causing Frank to jump up in rage.

“Who do you think you are, you-“

“Well, who does get to share the room with (y/n) now,” Mikey wondered, which started a heated debate between the three men.

Gerard sighed quietly, and with a shake of his head he reached between his fighting band members, ending the fight effectively by stating with an annoyed groan that since the three seemed to need some bonding time they would share a room.

Fuming, but not daring to disagree with him, they accepted the deal, which somewhat surprised you. But then again all of you were tired, and it was incredibly cold, and the rooms would have air conditioning at least.

Grabbing your bag from the back of the van, you followed Gerard to the part of the motel with the single rooms.

“I can take the sofa,” he offered even before he had reached the door.

You shook your head.

“It’s fine, I can take the sofa, I really don’t mind.”

The little sign dangling from the key read the number seven, so when you had reached the room, you unlocked it, being met with the ice cold and dusty air of a room that had cooled out. But what you noticed first was the size of the room. And that was not big.

The room was just big enough for a single person bed that had been pushed against the wall, a table with a single chair, and a small door.

“Let me guess, the door doesn’t lead to a second, bigger room,” Gerard joked, pushing past you into the room.

“Bathroom, I guess,” you agreed with a small sigh.

All of a sudden you realized what that meant. It meant you really, really had to share the bed with Gerard. And it was a small bed.

“Seems like the sofa discussion is over,” Gerard shrugged, and threw his bag on the bed.

“Yeah,” you agreed quietly, all of a sudden not sure whether you could go through with this.

Putting your own bag down on the poor excuse of a table, you opened the second door, and were met with a small bathroom. The last, almost blue, rays of sunlight fell through the dusty window, but at least the set of towels seemed fresh.

“So, how does this thing work?”

You turned back to the room, and found Gerard was already standing on the bed, his shoes discarded on the floor, trying to get the air conditioner to work.

“Try this,” you grinned, and threw him a small remote which you had found on the table.

After having pressed a couple of buttons, Gerard successfully managed to get the white box to make a few strange sounds, and a couple of seconds later air blew into the room, air that quickly got warm.

“Heaven,” Gerard sighed, and flopped down on the bed.

“Indeed,” you agreed.

For a few moments you allowed the warm air to engulf you before you spoke up again.

“Mind if I take a shower?”

Gerard shook his head, so you grabbed your bag, and went back into the small bathroom.

You turned the water as warm as it got, trying to get your body to thaw. While standing under the pleasantly hot water, you could not help but think about Gerard and the fact that you would have to share a bed tonight. It should not be anything to worry about, right? After all he only saw you as a friend, didn’t he? But as hard as you tried, you did not see him as just a friend. To you he had always been more; first a crush, then you had considered yourself to be in love with him, but now… it was hard to put it into words. Gerard was the person you trusted most in the world, the person who always listened to you, who you listened to. You spent weekends together, playing video games, watching movies, discussing fan theories about The Lord of the Rings. He knew almost everything about you, except how hard you wanted to be able cuddle up to him every night, and how unreasonably jealous you got every time some random girl flirted with him.

Shaking your head, trying to clear it, you quickly finished the shower, hoping you had not used up all of the warm water.

When you came back into the bed room, the air had warmed up already. You felt a little cold again since the room was no comparison to the warm bathroom, but better than nothing. Gerard sat at the table, wearing a jacket, and doodled into his notebook.

“Bathroom’s free,” you let him know, pushing your day clothes into your backpack, now that you were wearing your pyjama.

“Okay, thanks,” Gerard nodded, closing his notebook, and sending you a smile. Did he have to look this soft and cuddly wearing this jacket?

He grabbed his own pyjama from his bag, and carelessly pushed the notebook and the pen inside, before he disappeared in the bathroom.

Shivering slightly, you sat down on the edge of the bed, and took another look around the room. The window was tiny, and you could not see outside. By now it was so dark outside that the lights from the room reflected in the glass. Standing up, you walked to the window, and tried spying outside. A single lamppost lit up the parking lot. A lot of cars, including the band’s van were parked outside, mostly pick-up trucks and range rovers. But beyond the parking lot, there was only darkness and the wilderness of the endless seeming forest.

Turning back to the room, you noticed that Gerard’s notebook had slipped out of the bag, and was lying on the floor. Walking over you picked it up. The leather of the cover was smooth and almost warm. For a split second you felt tempted to take a look inside, but decided against it. You would not want Gerard to look through your private things either. So you pushed it back into the bag and made sure it would not slip out again.

You decided Gerard probably would not mind if you went to bed already. You were cold again, and hoped that the blanket would give some comfort, more than the weak air conditioner did. In the bathroom you heard Gerard quietly humming over the sound of rushing water.

The blanket was rigid when you unfolded it, and crawled underneath. The bed was ice cold, and you scooted close to the wall.

Not much later, Gerard came back out of the bathroom. He could not help but smile when he spotted you, tucked in up to your nose.

“Tired,” he asked, putting away his clothes, and sitting down on the edge of the bed.

You just nodded.

“Hungry,” he continued asking, but this time you shook your head. Honestly you did not trust your voice not to shake. “Me neither. That veggie burger for lunch was gigantic!”

You giggled, remembering how full all of you had been. It had been delicious.

“Yeah, that was some meal,” you agreed.

“Should we go to sleep?”

“If you don’t mind? I’m really tired, and tomorrow is a long day,” you mumbled.

Gerard shook his head. “Not at all. I’m super tired too.”

He walked to turn off the lights, and felt his way back to the bed in the dark. Quickly he slipped under the blanket next to you, along with some cold air. You scooted as close to the wall as possible to make enough space for him, but you could tell that with the space he left between you, he was still balancing on the edge of the tiny bed.

“Thanks for warming the blanket up,” he joked, and you laughed quietly.

“Do have enough space? It kinda feels like you’re falling out of bed,” you asked, trying to make out his face in the minimal light.

“Uhm, well- yeah, I am,” Gerard admitted, “mind if I scoot closer?”

“It’s fine,” you encouraged, but at the same time wondered why you were doing it. Did you want to kill yourself with a heart attack?

Gerard moved away from the edge, and by the time it did not feel like he was millimetres away from falling out of bed anymore, he was basically laying chest to chest with you.

“If I snore, wake me up, okay,” Gerard instructed, making you laugh.

“I will,” you agreed, “good night.”

“Sleep well,” Gerard replied, and even though you could not see him in the dark, you could hear the smile on his lips.

For a while you were lying in silence. Your heart was racing, being so close to Gerard. His body was soft and warm, and you wished you could just hug him. Almost as if Gerard had heard your thoughts, he eventually cleared his throat.

“Uhm, do you mind if I…?”

“What,” you asked into the direction from where Gerard’s warm breath was fanning over your skin.

“Ahm-“ somehow he seemed not to find the right words, but instead he wrapped his arm around you a moment later, and pulled you a little closer.

The breath hitched in your throat, and your heart skipped a beat.

“Is that okay,” Gerard asked shyly, but you just nodded, feeling his hair brush against your face.

You could feel him relax, his arm getting heavier around your waist, and you hesitantly lifted your hand to his chest, not sure if he would push you away any moment, but then again he had been the one initiating the contact first. That your worries had been unwarranted was proofed by the little sigh that escaped Gerard, and he moved closer into your touch.

Smiling slightly, you tried to relax your tensed-up muscles. Gerard’s presence was comforting and familiar, even though you had never been this close to him. The butterflies, that had erupted in your stomach slowly settled down, and just when you had finally been at the brink of falling asleep in Gerard’s arms, he spoke up again, his voice sending vibrations through his chest.

“(y/n)?”

You opened your eyes, and now, that you were used to the dark, you were able to make out his shining eyes right in front of you. Your faces were barely two inches apart.

For a while you were looking at him, waiting for him to say something else, but he did not. Instead he stared at you through the darkness. You were about to ask what was wrong, when he suddenly moved, and pressed his lips against yours in a quick kiss, pulling away as quickly as he had lent in.

Surprised you looked at him, feeling him shaking with nerves underneath your fingertips on his chest. His eyes were closed, as if he was avoiding meeting your eyes.

“Gee?” Moving your hand from his chest up his neck to the side of his head, you gently wrapped a strand of his hair around your finger. “Gerard?”

Slowly he looked at you, the fear of rejection clear in his eyes. If only he knew he did not have to fear that from you.

Gently you guided his head back closer to yours, and connected your lips to his again. It took him a moment, but then he seemed to understand, and kissed you back, wrapping his arms around you tighter, and pulling you even closer to him. His hot lips and breath was welcome contrast to the still cold air of the room, and your heart beat hard as you ran your fingers through his slightly greasy hair and over his soft skin.

Far too quickly for your liking, you ran out of breath, and pulled away slightly, laying back down in the pillow, but Gerard moved over, and peppered your face with tiny kisses until you were full on laughing.

“You’re tickling me,” you exclaimed, pretending to try to shove him away.

“Good, I’ll need to remember that,” he answered, making you laugh even harder.

He fell back into the matrass next to you, and immediately pulled you close again, arranging the blanket over both of you so were cocooned in. His nose was brushing against yours, and you were breathing against each other’s skin.

“I just want you to know that I’ve wanted to kiss you since – since always, really,” he admitted, making you blush.

You nuzzled your nose into his neck, and inhaled the familiar scent, making him giggle.

“Thanks,” you mumbled, leaving a soft kiss against his neck before looking at him again, giving his lips a sweet kiss as well, which made him smile.

“What for,” he asked surprised.

“Having the courage to kiss me. I wouldn’t have had the courage to kiss you, well, I didn’t,” you shrugged, “no matter how much I wanted to.”

“That’s okay,” Gerard grinned, and brushed his fingers through your hair, “I’m just glad you didn’t sucker punch me.”

Both of you giggled at that, and sleepily you adjusted your position in Gerard’s arm.

“When I wake up tomorrow, will this have been a dream,” you wondered yawning.

“If it was, then it would have been a dream we both dreamt, and then we can just continue like this in the real world,” Gerard suggested, smiling at how comfortable you seemed to be in his arms. No matter how silly it seemed, he had always worried that if he ever got to the point of holding you in his arms, you would not be comfortable, or would not like it for some reason. But the way you were cuddling into him now, yawning and smiling, you seemed pretty happy.

Gerard watched you fall asleep, and decided that maybe, you had been right and all this was a dream. So there was only one way to avoid waking up – not falling asleep. Not that he would be able to sleep anyway, your sleeping form was far too distracting.

Taglist (if you want to be added or taken off, please let me know):

General: @justawriterinprogress @robinruns @jayloverthe3rd @lookalivefrosty @butterflycore (hi :D you changed your username! Do you want me to contine tagging me?) @starduststyx @angelevansfalls @rene-royale

#gerard way x reader #gerard way x reader fluff #gerard way x reader fanfiction #gerard way x reader imagine #gerard way x reader fanfic #gerard way fanfic #gerard way fanfiction #gerard way fluff #gerard way imagines #mcr imagine #mcr fanfiction #my chemical romance fanfic #my chemical romance fanfiction #my chemical romance imagine #my chem imagine #my chem fanfic #my chem fanfiction #fluff #one bed

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nikthehybrid · 3 years

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The Beauty Within: Chapter One

Here is the first chapter, finally! Thank you @damonsbitchx for helping with this story! And thank you @bonnbonnbennett for having patience while I take forever to post this!

TW: Lucien Castle is a canon typical creep.

Link to the prologue at the end.

3,198 words

Chapter One

Lucien Castle sauntered down the main road of New Orleans. Everything seemed pathetic compared to the luxury he was used to living in. He smirked at the various women who ogled him as he walked by. Nothing stroked his ego more than the adoration of those around him. His near constant companion, Marcel Gerard, was kept around because he kept up a steady flow of compliments. As he wandered around, the most beautiful woman in the French Quarter walked right in front of him without bothering to pull her nose from the book.

“Marcel, that woman, right there is perfect for me. She’s gorgeous,” Lucien declared. Marcel raised his eyebrows in shock. He couldn’t believe that Lucien thought he had half a chance with Camille O’Connell. She was entirely too smart to be seduced by the likes of Lucien.

“I wouldn’t say perfect for you. She’s an independent thinker you know. Don’t let her appearance fool you, she can handle herself,” Marcel said with a slight chuckle, though he wasn’t surprised that Lucien didn’t listen to a word he said.

Camille continued walking, mildly aware of where she was going. She was used to being talked about by now, but that’s not to say she didn’t still hear the hushed voices and quiet giggles when she walked around the city. She subtly glanced in Marcel’s direction upon hearing his quip, smiling to herself. She couldn’t see why every young woman in town fawned over Lucien, the appeal just wasn’t there. She didn’t dwell on the subject too long most days, she had far more interesting topics to think about.

Marcel could see the irritation building in Lucien that Camille had ignored him so blatantly. It made his stomach twist with fear but he stayed quiet. It was better to live in fear than to be hated by such a volatile man. He was known to have a temper and little patience for those who did not live to serve him.

“You know what, how about I go talk to her for you? Maybe she’s just intimidated by you,” he said, trying to sound as much like an admirer as possible. Lucien smirked at him and nodded before strutting off to one of the local pubs where he was well known. Marcel pulled a face when the man was out of sight before he hurried to catch up with Camille.

“Sorry about him. I would say he’s harmless, but we all know that’s not true. He seems to be wanting to go back to war and I would say good riddance if he would actually leave,” he said to Camille as he followed her. Camille listened as Marcel talked, the things he said being mildly amusing. She continued to walk but she did put her book down to her side.

“I’m definitely used to it, but I have to ask, if that’s how you really feel about him why do you continue to hang around him?” She glanced at him briefly, her eyebrows raised. Marcel let out a sigh.

“It’s not something I’m proud of, but I don’t have anyone else in life. He’s been a friend since childhood and after my father was killed I just stayed around him,” he said with a sad sigh. He looked around and tried to make it obvious that he wasn’t trying to hit on her. Then Marcel cleared his throat. “Sorry, I’m not just trying to follow you. But I will leave you to be on your way. I will tell Lucien you didn’t engage with me. I apologize if he comes knocking at your door.” He quickly veered off another street and walked in the direction of the pub that Lucien had entered. Marcel couldn’t help but feel incredibly awkward being the perceived middle man. His favorite solution was to disappear until he was able to collect his train of thought.

“Thank you,” she responded as he was walking off though she wasn’t convinced he heard her words. She frowned to herself but decided not to let the men consume any more of her energy.

Yet as she started walking again, Camille went back to reading as she walked towards Rousseau’s. She’d not met many kind people in the city but Marcel was a surprising exception. Upon arrival at her job, she quickly shoved her book into her bag and clocked in but she still found her mind wandering to Marcel. She had an overwhelming desire to help him. Lucien was a snake and it would break her heart to see a man like Marcel be corrupted by such evil.

As Camille walked behind the bar, Lucien gracefully entered Rousseau’s, perfectly timed as he had intended, and sat down at the bar. He watched Camille like a hawk as she served various patrons as they came and went. He didn’t care much that Marcel had told him she was uninterested. Lucien knew without a doubt how his friend really felt about him and knew he would never set a potential new friend up with him. So he intended to speak to Camille and sort everything out, to show her that he wasn’t the villain of the story.

“Camille! Darling, I was wondering if I could have a quick little word,” he said loudly. He smiled at her but as he watched her walk towards him the smile turned to a smirk. Lucien chuckled as she attempted to pretend he was doing anything other than flirting with her. The longer he stared at her, the more it began to feel as if he were trying to stare her into some sort of submission. Slowly his grin turned predatory. “I’ll take a bourbon, neat. Do tell me what Marcel has told you about me that causes such an aversion to my charms.” He laughed a little as he waited for his drink. Lucien saw no point in hiding the fact that his ego was just as inflated as his wallet.

“I’ll be right back with that,” she replied with a stiff smile. She hoped to dodge his question entirely by the time she turned with his drink. While at the bar, she served a couple other quick customers while she poured Lucien’s drink and then hurried back over with his drink in hand. She set it on a square white napkin on the bar and glanced at him. “Anything else I can get you?” Lucien scoffed at her attitude and rolled his eyes.

“I honestly would like to know what is so repulsive about me. I could give you a very good life. You would never have to work at this wretched establishment ever again,” he drawled, sipping his bourbon, “just have one drink with me, that’s all it will take for me to change your life. I promise I’m really not so bad.”

“Look, you are a perfectly handsome man and clearly you have a decent amount of charm. I’m happy for you. You’re just going to have to accept that your charm and good looks aren’t for everyone. Now, is there anything else I can get for you? I do have other patrons waiting on my service,” Camille snapped. She stared at him wondering where all that had come from. She definitely didn’t plan on saying any of it, but she didn’t regret the words and the truths that they held. Lucien stared at her with his mouth slightly agape. No one ever spoke to him that way, especially a woman. He sneered at her and tossed back his bourbon. He threw a wad of bills at her and stood in one fluid motion.

“Keep the change. It’s not worth my time to pick it up,” he said. He turned on his heel and stormed out of the bar.

She winced as the bills flew at her face and rolled her eyes at his response. Her eyes followed him as he stomped out. She felt relieved knowing there was a good chance he wouldn’t come back anytime soon. The bewildered stares from customers pulled her quickly back to reality, so she bent down to collect the money and swept the napkin along with the glass from the table. Then, she rushed back behind the bar.

Kieran O’Connell had been on his way home when he saw Lucien in the bar where his niece worked. Narrowing his eyes, he walked into Rousseau’s passing closely to Lucien as he did. He wrinkled his nose in disgust at the other man before he approached the counter. Being a priest didn’t mean he had to pretend to like weasels like Lucian. He gave his niece a soft smile before accepting the glass of water she gave to him.

“I just wanted to stop by and say that I was going to be heading out of town for a bit. I am traveling to another town to help get a new church up and running,” he said with another big smile. “I would ask if you’re going to be okay, but I see that you can handle yourself just fine.”

“Of course I’ll be okay,” she laughed softly and smiled up at him while she wiped down the bar. “How long are you going for this time?” She wasn’t used to being alone most of the time, but she didn’t see her uncle too often to warrant not being fine while he was out of town. Still, she would worry about him nonetheless. They looked out for each other, so she felt like it was her job to take care of him to an extent. Kieran shrugged a little bit.

“I’m hoping it won’t be more than a week. It depends on their congregation size and needs,” he explained. He looked around the bar and noticed that everyone was leaving Camille alone except for Lucien. “Do I need to have a talk with Mr. Castle about harassing you? I don’t want that to become a regular thing you have to deal with. Especially when Marcel sits back and does nothing.” She frowned, glancing around briefly as she cleaned glasses and put them in their places.

“Marcel is kind, he tries his best. I can see that. Lucien just comes on a little strong, it’s nothing I can’t handle. I’m fine, I promise,” she said as she smiled reassuringly at him. The last thing she wanted was to worry him before he left town. She truly was fine for now. Kieran cocked his eyebrow at her but only nodded. He knew that she would be okay, he was just overly protective. After her brother had spiraled into a voodoo induced psychosis, he did his best to keep an eye on her.

“Well you are better at seeing the good in people than I am,” he chuckled softly finishing off his glass of water. Then he stood and put his hat on. “I will see you in a week Camille. Keep out of trouble.” Kieran smiled and walked out of the bar. He knew she was too much of a free spirit to stay totally away from trouble.

Marcel nodded to Kieran as he walked into the bar and gave him a slight nod. Then he took a seat on the stool that the priest had just vacated. He was holding the left side of his face and he kept his head bowed as he ordered a drink from the other bartender. She laughed softly and waved goodbye to her uncle then moved down the bar to help a couple other customers. After a few minutes she spotted Marcel and shuffled back over.

“Hey, Marcel,” she greeted him with a smile. “You just missed Lucien.” Marcel looked up at Camille and revealed his bloody lip along with his eye that was swelling shut. He let out a humorless laugh.

“Unfortunately I didn’t miss him entirely. But I have to say your attitude towards him is refreshing, even if it means getting punched,” he said, though the look in his eyes said that he didn’t find it nearly as funny as he was trying to pretend. Camille gasped seeing his wounds, cupping her hand over her mouth.

“Oh my god, Marcel, Lucien did that?” Camille gasped as she frantically grabbed a clean towel, dumping some ice into it and handing it to him with a concerned frown. “The next time I see that man he’s going to get a piece of my mind, Marcel, this isn’t okay. I’m so sorry.” Marcel quickly reached out and put his hand over her small one. He gently shook his head as he pressed the ice to his face, wincing ever so slightly.

“Don’t. Camille, I’m begging you, just leave it alone. Don’t make him angry and eventually he will lose interest and move on to someone else. It’s okay, it’s not like this is the first time he’s kicked the shit out of me,” he said softly. “It’s nothing compared to what my father used to do.” She sighed in frustration, frowning as she inspected his eye.

“Marcel,” she pleaded. “That’s not good enough, you need to get away from him. I’m not going to just sit by while he abuses you.” She continued cleaning while she spoke, coming back over to inspect his wounds ever so often. Marcel shook his head at the idea of her confronting Lucien. He knew the man very well and worried that he would hurt Camille in some violent way or another.

“Please listen when I tell you to let this go. I don’t want him to hurt you. And before you say anything yes, I know you can handle yourself. If it were anyone else I would worry,” he said, dropping his voice to a whisper. She stood in silence, wiping the counter before she responded.

“Fine, I’ll let it go if you agree to let me help you,” Camille insisted. She eyed Marcel curiously, hoping he would accept her help. She gently reached out, taking the towel of ice from him, replacing it with a fresh one she’d just made. Marcel gave her a weary stare. He didn’t want to risk that Lucien might hurt Camille, but he also knew that she was extremely persistent and he knew she wouldn’t give up anytime soon. It would be better to know what her plans were as opposed to worrying she might go off on her own to confront Lucien.

“We can discuss things over dinner,” he agreed. “But! That does not mean I am accepting your help on the spot. All it means is that I am willing to discuss our options.” Camille stared back at him for a couple moments, contemplating his offer.

“Deal, I’m free tonight after I get off,” she said as she tilted her head, and smiled cheekily before moving down the bar again to help some customers.

Marcel chuckled and finished off his drink. He really liked Camille. She was a genuinely good person which was hard to find. He ordered a bit of food and ate while he waited for her shift to end. It seemed safer to stay in Rousseau’s as opposed to braving Lucien’s wrath in some dark alley all alone.

At long last, Camille emerged from the back room with her jacket draped over her arm and her bag in hand. The last few hours had passed surprisingly quickly which had come as a welcome surprise. Normally the shift that ended as the parties began seemed the longest. However, she was glad the be escaping the commotion of Bourbon Street for her quiet apartment a few blocks over.

“So, are we staying in or going out?” She beamed, stopping next to where he was sitting. Marcel stood slowly and smiled.

“Staying in sounds like a better option. I’m not in the mood to entertain the rest of society,” he chuckled. He offered his arms teasingly to Camille. “My lady.” Marcel dramatically bowed to her. Camille laughed softly, taking his arm.

“I like your thinking, kind sir,” she humored his act energetically. “You can call me Cami, by the way. My friends call me that.”

“What brings you to our lovely cursed city, Cami?” He joked lightly as he led the way out into the street. As they walked he was continually surveying things to make sure that Lucien wasn’t following them. He wasn’t in the mood to get his ass kicked twice in one day.

“I moved here to be closer to my uncle after my brother... passed away,” she replied, trailing off. She clung to his elbow, noticing how tense he was. She glanced around briefly, observing different people walking the street. “Have you lived here all your life?” Marcel nodded as he continued to make sure he didn’t recognize anyone around them as Lucien’s clique.

“I grew up here and then lived on the streets for a time after, well after some shit happened anyway. Then I got old enough and got a job. When I met Lucien he sucked me in with never being hungry or worrying about a place to live,” he said quietly. “I didn’t realize what he was until it was too late.”

“What he was? I mean, I can see why you feel indebted to him, but you deserve to be treated with respect, Marcel. You always have a choice, especially when you have friends,” she said as she squeezed his elbow gently.

“He’s exactly like my father. It’s why I didn’t notice how bad things were until recently when I started becoming the person he was taking his rage out on,” Marcel said. He let out a pained sigh and gave her a sad smile. “I do deserve respect, but I can’t seem to convince myself of that until someone else points it out.” Camille frowned when he smiled at her.

“I wish there was something I could do. There has to be some way to run him out of town or something. I see him in Rousseau’s all the time hitting on girls and I just--” she trailed off. “What is he even doing here?” Marcel let out a heavy sigh.

“He’s here simply to entertain himself. Though I have a sneaking suspicion he’s looking for something in particular. He’s started shutting me out which can only mean that whatever he has planned is going to be catastrophic,” he whispered. Then he stopped suddenly. “Cami, isn’t that your uncle’s horse?” He pointed to the horse galloping towards them at a breakneck speed, momentarily forgetting about Lucien. She furrowed her eyebrows as she observed the change in his expression. She whipped her head around at his words, staring in horror. Quickly, she let go of his arm and walked a few feet forward with her hands out.

“Woah woah!” She cried out as the horse skidded to a stop just a foot from her. He was wildly disturbed, anxiously bouncing around and grunting. He had fear in his eyes, she could see it as she grabbed his face to try and calm him down. She glanced back at Marcel in distress, wondering what she should do or where her uncle was.

#the originals #the vampire diaries #beauty and the beast #fanfic #camille o'connell #klaus mikaelson #tvd

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robinrunsfiction · 3 years

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Ivy - Chapter 5

Chapter 4

When (YN) arrived home the next day, she was exhausted, but wanted nothing more than to see Mikey as soon as possible. She had barely flopped onto her bed with a weary sigh when there was a knock on the door.

“Your Highness?” Christine said as she peeked in the room.

“Yes?” She replied, sitting up.

“I have this for you,” she said holding a piece of paper that was rolled up and tied with a piece of twine.

(YN) jumped up, knowing in an instant who it was from. She carefully slid off the tie and unrolled the paper.

Darling (YN),

I long to see you when you return. I miss you more than my heart can bear. If you can, meet me in the clearing just before sunset when you are back.

Faithfully yours,

(YN) swooned as she fell back across her bed. "Oh Christine, I miss him so much. This week was too long to go without him. I don't know how I'll ever survive in Arboria."

At dusk, (YN) stole along the path hidden deep within the woods, her feet guiding her way and there, sitting beneath a willow tree was Mikey.

"(YN)!" He exclaimed, scrambling to his feet.

"Mikey!" She ran to him, throwing her arms around her as he lifted her off her feet before pressing a kiss to her lips. "I missed you so!"

"I missed you as well. I believe Gerard and Marie were about to go mad with how I was sulking," he laughed nervously.

"I'm sorry," she said reaching up and caressing his cheek softly.

He leaned into her touch before taking her hand and pressing a kiss to her palm. He then took both of her hands in his and looked deep in her eyes. "I’ve had a lot of time to think while you were gone, and wanted to see you tonight because I wanted to tell you," he paused and sighed. "(YN), I am the second son of a bookbinder, I stand to inherit nothing. All I have to offer a Princess is my heart. I know this will end in pain, but I love you, I love you so completely and with my whole heart,” he said earnestly.

(YN) felt tears welling up and a knot forming in her throat as she nodded. “All I learned over this last miserable week is that I love you too Mikey. The way you make me feel is more than I ever hoped it would be. When I’m with you, I am happy for the first time in my whole life! But” she looked down as the tears began to fall.

“I know,” he said forlornly, pulling her against him.

“I don’t want him! I don’t want to go!” (YN) sobbed into his shoulder.

Mikey rubbed her back and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “I’m sorry my love,” he soothed. “How much time do we have?” He asked when she finally stopped crying.

“If it’s not forever, it’s not long enough,” she said shaking her head, wiping away the tears.

"Then we'll fit as much of a lifetime as we can into the time we have."

(YN) was already awake when Christine came in to rouse her the next morning.

"Your Highness, are you alright? Your eyes are... have you been crying?"

"Most of the night," (YN) sighed. "Do you know, has a noble ever married a commoner?"

Christine could not restrain her surprise. "Your Highness!"

(YN) looked up forlornly. "I do not love Dallon, I love Mikey," she sighed. "If I could end this engagement that I have no say in I could be happy, and maybe Dallon could be as well."

"I've never heard of that occurring before," Christine shook her head sadly.

(YN) nodded. "I thought as much. Please tell me you and Frank are happily in love. Please tell me if there is anything standing in your way that I can help with.”

“We are happy, Your Highness. I did not want to say something that may upset you, but Frank and I are to be wed soon as well.”

“I am so happy for you my dear friend!” (YN) beamed. “I wish everyone that same joy.”

Despite how futile the future felt, it did not stop (YN) and Mikey from continuing their secret rendezvous, making the most of their fleeting time together. Just before the final preparations were due to begin for the long awaited wedding, the King and Queen had another royal trip to attend, but (YN) was allowed to stay behind. And she had much better plans.

That afternoon she threw open the large front doors of the castle and invited Mikey in for the first time. He picked her up, twirling her around in the entry hall as they laughed, reveling in the fact that they were someplace so forbidden together.

"Let me give you the grand tour," (YN) suggested, taking his hand, pulling him along.

Mikey seemed to marvel at the ornate decor and paintings. It made her smile that he wasn't disenchanted by everything, like so many of the people who regularly walked through the halls.

"This is the library," she said leading the way into the large room.

"Wow, I've never seen so many books in one place," he said looking around in awe. "But it raises a question."

"Hmm?"

"You have all these books, and yet you keep returning to my store to buy more," he smiled coyly.

(YN) covered her face with her hands in embarrassment. "Mikey," she whined.

"It's as if you had ulterior motives for coming in week after week," he laughed as he wrapped his arms around her.

"It would appear that the shopkeeper has stolen my heart," (YN) replied looking up at him, and he leaned in and kissed her sweetly.

"It would appear the Princess has stolen mine."

(YN)'s heart fluttered at his words. "Come, I have so much more to show you," she said taking his hand and leading the way out of the library.

As they continued through the castle, she hesitated before showing him the next room. She didn't want to be reminded of what would be happening there in the future.

"This is the chapel," she announced.

"It's beautiful," he said walking down the aisle between the pews. (YN) watched him and imagined what it would be like if she could walk down the aisle to him.

"What if we were wed before you married the Prince?" Mikey asked, as if reading her thoughts, a coy smile tugging at his lips.

"If only there were a holy man in the kingdom who would, I would do it in a heartbeat," she sighed, joining him at the altar and he took her hands. "If only I knew when I read the story of the star crossed lovers that it would ring so true. Mikey, you know you will always have my heart, no matter what happens?"

"I do. And you know that I will always love you, no matter where you are?"

"I do," nodded resolutely. Mikey leaned in and kissed her and she smiled against his lips.

She again took his hand as they continued on through the ballrooms and dining halls, and up the large staircase to her bedroom.

"And here is where they lock me away," she said dramatically before shutting the door behind them. She watched as he walked through her room, taking it in. He smiled at the stack of books by her bed before he made his way to the window overlooking the forest where they would meet, away from the prying eyes of the castle or city. The setting sun tinting everything gold. "The view is best in the fall."

"Your beauty outshines it any day of the year," he said softly.

She looked up at him and sighed. "I do not believe you know how wonderful you truly are."

"All I know is I'm the luckiest man alive because I've gotten to spend more than a moment with you."

(YN) reached up and brushed a piece of hair out of his face. He smiled back before leaning in and kissing her. She wrapped her arms around him as he started to kiss along her jaw and down to her neck. (YN) let out a gasp, her knees going weak as she leaned back against the wall to remain upright. A thought flitted through her mind and she decided she would act on it.

"Mikey," she gasped

He pulled back in an instant. "Was that too much?"

"No," she shook her head. "Quite the opposite," she said, taking his hand and leading him to the bed. As she laid back against her plush pillows, Mikey climbed over her, but hesitated for a moment, as if to ask if she was sure. She smiled and nodded at him and his lips found hers again, more passionately than any time before.

Chapter 6

#mikey way x reader #mikey way fan fic #mikey way fan fiction #mikey way imagine #my chemical romance fan fic #my chemical romance fan fiction #this is my favorite chapter

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coureirsix · 3 years

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HELLO. jumping into @ieronatural’s danger days dean truthing with some further thoughts on the blanks they left out:

dean likes bulletproof heart accidentally. he doesn't care for the song at first but it played one day as he was heading over to another town bc he and sam had a breakthrough in a case and he'd been pushing 90 when 'so get me out of my head / cause it's getting kinda cramped, you know / coming, ready or not / when the motor gets hot we can do it again' gave him a rush.

the kids from yesterday came on when /jack/ had it playing in the bunker loud enough that dean could hear it from the deancave and he sat there for the duration, hearing the words and feeling like his own heart was breaking to the music. and he thought about sam, about adam, about claire, about krissy chambers, about all the other hunters he'd met at asa fox's funeral. about his mom. about jack. about all the kids that had horrors done to them. and now, most of them, dead or shitty adults left in the wind. the kids who fought god and lived. the kids from yesterday.

the only hope for me is you is SO corny the first time dean hears it. like. he genuinely is pretty sure he doesn't like it, save for the fact that it ALSO reminds him of cas. because there is... a sense of guilt, i think. that dean would make himself feel over cas completely falling and becoming human for him. a guilt that stems from the feeling of unworthiness and dean's general self-depricating self, but also from the knowledge that like. if cas was as big as the chrysler building and this awesome cosmic entity, to fit into the tiny little body of a man who sold radio time? there's some sense of self-mutilation isn't there? and not in the sense of just ripping grace out, but in cutting limbs of yourself off, in a sense. on dean's darkest days, he wishes he could be just another memory. but cas is the only hope he's ever had, so he wouldn't trade what he has for the world. he'll give the song a couple listens every now and then, but he has to be in the Mood for it.

he likes planetary go because it's jack's favourite. he likes sing because it's claire's favourite.

dean thinks vampire money is fun. he never bothers to learn the lyrics but it's fun and he finds himself doing the "well, are you ready cas? how 'bout you jack? how 'bout you sam? i think i'm alright." right before they take off on another case.

na na na is the roadtrip song. it’s a song that’s meant to be played when you’re driving through at least four states because you need to get to the coast because you booked tickets to disneyland in four days and you promised your 36 year old little brother you’d buy him some mickey mouse ears. it’s the song that’s playing halfway through at full volume as you exit the I-5 onto harbor blvd, smile at the tourists waiting at a streetlight. jack is in the back screaming his little heart out, sam is eyeing the streets with a childlike wonder that he’s never been allowed before, because they’ve been to california before, they’ve had coffee on mulholland drive, they’ve bought overpriced beer on rodeo drive, but they’ve never been there for fun. it’s the magic of gerard screaming “i’d rather go to hell than be in purgatory / cut my hair, gag and bore me / pull this pin, let this world explode.” as the impala pulls into a random spot in the lot and dean shutting off the engine and saying, with a little laugh as he looks over to sam, “i don’t know about that one. i kinda liked purgatory.”

#spn text #long post #.txt #i am simply typing

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tw-anchor · 3 years

Text

41. Demonic Ninjas

Anchor

Stiles Stilinski x Original Character

Episode: 3x17; Silverfinger

Word Count: 7,055

Warning(s): Mature language, canon violence + gore

Author’s Note: Sorry for the long wait. I hope you enjoy! Please make sure to reblog, like, and tell me what you think!

Masterlink in Pinned Post!

"His eyes were glowing."

Mr. Argent stared at Scott, though he didn't seem to be seeing him. The glint in his blue eyes made it look like he was traveling through time, recalling long-buried memories. "There was something almost ritualistic about it," he agreed with Scott as Allison continued to mop the blood pouring from the cut above his eyebrow. "Like it was looking right into his soul."

"That's the same thing it did to me," Isaac murmured, sitting in the chair on Olivia's left.

"That's what it did to everyone," Allison added.

Scott shook his head. "Not everyone, they only came after the werewolves."

Olivia clicked her tongue in disagreement. "They went after Lydia and me, too, remember?"

"Anyone with a connection to the supernatural," Mr. Argent said knowledgably.

"Then who was the guy they went after in Japan?"

Finally, someone asked the question that Olivia wanted to ask but had the patience to wait. She and Mr. Argent weren't the best of friends by any means, but they had a considerably better relationship than the end of sophomore year when he helped get Stiles away from his evil father. That was thanks to his actions that night and how close she, Allison, and Lydia had gotten. She respected the man—so if that meant waiting for answers until Allison could finish patching him up, she was fine with that.

Apparently those weird demonic ninjas had attacked Isaac the night before when he was visiting Allison for a late-night...chat. Olivia didn't know the specific details—though she would definitely pry them out of Allison later—but they did to Isaac what they did to Lydia and Aiden only hours before. Mr. Argent had found familiarity in Isaac's description of his attackers and had asked him and Allison to wait to say anything until he did some digging.

His digging led him to the Japanese mafia and from there...well, he was a bit bloody at the moment, so things did definitely not go as well as he would have hoped.

"A Kumicho," Argent answered, having already filled them in on the beginning of his story; when he first saw those demonic ninjas years ago. "A Yakuza boss. It was my first gun deal, I was only eighteen and it was supposed to be a simple exchange. Except Gerard left out the minor detail of the buyers being Yakuza," he scoffed and shook his head bitterly. "He wanted to see if I could adapt in the moment, testing my ability to improvise."

"Or your ability to survive," Allison murmured, her distaste for Gerard very apparent.

Mr. Argent didn't disagree with her but instead, chose to continue his story. "The moment the sun went down, they just materialized out of the shadows. They had swords, not curved like katanas but straight, black steel. Like ninjatos."

Olivia raised her eyebrows, mentally making a note to study Japanese weaponry when she had the chance. "What did they want?"

"To get to the Kumicho..." Mr. Argent paused for a long moment, more memories haunting his eyes. "They cut down every living thing in their way."

Isaac reached for his ear, running his fingertip over the marked skin behind it. "Did they mark him like they did us?"

Argent dipped his chin gravely, careful not to mess up Allison as she finished stitching him up. "Not exactly."

Well, they all knew what that meant.

"What was he?" Scott asked somberly.

"I don't know, but there might be someone who does," Mr. Argent revealed just as Allison finished up bandaging his stitches. "There were a few others who survived that night. One of them was a man named Katashi. They called him Silverfinger because of an unusual prosthetic."

Olivia's lips curved; if Stiles was there, he would have been gushing over a fake finger made out of silver.

"It looked like he was getting ready to take them all on himself," Argent continued. "I've known for a while Katashi was in the country; I spent yesterday tracking him down."

Isaac winced, gesturing to his forehead. "Didn't really look like he wanted to be found."

"Not particularly, no."

Scott glanced at Olivia and she cocked her head in response, both of them thinking the same thing. "Do you think he knows what they are?" Scott asked Argent. "Or what they want?"

"Maybe."

"What if he doesn't want to talk?" Allison brought up a good point; Argent had already been injured by Katashi's men. "What if he doesn't even remember you?"

Mr. Argent stood from his desk chair and approached an ornate wooden box settled on the side of his desk. "He'll remember this," he pulled off the lid, revealing a silver mask broken into four separate pieces. Scott immediately reached for a piece. "I know I didn't kill it, I'm not sure you can. But I slowed it down long enough for us to get out of there."

Scott held the mask piece out to Olivia; taking it, she asked Argent, "What was behind the mask?"

"Darkness," Argent answered grimly as she studied the heavy metal. "Absolute darkness."

Olivia was going to kill Aiden Steiner.

She didn't get any sleep that night, thanks to the demonic ninjas and the talk at the Argents' apartment, but thankfully, she did have time to stop by her house and change her outfit. It was then that she first crossed paths with Aiden, who had come over to make sure Lydia was all right. He had been weirdly cheerful as he greeted her and then followed her all the way to her bedroom. She had ignored him and thought he would go away while she changed; unfortunately she was wrong.

He waited for her outside her door and then followed her down to the kitchen, watching with her with a creepy smile on his face as she scarfed down a quick bowl of cereal. When he had asked her for a ride to school, she put the pieces together. Aiden was following her for some insane reason and she did not like it one bit.

Olivia did not make it a priority to spend time with Aiden—in fact, she could say that she went out of her way to avoid the first half of the former alpha twins. After spending five minutes with him alone, she realized that she had been right to; how Lydia could stand to be in his presence for more than a minute blew her mind. He would not stop talking, chatting about anything that caught his eyes on the drive to school. And then, when they finally got to school and she exited her car, he proceeded to follow her into the building, all the way to her locker.

"Why are you being so annoying?" she hissed at him as she dialed her locker combination. "I don't want you around me, I don't want you following me."

"I'm protecting you," Aiden insisted, leaning against the locker next to hers. "Listen, I don't want to be here, either, but Ethan decided that I was stuck with you."

"Stuck with me?" Olivia gaped at his audacity. "You're the one following me around like I'm Lydia."

"I wish I was stuck with Lydia."

"I can't stand you."

"Aw, the feeling's mutual."

Olivia clenched her fists, trying to have some control and not punch him in that ugly mug of his. It was hard, she wasn't going to lie, but at least Scott walked up to her, distracting her from her violent tendencies. Of course, Ethan was right behind him. "Ugh, you got one too?"

Scott wasn't pleased with his bodyguard either. "Yep," he sighed and stared at the twins. "You guys going to be doing this all day?"

Ethan nodded. "All day."

"All night," Aiden finished.

"Is this about being in our pack?"

"This is about you two being the target of demonic ninjas," Aiden refuted.

Ethan looked over at his twin, raising his eyebrows mockingly. "You mean the demonic ninjas that pulled swords out of their chests and completely kicked our asses?"

"Yeah," Aiden pointedly glared at Olivia and Scott. "Those demonic ninjas."

Olivia glanced at Scott and narrowed her eyes at him, silently telling him that he needed to take care of this. Scott inhaled deeply and told the twins, "We don't need you to protect us."

"They were looking at the both of you when the sun came up."

"And then they disappeared," Olivia reminded them. "Allison's dad thinks that they only come out at night. Last I checked, the sun's shining, boys."

Ethan didn't humor her. "Since this is our first experience with demonic ninjas, we're thinking we should play it safe."

"All day," Aiden insisted.

Olivia groaned and shared an annoyed look with her alpha. "And all night."

Scott shook his head. "Fine, whatever," he gave in reluctantly, knowing that while he had some chance against said ninjas, Olivia would need some protection that the former alphas could provide. "First, Liv and I have to talk to Stiles and let him know everything that happened last night...and that needs to happen without you."

"No," Aiden instantly denied while Olivia took out her economics book and shut her locker.

"Yes," Scott emphasized as Olivia rolled her eyes. "And I don't want you listening in, either. No wolf hearing."

"How would you even know?"

Olivia raised an eyebrow at Aiden, and fibbed just a little. Hey, if it would get the twins away from her and Scott, she didn't mind lying. "He's a true alpha," she pointed out. "You guys have no idea what he can do."

Her statement was firm and would have been so badass if Scott had kept his mouth shut. Instead, he sounded like a fourth grader when he boasted, "Yeah!"

Olivia gave him a deadpan look and grabbed his wrist, tugging him away from the twins in order to meet up with Stiles at his locker.

Stiles was already waiting for them, anxiously tapping his fingers against the metal lockers he leaned against. He looked like he hadn't slept in three days and Olivia inferred from the dark circles under his eyes that he probably hadn't. He was bundled up in a too-large hoodie and gray t-shirt that made his paler-than-usual skin contrast sharply.

His appearance honestly worried Olivia. When she had seen him at the rave the night before, he looked much livelier and healthy. He looked so sick now, and worse than that...panicked.

"There you are," he said, almost urgently, when they were close enough to him. "Olivia, do you remember those keys yesterday?"

"Yeah," Olivia said, worried about how serious he was.

Stiles nodded and started walking away; Olivia and Scott hurried after him. "Okay, and do you remember how you were kinda drunk and we were dancing and stuff and then we got something to drink?"

"What's going on, Stiles?" she sped up her walking so she could hold his hand; his skin seemed so clammy that it worried her even more.

"I just need to show you," Stiles brushed her off, letting go of her hand, and turned down the science hallway. He headed straight to lab where the message to kill Kira was written down, the one with the closet full of chemicals. "All right, so, you were talking about phosphors and the key having chemicals on it, remember? So, that made me think of the chemistry closet and the fact that someone had to let Barrow in."

Olivia paused for only a second as Stiles opened the classroom door and held it open for her and Scott to come through.

"It's gone..." he murmured, sounding utterly devastated, when he glanced at the board, noticing that the message about Kira was missing. That devastation was gone in an instant, replaced once more by urgency. "Okay, it doesn't matter, though, it doesn't matter. I still have the key."

Her mind raced as he tore off his backpack and searched for his keyring...Was Stiles saying that he was the one that let Barrow into the closet? It scared Olivia at how out of sorts he seemed, digging through his backpack like his life depended on it. Stiles finally found his keyring and all but ran to the chemical closet, pausing when he couldn't find the key he was looking for.

"What the fuck?" he swore at himself very angrily. "I had it. I had it here," he turned to Olivia and Scott with wide, frantic eyes that broke their hearts. "I had it here this morning. I swear to God, I had it this morning."

His hands were shaking so badly that Olivia couldn't sit still. She stepped toward him and took them between her own, holding them against her collarbone and pressing her lips to his fingers. It did something in the way of calming him down, making him slump into her until his head was resting on her own.

"This is the key you were talking about last night, right?" Scott asked skeptically, causing Stiles to look back over to him.

"Yeah," instantly, that bad energy was back inside again, bouncing around his body. "I showed it to you, right? Didn't I show you?"

"No, you just told me about it," Scott shook his head hesitantly. "I never actually saw it."

"But I did, remember?" Olivia was quick to remind her boyfriend when it looked like he was about to have a mental breakdown right in front of them. "You showed me. I remember it."

"Okay, but it's not here now," Stiles ripped himself away from her and stumbled toward the clean blackboard. "I was here a couple of hours ago and the message left to Barrow spelling Kira's name was right there on the board. It was in my handwriting and I had the key to the chemistry closet."

Okay, so, yeah...Stiles genuinely thought that he was the one to sent Barrow to kill Kira. Olivia bit the inside of her cheek worriedly as she stared at him. This all had to be the lack of sleep, right?

"So, you unlocked the chemistry closet so Barrow could hide in it from the cops, and then you wrote him a message to kill Kira?" again, Scott sounded skeptical.

It had Stiles whirling around on him in defense. "I know how it sounds, but look at this," he reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled ball of paper. It was an article about Barrow's initial crime. "This is the news report that came out about Barrow when they caught him, okay? About the shrapnel bomb that he used. See this? See what he did? He used nuts, bolts, and screws and then he hid the bomb and the detonator in a box that he wrapped as a birthday present..."

A trembling hand covered Olivia's mouth when she realized what exactly he was getting at.

"What does that sound like to you?"

Scott inhaled quietly, uneasily. "Coach."

Stiles nodded. "The joke we played on Coach," he confirmed shakily. "That was my idea, you remember? That was my idea. That's no coincidence, it can't be!"

Honestly, Olivia didn't know what to think. Yes, Stiles had compelling evidence, she wasn't going to deny that, but Stiles wouldn't do this. He wouldn't let Barrow into the school in order to hide from the cops while also leaving him with instructions to kill Kira. This was Stiles Stilinski, the man who cried during The Empire Strikes Back and who was ultra-ticklish under his chin. There was no way he would work with a shrapnel bomber to kill the new girl—one that he didn't even know.

From the hesitant look on Scott's face, it was clear that he agreed with her. "I don't want to sound like I'm trying to tell you that you're wrong," he said carefully, aware of Stiles' fragile state. "but I don't think you're trying to kill people either."

Stiles stared at him for a second before he looked back at the board, almost dejected, crumbled up the article once again, and whispered, "It was here. It was all here."

Olivia's heart positively ached. "Sweetcheeks," she pried the article out of his hand and intertwined their fingers in order to get his attention. "are you feeling okay? You look so tired."

Stiles blinked down at her. "Yeah, I'm fine," his continued whispers did nothing to assure Olivia of anything. "I just haven't been sleeping really."

Scott gave him a pitiful look. "Why don't you go home? Take a sick day or something."

"I'll go with you," Olivia offered. When Stiles nodded, she wrapped an arm around his waist and started leading him out of the classroom. They were halfway to the door when his legs almost gave out; if it hadn't been for Olivia, he'd be on the ground. "All right, nope, we're going to the hospital."

Scott gathered the rest of Stiles' weight, wrapping his other arm around him. "I'll help you take him to your car."

Stiles didn't argue about the hospital, which told them that he was really feeling bad. It broke Olivia's heart to see him like this—she decided then and there to talk to Noah and see if she could sleep over for a couple of days so Stiles would feel safe enough to sleep. She couldn't stand to see him so sick.

Melissa had been understandably concerned when Olivia and Stiles walked into the hospital when they were supposed to be in the middle of study hall. Once Olivia was able to assure her that there were no emergencies, involving them or Scott, they were able to get to business. Things were going well with trying to get Stiles in to see a doctor, until Melissa broke the news to them.

"Dr. Gardner's not back until next week," she said apologetically. Olivia sighed, knowing that Stiles wouldn't want to see any other doctor, especially one he didn't trust. "Do you want to try waiting for one of the urgent care doctors or..."

She trailed off when Stiles unwrapped himself from around Olivia and stumbled a few steps away from her. He looked like he was going to collapse or faint at that very moment. Olivia hurriedly took action, supporting most of his weight within seconds.

"Stiles?" Melissa hurried around the desk to take the rest of his weight. "Are you all right?"

"I don't know," his breathing picked up anxiously and he sounded so confused. "I guess—I guess not really."

Olivia's eyes stung when Melissa looked at her; it killed her that she didn't know what was wrong with Stiles. His tether was resting calmly in her mind, indicating no sort of trouble. What if physical sickness didn't manifest danger in that way, though?

"All right, kiddo, all right," Melissa nodded calmly, putting on a reassuring smile for both Stiles and Olivia. "Come with me, it's okay."

She led down the hallway and to one of the empty ER rooms, letting Stiles get settled in while she officially checked him in to the hospital as a guest. Olivia didn't know what to do as they waited for her to return; she settled herself by wrapping a warm blanket around Stiles and tucking it in tight, making sure he was all covered up. She must have seemed like a worried mother, but Stiles didn't say a word and instead, let her dote over him.

"All right," Melissa returned with a brand-new folder, already pre-filled with Stiles' medical information. "tell me what's going on."

"Um, I'm having blackouts, but not for that long. Sleepwalking, which I used to do a lot as a kid," Stiles listed slowly, tiredly. Melissa dutifully wrote down his symptoms, eyebrows just as furrowed as Olivia's. "I'm having some really bad anxiety."

"Panic attacks?"

"Yeah, a couple," Stiles confirmed while brushing his thumb over the back of Olivia's hand. "Oh, and I temporarily lost the ability to read but that might have had more to do with this giant magic tree and whole human-sacrifice thing."

Olivia's lips ticked up faintly while Melissa chuckled and nodded. "I recall something vaguely about that, yes," she moved on. "How many hours of sleep are you getting?"

"Eight."

Melissa raised her eyebrows at that. "A night?"

"The last three days," Stiles let go of Olivia's hand so he could count using his fingers; her breath had left her at his answer and now her heart raced as he shakily raised his fingers, probably too tired to count without them. "Yeah, definitely eight."

Olivia looked away from Stiles and watched Melissa as her expression contorted worriedly. She turned away from Stiles' file to walk over to the medicine cabinet, quickly unlocking it and pulling out a vial of medicine and a syringe.

"Been feeling irritable?" Melissa wondered, coming back to the table next to the hospital bed Stiles sat on.

"Yeah, possibly to the point of homicide."

"Inability to focus?"

"No, the Adderall's not working."

"Impulsive behavior?"

"More than my usual?" Stiles glanced back at Olivia, who put on a smile for his benefit. He clearly saw right through it, taking her hand in his once again. "Hard to tell."

"Vivid dreams during the day?"

Stiles turned back to Melissa, suspicious. "Okay, basically all of the above. Do you know what this is?"

"I think so," Melissa snapped on some plastic gloves and ripped the syringe from its packaging, filling it up with the medicine she brought over.

Stiles gulped as she approached him. "Uh, what's that?"

"Do you trust me?"

"When you're not holding a needle," Stiles answered swiftly, reminiscent of his regular self.

Melissa chuckled. "It's Midazolam."

Olivia recognized the name. "A sedative?"

Stiles looked at Melissa for confirmation. "Why are you giving me a sedative?"

"Because," Melissa carefully, yet swiftly, pressed the needle into Stiles' arm, injecting him with the sedative. "you, Stiles, are one profoundly sleep-deprived young man. You need rest and you need it now. Lie down."

Melissa gripped his shoulders and as she slowly guided him into a laying position, Olivia hurried arranged the pillows to Stiles' liking. She stood next to his head and stroked his hair, mostly free of its usual styling gel. In response, Stiles tried to scoot closer to her, though didn't get very far due to his quickly draining energy.

"Okay, how long's it take to—" he paused as his eyes started fluttering shut. "Oh, not long at all..."

Melissa smiled in amusement and carefully laid another warm blanket around him, tucking in the edges slightly. "Get some rest."

"Thanks, Mom," Stiles muttered sleepily, not even realizing what he had just done.

Olivia smiled sadly at Melissa when she faltered, staring at Stiles with wide eyes. With a comforting squeeze to Olivia's arm, Melissa slowly retreated from the room to give Stiles some privacy.

"Sleep well, Stiles," Olivia gently kissed her boy's pale cheek, ready to take Melissa's lead and let Stiles sleep. "I love you."

Stiles cold fingers wrapped around her wrist, tethering her to him. "Stay," he murmured. "Stay with me."

Olivia knew that she shouldn't but she couldn't resist Stiles when he was like this. He was vulnerable and how many times had he stayed with her when she was in his position? She couldn't leave him now. She didn't want to.

"I'll stay with you, always."

In the hours since Stiles fell asleep, Olivia's phone had been blowing up with text messages.

First, it was Scott. He told her that he was pretty sure that the demonic ninjas were after Kira too. She had no idea how he got that idea, and had told him so—so, Scott let her in on what happened the night before with Kira. Apparently she had some kind of aura around her that looked like a fox and because the ninjas were after anyone with a supernatural ability—no matter how unknown that ability was—he figured that they were after her, too. He wanted to protect her and Kira, so he told her the plan that he and Kira had to go to his house after school to outwait the night and the ninjas.

Olivia had to admit that it was a good idea. Recently, Dr. Deaton had put ash wood boards around the McCall's house. Melissa would be able to make a mountain ash barrier at the door that would put the house on supernatural lock-down, not letting anything out or in. She quickly agreed to head over to his house before the sun started to set, promising that she'd be careful in the meantime.

And then it was Derek who called for her attention, then. He had been splitting his time trailing her and Scott throughout the whole day and had overheard Scott's plan with Kira. He was just making sure that Olivia was going to be safe, and suggested that she get a ride home with Melissa from the hospital. Lastly, Aiden had somehow gotten her number, scolding her for going to the hospital without him or Ethan—she promptly sent him the middle-finger emoji and blocked his number.

She didn't want to leave Stiles but she knew that it was for the best. If those ninjas went through everyone to get to her, that meant Stiles was in danger by association. Without her around, he wasn't going to be targeted. He'd be safe. So, with a gentle kiss to the forehead and whispered promise that she'd be back when it was safe, she left with Melissa.

Olivia didn't know if Melissa was tense because of the danger that Scott faced or if something else was bothering her. Either way, the older woman looked incredibly stressed, her hands gripped tight around the steering wheel, and though she and Olivia were friendly, they weren't close enough that Olivia could just outright ask her what was up—no matter how much she wanted to.

Unfortunately, Olivia never had the time to gather her courage to ask Melissa what was wrong. As soon as they were pulling up to the McCall house, Melissa was swearing under her breath. To Olivia's slight amusement, she was cursing her ex-husband, who's car was parked out front.

"Jesus Christ, what's going on now?"

Never one to miss out on drama or hot gossip, Olivia hurriedly followed Melissa into the house. It was there that they discovered Agent McCall arguing with Scott while Kira stood to the side, looking like a wounded puppy. Olivia instantly went to stand by her, giving her a questioning look, but Kira just shrugged, wide-eyed.

"No, you're a gene donor, I got my hair color from you," Scott told his father calmly. Olivia was impressed; if she was in this situation, she would have been spitting fire. Then again, her father tended to get a lot more violent than Agent McCall. "And that's all I got. So, you're not allowed to play tough dad with me."

"Hey," Melissa greeted them cautiously, shutting the screen door behind her. "What's going on?"

Agent McCall turned to Scott and Kira with a stern look. "Maybe one of you should explain."

In all honesty, Olivia wanted to know what was going on as well, but now really wasn't the time. The sun was going down, and with it, their safety was in trouble. "Scott..." Darkness fell over the house and Olivia shivered, red and purple tethers lighting up her mental map. A slight shuttering sound, like some kind of bug, came from behind them—she didn't have to turn around to know that it was one of those ninjas. "Scott!"

It was then that Agent McCall spotted the shadowed figure. "Who the hell is this?"

He was pulling out his gun and stomping toward the ninja without waiting for a response. Scott yelled at his dad to stop and keep away from it, but the bastard was too stubborn to listen. In a swift move that went by far too quickly, the ninja pulled out his sword and impaled it into Agent McCall's shoulder.

"Dad!"

Olivia winced while Kira screamed and Melissa darted into action. She hurried over to where Agent McCall's body fell onto the floor and was dragging him out of the living room in an instant, bringing him to the hallway where she could keep pressure on the wound without being disturbed. The back door opened at the same exact time and Derek rolled in, his wolf features already on display as he growled at the imposing shadow figure.

"Liv, the ash! Do it now!" Scott shouted at her while he and Derek leapt toward the ninja.

Olivia ignored the ferocious growling and ran from the room, grabbing the jar of mountain ash that had been sitting on the table, waiting to be used. She got to the screen door quickly, pouring the ash out into a neat, straight line, before running back to the back door, creating a whole other barrier. Unfortunately, that was when the twins decided to jump through the windows in order to join the fight—that meant that she had to make a barrier around the broken glass and debris.

"Liv!"

"I'm trying!" Olivia shouted, pouring the rest of the ash out just as Scott, Derek, and the twins pushed the ninjas out of the house.

She ran back to the dining room, eyes on the screen door, just as one of the ninja's pressed its hand against it. The barrier held firm, repelling its touch with light blue energy that crackled against it. She inhaled deeply and made her way over to Derek and Scott, where they were staring at the back door, another ninja waiting just outside.

"All the baseboards are ash wood?" Derek asked Scott.

"Yeah, it was Deaton's idea," Scott confirmed before raising his eyebrows. "Where the fuck did you come from?"

"I've been following you," Derek answered like it was the easiest question in the world.

"For how long?"

"Since Ollie took Stiles to the hospital," again, Derek's answer was simple. When Scott looked over at Olivia for help, she just shrugged and went to her cousin, wanting a hug. Physical affection was not something that she and Derek dealt with often, but right now, she needed to feel safe and warm. She needed someone to hold her and be there for her while she was being strong for Stiles.

Derek wordlessly wrapped her into a hug. She didn't have to say anything, her chemo signals were more than enough to tell him what was going on. Still holding her, he led her back to the dining room where Ethan and Aiden were standing with Kira while Scott went to check on his mom and dad.

Kira stood at the screen door where Olivia had previously been standing, studying the way that the ninja was kept out of the house with the mountain ash barrier. Aiden stood next to her, staring down at her with a mischievous smirk.

"It's Kira, right?" Kira nodded silently. "You going to tell us what you are?"

"What?" Kira asked quickly, confused. "What do you mean?"

Aiden reached for her arm, smirking at his twin over her shoulder, and raised it. "Aiden..."

"Just watch," Aiden warned Ethan, his eyes flashing to Olivia, who went to take a step forward to rescue Kira. He abruptly pushed her hand against the barrier, watching as it pushed her flesh away, keeping her inside just like all other supernatural creatures—other than Olivia and Lydia. "See that? She can't go through it either."

Ethan hustled to his twin's side, glaring down at Kira. "So, what are you?"

Olivia sighed; she didn't know exactly Kira was—Scott hadn't made her privy to that detail—but she wasn't going to let the twins antagonize her like that. Sure, she didn't really know Kira that well and yes, she was some unknown creature, but Scott liked her and she got a good vibe off of her, too. Besides, compared to Ethan and Aiden, what harm could Kira possibly do?

Before she could speak up in her new friend's defense, Derek intervened. "She's a kitsune, idiot. Use your eyes, you can see it all around her. The younger ones give off an aura. She just hasn't learned how to conceal it yet, she probably doesn't know what kind she is, either."

"A kitsune," Olivia hummed, at least what Scott said about a fox aura made sense. She had read about kitsunes in the Hale bestiary—which, in her humble opinion was far more vast than the Argent's—and they interested her greatly.

There were thirteen different types of kitsunes but only a couple Olivia knew from the top of her head—celestial, wild, ocean, thunder, and air were the few she had studied more in depth. She found it interesting that there were so many types of the same supernatural creature, so many powers they held. Most were considered dangerous and powerful and while she could sense that Kira had the same kind of energy under her skin, she knew that she had hardly used it.

Like Derek had mentioned, Kira probably didn't even know what kind of kitsune she actually was. She doubted that Kira even knew she was a kitsune until very recently.

Kira glanced between Derek and Olivia with wide eyes before hurrying out of the room. Olivia briefly heard her call Scott away from his mom and dad before focusing back on her cousin and the two former alphas.

"Try to keep your hands to yourself," Olivia narrowed her eyes at Aiden. Even though she had only known Kira for a couple of weeks now, she trusted her far more than the twins—especially Aiden.

"I wasn't going to hurt her," Aiden retorted; Ethan, Olivia, and Derek all gave him skeptical looks.

"Not yet, you weren't," Derek replied snidely, firmly on Olivia's and Scott's side of the Kira argument. He trusted them, so he trusted her—end of story.

Aiden's lip curled. "Why do you think we're here, guys? For a study group?" he tried to convince Olivia and Derek of his Ethan's good intentions. "We're here to protect you and Scott, Olivia."

Ethan quickly added, "We're trying to fight for you."

Olivia twisted her lips and lowered her eyes. She recognized that the twins were fighting for them...but that was one good deed. It didn't compare to any of the bad things they had done, killing Boyd on top of the list. Boyd was her packmate, her friend, and she wasn't going to disrespect him by letting Ethan and Aiden into her life. She tolerated their presence for Scott's and Lydia's sake—that was it. That was all they were going to get from her.

"I'm sure you are," Derek spoke, stepping in front of his cousin in a protective stance. "I'm sure you'd kill for them. But are you willing to die for them?"

Olivia didn't want anyone to die for anyone, even the twins. Sure, she didn't like them at all, but she wasn't an evil person, she didn't want them to die. And certainly not while protecting her or Scott, because then she'd feel guilty about it and she didn't want to feel anything but hatred for the former alphas.

And Derek? Well, she especially didn't want him to die. It scared her that he was willing to do that to protect her or Scott, or even any other pack member. She couldn't imagine a life without Derek and she never wanted to—the thought of it caused her chest to physical ache. For the past seven years of her life, Derek had been more than a cousin to her; he'd been an older brother, her protector, a father figure when her own was off turning people into werewolves and murdering arsonists. He was one of the two most important men in her life, and with the other hardly sleeping and seemingly having a mental breakdown, she needed Derek to stay safe and at her side at all times.

She wished she hadn't become so paranoid. But, if she learned anything throughout this crazy year of her life, it was that people were never guaranteed a long and happy life. Erica and Boyd were proof of that.

Olivia turned away from the twins when they went silent and exchanged uncertain glances. Sensing her discomfort once again, Derek wrapped an arm around her shoulders and lead her into the living room.

"You're gonna be okay, Ollie," he spoke to her quietly yet reassuringly. "I won't let anything happen to you."

"I know you won't, but things aren't okay, Der," Olivia swallowed harshly, squinting her eyes hard enough that her head started to ache. She didn't want to cry—she wouldn't let herself cry. "Stiles—Stiles is in the hospital because he's so worn out, probably because he sacrificed himself to that stupid tree. We have demonic ninjas out to get us, you and Lydia already got hurt...We're not okay, nothing's going to be okay—"

"Hey," Derek shifted so he was grabbing her shoulders with both hands, forcing her to look up at him. His face was serious yet heartfelt and she was so lucky to have a brother that made her feel so safe. "Everything's shit right now, I get it. I know. But you're a Hale. You're strong. You're gonna get through this—we all are getting through this."

Olivia wanted to believe that, she really did. "Okay."

Maybe agreeing with him would manifest it into the universe.

Derek nodded and pulled her into a tight hug, pressing her face into his warm Henley. His familiar scent was comforting and eased her worries, though Stiles was still there, at the back of her mind, his tether doing nothing to suggest the actual danger he was in.

All of a sudden, the house shook. It wasn't an earthquake shaking the house, but it was, as they discovered when they went back to Ethan and Aiden in the dining room, one of the ninjas. It was banging on the barrier, trying to break through like Scott had once done against Jennifer.

Scott was a true alpha, one of the rarest creatures in the world, and he was strong, but for some reason, Olivia had a feeling these guys were stronger.

"What are they doing?" Scott asked as he and Kira rushed into the room behind her and Derek.

"Testing for weaknesses," Ethan answered, his eyes firmly held on the ninja.

As if the ninja though Ethan was daring it to do more, he once again banged on the barrier with his sword. This time, however, his buddies joined him. The house shook violently, dishes falling from the shelves and crashing onto the floor in the kitchen.

Knowing that a fight was about to break out, Olivia left Derek's side and went to Kira, taking a hold of the girl's hand. Kira didn't hesitate to squeeze her hand tightly, more than nervous about what was going on. Olivia waited for the moment the barrier fell and Derek, Scott, and the twins started the inevitable battle.

The ninja in front of Ethan held its sword against the ash barrier, slowly carving out a hole in the invisible forcefield. "Guys," he called, as if none of them were watching the ninja stick his hand through the hole. "we have a problem."

Scott glanced at Olivia. "Call Allison."

Olivia didn't hesitate, reaching for her bag on the table and ripping her phone out from inside. She tapped on Allison's contact and as soon as the ringing stopped, Allison answering her call, she didn't bother to greet her. "Allison, please tell me that you have something. They're here and they're trying to get in. They're strong, I think they'll be able to break through the barrier."

"Okay, okay listen," Allison's voice was strong and calm, putting Olivia a little at ease. "They're Japanese demons. They're called the Oni. They're looking for someone possessed, someone with a dark spirit attached to them. It's called a Nogitsune."

Scott, able to hear the call from his place next to Derek, looked over at Olivia sharply. "How'd she know that?"

"Know what?" she asked, confused.

"Liv, you there?"

"Sorry, Al. Yeah, what else do you know?"

"Okay, they won't hurt you. They know you're supernatural but once they do this check, once they realize that you're not carrying with you this dark spirit, then they won't hurt you," Allison spoke quickly. "I promise. All they're looking for is the Nogitsune."

Kira turned to her, eyes wide and fearful. "They're looking for me, aren't they?"

"I gotta call you back, Al," she hung up the phone and addressed Kira and Scott, thoroughly confused. "What are you guys talking about?"

"A Nogitsune," Kira explained quickly. "It's a dark kitsune. I'm a kitsune!"

Scott quickly walked over to them before Olivia even had a chance to react. "They're looking for a dark spirit," he corrected Kira earnestly. "And I know it's not you."

The house shook again and when Olivia glanced over at the screen door, she saw that the barrier was all but broken through. "Scott," they could talk about this later. "we have to decide what we're gonna do."

Scott nodded seriously and then turned to Ethan, Aiden, and Derek. "Don't do anything."

Aiden glanced at Derek. "Is he serious?"

"I said don't do anything," Scott repeated firmly and then addressed Kira and Olivia. "We're gonna be okay. Trust me."

Olivia nodded; she trusted Scott and she certainly trusted Allison. They wouldn't steer her wrong; Derek, Isaac, and Lydia had survived these Oni. So, why wouldn't she? She wasn't possessed, she wasn't a dark spirit. She was gonna be okay.

Olivia glanced at Derek and he nodded ever-so slightly, silently telling her that he agreed with her and Scott's decision. The barrier broke, the Oni stepping into the house one-by-one, and he stood still, his eyes following them as they walked over to her, Scott, and Kira.

As one of the Oni approached her, eyes blazing like a firefly, she felt frozen. She couldn't close her eyes, she couldn't breathe...all she could do was stare into its glowing eyes. As it reached its gloved fingers toward her ear, a burning sensation scarring the delicate skin behind it, her vision slowly faded to black.

(Gif is not mine)

#teen wolf rewrite #stiles stilinski x oc #stiles stilinksi x reader #teen wolf #stiles stilinski #stiles stilinski fanfiction #teen wolf fanfiction #stiles stilinski x original character

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beholdme · 3 years

Text

All the Many Shades of Gerry - Chapter 3

Chapters: 3/19

Fandom: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Gerard Keay/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood/Gerard Keay, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Gerard Keay/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist

Characters: Martin Blackwood, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Gerard Keay, Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives), Sasha James, Gertrude Robinson, Elias Bouchard

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, Library AU, Librarian Jon, Artist Gerry, Trans Male Character, Trans Martin Blackwood, Canon Asexual Character, Asexual Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Ace Subtype - Sex Positive, Polyamory, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Romantic Fluff, Falling In Love, Boys in Skirts, Kissing, Demisexual Gerard Keay, Minor Character Death, Past Character Death, Canon-Typical Child Neglect, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Flirting, Minor Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker, Adventures in Hair Dying, Happy Ending, Banter, Gerry has a lot of sass, Gerard Keay is Morticia Adams, Jon is a very grumpy Librarian, Martin adores them anyway.

Summary: In which Gerry is a kaleidoscope and Jon and Martin can't help falling in love with him.

He happens to love them back.

Find it on Ao3

[1] [2]

In the following weeks, as he sees Jon a few more times, Gerry's hair fades out and he looks rather more 'forest nymph' than 'American Gothic'.

So it's not much of a shock when the next time Jon catches sight of Gerry striding through the library stacks, his hair has been re-coloured. This time it's a smooth buttery yellow and Jon is struck by how young the warm, bright colour makes him look.

Gerry doesn't feel young though, he feels tired and bored and wrung out, and he wishes he had never agreed to take art commissions.

"It's only the one time!" Gertrude had insisted to a very put upon Gerry, very early in the morning. "And if he puts in a good word for you in his circles, your name will really be on the map in the art world."

Gerry wasn't particularly interested in being put on any maps, or being picked apart by rich, stuck up strangers, but he had agreed to try, mostly because Gertrude had put a lot of effort into making his passion for art an actual career and he felt like he owed her.

(He forgets, frequently, just how much of a commission she takes on the sales of his paintings).

So there he was, striding around the library at 7 am and desperately looking for exactly the right reference book. Unfortunately, it has been out of print for years, and Gerry can't seem to find a copy anywhere that won't cost him half a liver. He has the money now, but he refuses to pay half a month's rent to a second-hand retailer on principle.

Jon watches him skulk around for so long, (apparently forgetting that he is, in fact, a librarian) that Sasha comes out from her desk to ask Gerry if he's looking for something specific. She's wearing her big round glasses today and even indulged herself in her favorite waistcoat to beat the Monday blues.

"Why, yes." At this, Gerry looks directly up at Jon, where he is standing and watching him from the upper balcony level. Jon's face burns, and he ducks out of sight, but not earshot. "I do actually come here to borrow books, not boys." And he smartly feeds her the name of the reference book he has been hunting for almost an hour.

Sasha giggles at his antics, "We do have a copy of that, actually, but it's very popular. There's a waitlist; also it's checked out right now."

Gerry's whole demeanor sags and he sighs in defeat. "Guess I really will just have to order it off the internet, then." He eyes the stacks of books, old and new, looking vaguely betrayed.

"No!" Sasha's exclamation takes everyone a bit aback, being that they are in a library and all. "You know, my mate has this sweet little bookstore, and he loves hunting down rare copies of older books, he might have a copy?" She wrings her hands, eyebrows raised in question.

Gerry beams down at her, causing even stoic Sasha to blush and scurry off to get a piece of paper for the address.

They're already most of the way to the front desk by the time Jon realizes just which bookstore Sasha is busy recommending to the man he is dating , and just who owns that particular establishment.

By the time he manages to get downstairs to try to deflect the situation, Gerry is out the door, nothing left but the faint scent of oil paints and leather from his jacket.

***

Tim Stoker leaves Gerry feeling faintly dazed. By the time he stumbles out of the bookstore and into the tea room, elusive book in hand, he's forgotten everything he has ever known in the face of such intense flirting. And Gerry thought he was bad.

Throughout the whole episode at the library, the walk through Chelsea, and the exchange with Tim, Gerry had never once taken a moment to consider that Sasha's friend with a bookstore and Jon's Martin with a bookstore might be the same person.

He chooses to blame the lack of sleep and general disarray that is his life for the oversight.

Which is how, 9:30 in the morning, having been awake for almost 24 hours and completely finished, Gerry walks up to Martin in his tea room and says, "I'll have whatever is pink and in that jug, please. The biggest you've got."

Martin, of course, recognized him immediately. He would have recognized Jon's gothic childhood boyfriend from his social media stalking alone, but Jon's frantic texting was also a pretty big giveaway.

Martin: Relax, I don't bite clients this early in the morning. He's in safe hands with me.

Jon: HE KNOWS THINGS ABOUT ME. Besides, who's gonna stop him from biting you?

Martin: Whatever he has to tell me can’t possibly be worse than the office gossip I heard about you before we even meet.

Jon: W H A T

Now, here Gerry is before him, and he’s quite pleased with what he sees. Even tired and vaguely dazed, his presence in the little room carries a certain energy that Martin enjoys.

"Right away. Take a seat and I'll call you with it." Martin's voice is sweet, but gentle and firm, in a comforting sort of way. Through Gerry's sleepy haze, the instruction makes perfect sense, although he has neither paid nor offered a call name.

Gerry considers taking a seat on the plush bench that occupies one wall, before deciding that he desperately needs a cigarette, and wandering outside.

Technically he is only supposed to smoke at night when he's painting and needs just the right kind of boost, but he decides to call this one since he's on a painting-based errand when he's supposed to be sleeping.

"Gerry?" He turns toward the sound of his name, to find the barista offering him a large to-go cup of what he assumes is fruit ice tea. He frowns at having his name known (his new, much-preferred name, no less) and then frowns at a blonde, bespectacled man in a tea room attached to a bookstore.

His brain finally takes a moment to function, and he puts all the pieces together in an avalanche.

"Martin?" Far from his usual self-confident tone, the single word comes out in a squeak that would make even a toddler wince.

"Yes?" Martin returns the single word in the same solidly reassuring way, and even offers a happy smile.

"I didn't... I didn't recognize you."

"Would be pretty hard for you, considering this is the first we've ever met." Martin's voice is calming in a way that eases Gerry a bit, teasing and all.

"Thank you. For the tea, I mean." Gerry closes his eyes and desperately begs his shit to pull together for him, just this one time. "It's nice to finally meet you."

His hands are fully occupied with a book, a cup of tea, and a cigarette, but Martin doesn't seem particularly bothered by the lack of a hand to shake. "It's nice to meet you too. We're giving Jon a heart attack by doing it without him."

"That is the lawful good," Gerry says, after a long drag of his smoke. "A panicked Jon is a happy Jon, after all. Whatever would he do with himself without a situation to unnecessarily complicate?"

"Yes, the man does seem to thrive on anxiety, doesn't he?" Martin asks warmly, eyes crinkling around a fond smile. "Speaking of, you seem pretty wrecked yourself. Good party, I hope."

Gerry's answering laugh has a razor edge, "Not hardly. This fucking painting I'm working on will be the death of me." Gerry lifts the reference book as proof of trauma and stabs out his cigarette viciously.

"Hmm, sounds like a pain. I hope you typically find art a more enjoyable career?" Martin asks, tilting his head inquisitively. His curly hair moves fetchingly and Gerry catches himself tracking the movement.

"Mostly, yes. Although I keep the bartending gig for variety. You'd be amazed at the sort of inspiration someone can find in the right drunk crowd." Gerry grins, thinking of all the ridiculous things he’d seen walk in and out of the bar in his run there.

"I'd be very interested to see what kind of art you can turn that into. Maybe you'd like to show me sometime?" Martin's words are open and friendly.

Gerry eyes him for a minute, hiding behind a long taste of his drink. He's trying to suss out Martin's motivations, for his kindness and general geniality. The drink is good and it tips Gerry's mood far enough back into cheerfulness that he shrugs off his considerations for the time being.

"You know what," Gerry quips back. "I think I would like to show you sometime. How 'bout tonight."

It's not a question really, with Gerry's typical force of personality behind it, and he leaves the shop with Martin holding an address in his hand and a time to drag Jon over for dinner that evening.

***

Gerry does not make a big deal of Martin coming over. He acts as if any other friend is coming over for dinner.

He tidies, a little. Lights a few candles. Wears pants. The bare minimum really.

He isn't trying to impress anyone, he tells himself sternly.

Except he is, obviously. He doesn't know Martin very well yet, but he does want to keep Jon around, and they are a packaged deal these days. Which he was happy with, truly.

In their limited interaction, Martin had been sweet and put Gerry instantly at ease. He knows, from many years of working a bar, how to spot a dipshit, and feels confident in his assessment of Martin's character.

But, it's his own character that concerns him. People don't always like Gerry past surface interactions. He can be tempestuous and moody, and catching him tired is a pretty bad idea. The combination of artist and mommy issues can be jarring.

He desperately wants those things to not bother Martin though. He wants Martin to like him, and he's not interested in putting on a show to make it happen.

It occurs to Gerry an hour before they're due that he doesn't even remotely know what takeout to order for dinner.

(He knows what Jon will eat, and he obviously knows what he likes, but what about Martin? Why didn't he ask this morning? Why didn't he ask Jon earlier?)

Gerry is just starting to really panic about all the life choices leading up to this moment, when he gets a text from an unknown number, instantly filling him with relief.

Martin: Since you're hosting this time, I'll grab the take-out. Jon says you like Thai, I'll bring that. You got the drinks covered?

Gerry: As long as you drink either coffee, vodka, or water, yes.

Martin: I'm sorry, I subsist only on the blood of virgins.

Gerry: Oh dear. I couldn't tempt you to settle for Earl Grey?

Martin: Hmmm, yes, I'll accept your offerings this time.

***

The first knock comes right on time. Gerry, dressed in his best paint-stained jeans and cherry blossom kimono, opens the door with a flourish.

Martin allows himself to be welcomed in and hands the food off to the dramatic artist, who deposits it on the table where he has already set the tea tray.

"No Jon? Not that I mind quality ‘us’ time, of course."

Martin is busy taking in the rambling studio space and barely spares the attention to respond, although he manages a blush at the flirty tone. "He's, uh, running late. Work stuff. You know Jon."

Gerry smirks at that. "I do indeed. Is it a 'stumble in at 3am' late, or 'we could probably wait to eat' late?"

"Hmmm? Oh, let's wait a bit? If you don't mind." Martin seems equally taken with his painting wall and his book wall and keeps trading his attention between the two. The paintings, being the larger attraction, eventually win, and he meanders over to study them closer.

"Do you keep all the completed paintings around?" His voice is soft and reverent, and Gerry feels a rush of pride for his work.

"For a while. I like to make sure they're in their final forms before I release them into the wild." Martin blinks big brown eyes at him, before grinning and giggling slightly.

"You're very talented. Jon said as much, showed me the pictures, but words and photos are nothing compared to seeing the real thing." Martin really regards his paintings as if they're special, and rather than the prickly feeling of appraisal he feels during gallery nights, it fills Gerry with warmth.

He turns to examine the wall himself. It's filled with an eclectic group at the moment. Large abstracts made by pouring paint and then layering designs over, three-dimensional pieces painted and then embroidered or quilled over in select places, including a particularly wild eye design. Surreal faces and scenes that seem realistic except for the wild subject matter of planets in meadows and chimeras going to battle.

"Is this what comes from your adventures in bartending?" Martin asks Gerry, turning from the wall and towards the slightly taller man.

"That, and my traumatic childhood." Gerry makes sure to laugh at the last, taking the edge off the small confession.

"Obviously." Martin offers.

"Obviously." Gerry accepts.

***

Gerry and Martin drink tea on the floor while they wait for Jon. Gerry gently prods Martin through the story of how he came to open the bookstore. The blonde man even softly confessing that he had to lie on his CV to get the librarian gig at Magnus.

"How old are you? How did you convince them you had a Master's degree?" Gerry is incredulous. Not that he doesn't think Martin could have an advanced degree. But in paranormal research? Gerry hadn't even known that was an option.

"That's the thing! I'm only 29 now . I worked there for five years!" Martin's voice pitches up in disbelief. "I'm still in shock that anyone ever brought it. Desperate times, desperate measures, you know?"

"I do, actually." Gerry shifts slightly, adjusting his balance with the long remembered urge to flee from those desperate times. He fiddles with his teacup to distract himself. He brought this particular set from a pawn shop because the filigree and florals appealed to his love of colour theory. Soft pinks and corals warm against the cool aqua background.

"Jon says you wanted to go to art school when you two were younger."

It's not a question, but merely Martin offering the same space for openness that Gerry had given him.

"I never went. After my A-levels, I had to get away, and I never really stopped moving for long enough to go to uni when I was younger. Now I'm settled and it's not important to me anymore. Besides, no one asks for a copy of my phantom degree when I sell a painting. So I'm happy with how things turned out for the most part." He stops to consider the outline of a possible past for a moment, one where he didn't have to skip college and go ten years without seeing Jon. "Besides, can you imagine a 27-year-old in art school? The young ones would sacrifice me for more creative talent."

Their eyes meet for a moment, and then they laugh easily and move on to different topics, sliding through the easy stages of getting to know each other.

***

Jon does eventually arrive, looking panicked and harried. He de-ages 10 years when he finds them laughing and relaxed instead of tense and awkward.

So, the three of them eat cold Thai take out on the floor of Gerry's loft, leaning against the perfectly good couch. They share the odd intimacy of people who have known each other for very disjointed amounts of time but like each other just the same.

#the magnus archives #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #gerry keay #jongerrymartin #tma #fic #also on ao3

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when-they-write-stuff · 4 years

Text

Quick ficlet that is dedicated to @foreverthemomfriend because she mentioned a prompt that got into my head and refused to leave.

Word count: 2.2k

Pairing: Sterek

Warnings: Slight violence, not graphic.

Summary: Prompt here

The thing is, Derek knew his soulmate was an idiot.

Laura told him to stop grumping and just be happy that he had a soulmate, but Derek begged to disagree. Because his soulmate was a literal idiot and Derek couldn’t put into words how often he felt like he was covered in bruises, or scratches, or other miscellaneous injures.

He was a werewolf. He wasn’t supposed to wake up in the morning and feel like he’d been hit by a truck. It was clear his soulmate was a disregardful spaz because he was always wounded and in return, Derek was always feeling it.

And he was so done with everything years before they’d even met.

Derek decided he could go his entire life without ever meeting his soulmate. He— she— they— them— whatever, sucked. Derek woke up one morning with what could only be a black eye and he knew he’d gone to bed perfectly fine. Which means his soulmate was doing stupid things.

Again.

Laura thought it was hilarious. And sometimes… sometimes, Derek was okay with that. Because she didn’t find many things hilarious since the fire.

But then again, his face hurt. And it was all his soulmate’s fault.

“Clearly, they’re going to get themselves killed before we even meet,” Derek said in a growl, as Laura touched a cool cloth against his left eye; which felt far more painful than it looked. “And then I won’t be able to kill them myself for putting me through so much pain.”

“You’re acting like a baby, Der.”

“I’m a werewolf,” he growled, not caring how babyish that sounded. “I’m not supposed to be healing at the rate of a stupid human. I’m not supposed to be hurting at all.”

“I think it’s kind of cute,” Laura said teasingly. “You falling for a little human.”

Derek was quiet at that, hit with a sudden onslaught of grief. Because he didn’t think it was cute at all. He’d fallen in love with a ‘little human’ before and it hadn’t ended well. It never ended well.

He pulled away from Laura’s gentle touch and stalked into his bedroom. Closing and locking the door behind him, Derek glared at the opposite wall for a long second and tried not to think about her words. Tried not to rest on the fact that yes, he’d thought he’d fallen in love with a ‘little human’ before.

When Paige had sore fingers from practicing cello all day and Derek could’ve sworn he did too. When Kate showed him the callouses on her hands and Derek thought he had ones that were similar. But it’d all been a lie.

Growling, Derek clenched his fist and drove it into the wall.

And over in Beacon Hills, Stiles felt the first shot of pain from his soulmate that he had since he’d been twelve years old.

Because see, Stiles had felt something once. His dad had been called away to take care of a fire and Stiles felt such pain, that it didn’t even feel like an injury. It felt like a broken heart. It felt like a torn soul.

He’d stayed under his covers all night whimpering. He couldn’t think straight. Couldn’t make it go away. He stayed curled up in a ball all night trying to just breathe.

And by morning, he was able to move again. He stopped feeling like he was on the verge of tears. Later that day, his dad said there’d been a fire in the preserve.

Stiles didn’t see the connection.

The thing is, Derek was oblivious. Stiles was an idiot. And long after Derek Hale returned to Beacon Hills and Stiles Stilinski developed a crush, neither of them actually realized… things. Which really should have been expected.

Derek realized it first.

He felt it like an assault when they were trying to track down Jackson as the kanima. Hit by both surprise and sudden pain, he dropped to his knees and brought a hand to his face, gasping in pain. He could feel a blow, then another. He felt like his lip had been split and then like someone had kicked him in the ribs.

Among the chaos, the conflict, and the fighting, Derek wasn’t sure anyone else noticed. He didn’t stop feeling the throbbing or the onslaught of pain until he was aware of Scott catching him by the neck and dragging him toward a waiting Gerard.

Then the rest of the night was a bit of a blur.

Derek wanted— he wanted— he didn’t know what he wanted. He needed to be somewhere far away. Away from the feeling of blood on his lower lip, the taste of Gerard in his mouth, or the feeling of Jackson’s flesh underneath his nails.

But then Stiles showed up. Stiles, with a split lip, bruised face, and black eye. And Derek realized that no matter where he went or how far away he got, he’d never escape.

Stiles’s tongue darted out to trace the cut on his lower lip. Derek felt his own sting.

He turned away from the boy and didn’t look back.

It took Stiles a little longer.

He didn’t even linger on his possible soulmate until one day during school, when Stiles was doing his best to stay awake during one of Harris’s lectures. The last thing he needed was another detention, even though he felt like he hadn’t slept in weeks.

At one moment, he was blinking tiredly at Harris’s powerpoint. During the next, he felt himself drifting off. And then all he knew was pain.

It felt like someone had stabbed him straight through the back. Stiles convulsed and slipped out of his seat, hitting the floor hard. But he didn’t even feel the pain of that, too wrapped up in the waves of agony that crashed over him. He heard the sound of startled shouts, felt Scott scrambling toward him and taking his arm, leeching some of the pain away. But then the boy made a startled noise and yanked away, brown eyes wide.

“Stiles—”

Stiles barely heard him. He clawed at his chest, certain he’d feel blood or torn flesh, or something. But he was okay. He was intact.

His soulmate wasn’t.

“They’re dying,” Stiles said in a gasp, his throat tightening to a painful level. “Scott, I think they’re dying.”

“Who, Stiles? Who’s dying?”

But Stiles didn’t know. All he could do was writhe, feeling the foreign object twist in his chest from somewhere unseen. He squeezed his eyes shut and heard Harris bellowing something to those around him. Felt calloused hands on his shoulders, trying to drag him up. Stiles gasped and struggled, and tried to breathe.

And then the feeling was gone.

Like a breath of fresh air, the pain was gone, the burn was ebbing away, and Stiles dropped like a rock, pressing hard against the classroom floor. He gasped for breath, aware that his face was streaked with tears but not remembering when that happened.

All he could think was his soulmate was dead. There was no way someone survived that much pain and then walked away healed. Turning his face away from the classmates that stared, Stiles bit back a sob. Scott touched his arm again. This time, there were no black streaks. No pain to be taken. Nothing other than the hopelessness Stiles was feeling.

They didn’t talk about that day again.

Allison wasn’t Scott’s soulmate. When they first met and she shot him, she didn’t feel a thing. When Stiles was possessed by the Nogitsune and the Oni stabbed her, Scott said there was no pain.

She’d said the same thing. But in a different way.

- -

Derek felt the Nogitsune like a headache that never left. He couldn’t be around Stiles but all he wanted to do was stay close. To take care of him. To say everything was going to be alright.

Then Void threw him against the wall of his loft one day. Derek’s back cracked against the cornered stone and Void jerked in pain. Then his eyes snapped to Derek and a sick smile curled across his features. Derek felt like his world was crashing down around him.

But Void didn’t say a word.

And afterward, Stiles either didn’t remember or didn’t want to talk about it. Derek couldn’t be sure but he was too scared to press it. So instead, he stayed quiet.

Eventually, the nogitsune was killed. The pack retreated into themselves to mourn. And Derek never visited Stiles in the hospital.

Then Kate shot him in the chest.

Stiles knew what he was running from.

He watched Derek struggle for breath with Braeden’s hand wrapped around his arm and knew that if he turned away, there wouldn’t be any coming back. There was blood trailing down Derek’s lip and a hole in his stomach. Stiles was leaning heavily against the jeep and he barely felt like he could move himself. And he didn’t want to.

But then shattered grey-green eyes met his own and Derek jerked his head with a faint ‘Save him’ leaving his lips and Stiles knew that if he turned away, there wouldn’t be any coming back.

He still turned away. He knew what he was running from.

Stiles only looked back once.

When Stiles arrived home four years later, he expected to see the grumpy-looking werewolf sitting on their couch that faced the door. The man had an open book in his lap but wasn’t paying it any attention and when he met Stiles’s gaze, he didn’t look happy.

Stiles still put on a bright smile. “Hey, Der! You, uh, waiting up for me?”

“Did you have a good day at work, Stiles?”

“Oh yeah,” Stiles said, forcing himself to stay cheery. “Just fantastic. You know, the little things. Spilled some coffee on myself this morning and ended up drowning in paperwork sometime around noon. I missed lunch though. Got anything on the stove?”

Stiles tried to scoot around him and head for the kitchen, but Derek was there in an instant, cutting him off. Stiles sunk his teeth into his bottom lip and silently cursed, glancing up at the man’s narrowed eyes.

“So is that a ‘no’ on having something on stove? Because that’s fine. I can order in.”

“Paperwork and spilled coffee, Stiles? That’s all?”

“Um, yes?”

Derek’s eyes flicked to the bandages wrapping around Stiles’s shoulder and his face tightened a fraction. Stiles noticed with a pang of guilt the small ice pack that was bandaged to the man’s own shoulder. It looked like it’d melted hours ago. “So you weren’t shot in the shoulder earlier, then?”

“Oh yeah,” Stiles said, ducking his head. “I forgot about that.”

“You forgot?”

“I would have called,” Stiles joked weakly. “But I figured you already knew. And I really didn’t want to get yelled at.”

Derek’s face softened. Calloused fingers reached out and found Stiles’s own, and Stiles couldn’t stop a small sigh from leaving his lips as Derek threaded their fingers together and leaked away some of the pain. The werewolf leaned forward and touched his lips against Stiles’s forehead. “I was just worried about you.”

“I know,” Stiles said softly. “I’m sorry.”

“One of these days, you’re going to get shot when I’m doing something public. Like buying groceries. Or making conversation with the neighbors.”

“And today?”

Derek’s face tinted red, the color going all the way to the tips of his ears. Stiles tilted his head up and studied the man’s face before barking out a laugh.

“Oh my god, were you on the toilet again?”

“I was in the shower.”

“Oh,” Stiles said, rolling his eyes. “Well, then it could’ve been worse.”

“I was so surprised I slipped and fell, Stiles.”

Stiles barked out a laugh, unable to stop himself. Derek growled lowly and Stiles chuckled, leaning forward to press a quick kiss against his lips. “Sorry. Let me make it up to you? I am starving.”

“There’s no food on the stove.”

“I was talking about something much more edible.”

Derek’s eyes flashed blue and he hoisted Stiles up, throwing him over his— uninjured— shoulder. Stiles yelped and tried to struggle, only to go limp as they entered the bedroom. He was grinning when the man dropped him onto the bed and lifted his arm, stripping off his shirt. The look in Derek’s eyes was nothing other than predatory.

And maybe a little soft too.

The man leaned forward and kissed him hard, before dragging his lips to the shell of Stiles’s ear. “I always knew you were an idiot, you know.”

Stiles shivered. Derek’s tone dropped an octave.

“Care to make all those years up to me?”

“Oh please,” Stiles managed to get out. “I’ve made it up to you plenty of times, big guy.”

Derek growled again. Stiles couldn’t help grinning as sharp teeth skated down his neck, nipping here and there, and then latched on above his collarbone. Derek smelled like pine and aftershave, and his lips were warm. His presence was heavy and it was warm.

When one finger slipped beneath the waistband of his jeans, Stiles couldn’t help jerking. He slammed his hand up against the headboard and barked out in pain as one of his fingers popped. At the same time, Derek let out a startled grunt.

For a moment, neither of them moved. Then Stiles dissolved into a fit of giggles and Derek buried his face into Stiles’s shoulder, sighing heavily.

“Idiot.”

Stiles didn’t even try to argue with that.

#sterek #teen wolf #ficlet #when-she-writes-stuff talks #foreverthemomfriend #i tried not to write it #i really did #but my self control is in tatters #derek hale #stiles stilinski #fbi stiles #soulmate au

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unaskedformagnustheories · 4 years

Text

UNASKED FOR MAGNUS THEORY #4: THE SILENT

This week’s theory is one of my more self-indulgent. It’s also probably being proven wrong as I type. So if you see this and you’ve listened to MAG 181 already, try not to laugh at me too badly. I just want to get it down before I have to refile this Google Doc under “dead wrong” tomorrow. What is this crazy, semi-coherent theory you ask? Well? Basically I think Adelard Dekker, Mikaele Salesa, Gertrude Robinson(?), Gerard Keay, Christopher Meyer (and maybe the coroner’s uncle from MAG 36 and Alard Dupont) might have been part of an underground society that figured out how to weaponize the powers by fragmenting/channeling multiple entities at the same time - evading attention while manipulating things to their own end.

Read on for my decent into madness.

EXHIBIT A: The Key of Solomon. Acquired by Gertrude Robinson in 2007, The Key of Solomon caught my eye with the following passage - found on a torn scrap of paper found by The Archivist in his exploration of the tunnels under The Magnus Institute (MAG 70): “They have for adversaries the Satariel, or concealers, the Demons of absurdity, of intellectual inertia, and of Mystery”. While I don’t think actual demons will come into play this late in the game, this is a very interesting quote taken from a book that we later learn was “one of the few volumes that contained elements from several powers” (MAG 80). In that same episode Leitner confirms the book was destroyed after proving itself to be too volatile, but could it be Gertrude learned a few tricks before disposing of the thing? The person who told Jurgen Leitner about the books called them “coded spell books”, and while Leitner seemed dismissive of this description, I wonder if there’s a kernel of truth in the simplification.

EXHIBIT B: We know that opposing powers can cancel each other out. Gertrude used a man touched by The Vast to stop The Buried’s ‘Sunken Sky’ ritual. Heck, she contemplated using Gerry to stop The Unknowing because of his affiliation with The Eye. The Ceaseless Watcher has trouble seeing anything to do with The Dark, etc., etc., but what happens when you combine three or more powers? Answer: silence. Like Smirke’s buildings, and Breekon & Hope’s depot after it’s been cleared out - places where multiple powers interact are described as empty. Silent. Almost as if they can’t exist in one space without creating some sort of self-destructive feedback loop. Is it so impossible to think someone with enough canny could channel that? Use it for their own purposes? EXHIBIT C: Adelard Dekker. In MAG 63 whilst trapping the Not-Them in a table, the statement-giver observes that Dekker’s lips were “moving rapidly though no sound came out of them”. In other words, he was silent. Somehow managing to wield a power strong enough to actively contain the creature. It’s potentially a stretch, but Jon also notices Not!Sasha has torn strips of paper when he goes rifling in her desk (MAG 57). We know that Not!Sasha went poking about the tunnels as well. Is it possible she also took interest in the remains of The Key of Solomon? Was she trying to understand or gird herself against whatever had left her vulnerable when she was bound?

[Archivist’s Note: Dekker is also described as wearing an outfit similar to the one Gerry Keay is found in when he arrives at St. Thomas’ with Diego Molina. It might be a bit on the nose to assume there’s a uniform if these folks are as organized as I’m making them out to be (they could be completely free agents who stumbled on the same hack), but I’m also not saying there isn’t.] EXHIBIT D: Gerry Keay’s poster. One of the first times we see our collective dead gay goth son (MAG 4) the statement giver comments on a poster supposedly painted by Mr. Keay bearing the caption: “Grant us the sight that we may not know. Grant us the scent that we may not catch. Grant us the sound that we may not call”. Tacked onto the bottom of a giant eye, the painting seems to only lend itself to one entity, but we know Gerry never fully gave himself to The Eye and the caption seems to speak to concealment. To silence. Even mysterious scents seem to be a reoccurring phenomena in the Magnus universe in places touched by more than one power. Did he know more than he let on when he met Gertrude? Do I maybe just want his last thoughts to be more resonant? “[His mother] would not claim his last moment. He was silent” (MAG 63).

EXHIBIT E: When Gerry wakes up in St. Thomas he’s missing both a red-leather bound book, and a brass amulet (I need to make a separate post about how I think brass is used to trap/contain the entities at some point), but for now I’m mostly interested in the fact that he tells the nurse ‘Yes. For you, better beholding than the lightless flame” as if he has a choice. As if he has any modicum of control on what happens next.

CONCLUSION: This tinfoil hat really is tight. I might have to have it surgically removed. I know I didn’t really get into how Salesa is involved (really, it’s mostly because Annabelle Cane has taken an interest), or how I think he was meeting Alard Dupont in 1982 when Trevor Herbert killed him, or that I suspect if Gertrude was part of the gang, she went rogue and Salesa (and maybe Adelard?) faked his own death when they realized she was more of a threat than an ally. As always, I am very much aware that I’m probably over-complicating things and just need to go take a nap. SUPPLEMENTAL: I lied. I’m going to give a quick and dirty version of why I think brass is a method of containing the entities here:

1. Gerry’s brass pendant (MAG 12). 2. Brass grate covering the entrance to the Serapeum of Alexandria (MAG 53) 3. Brass boxes in Christopher Meyer’s house, holding assorted artifacts touched by the entities (MAG 60) 4. Brass urn requested by John Amherst (MAG 36) - this one’s odd because it’s requested by John Amherst, but if the coroner’s uncle who seems to know more than he’s letting on is a part of this same secret society here, Amherst might just be taunting him. Rubbing his face in it, as it were. 5. The Sarcophagus wrapped in copper bands (MAG 64). Copper, yes, but brass is an alloy made from combining copper & zinc, so this might just be an early attempt. 6. A brass handle is on the door containing the first victim from MAG 86, Tucked in. It is worth noting that the statement giver here, was convinced someone else had been in the house before he called the police. A belief that is ignored/dismissed. Could it have been someone we know trying to trap the beast? SUPPLEMENTAL TO THE SUPPLEMENTAL: In MAG 95, Basira is seen reading “Introduction to Alchemy” - talking about Venus and the various properties of copper. If there is something here, is she hip to the trade secret? She’s certainly extremely good at being silent/popping up without people noticing her, but I have no idea if it’s intentional, or if she’s just stumbled across something. Seriously, if you’ve made it this far, thank you for listening to my TED talk. You’re awesome. I’m insane, and I don’t know how the eff you pulled something sensible from that cesspool of text. but it’s fun not to be in this alone! Cheers

#the silent #tma #tma theories #the magnus archives #jon sims #jonathin sims #gerry keay #mikaele salesa #adelard dekker #gertrude robinson #basira hussain #the key of solomon #getting down to brass tacks #no?#that pun was awful?#alrighty #i'll be seeing myself out

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grandhotelabyss · 3 years

Photo

Enjoy this visual for our audiovisual Monday, also Memorial Day and Walt Whitman’s 202nd birthday. According to Timothy Wilcox, who shared the image on Twitter last month,

Walt Whitman stacked up the word count of his book against the Bible, Virgil, Dante, Milton, and Cowper.

Leaves of Grass, he found, was already bigger than Inferno and Paradise Lost combined, but he would revise and expand it further. He still had to beat Cowper and Virgil.

Is this declaration of almost crudely epic ambition the most American gesture of our most American poet? I assume, as well, that our working-class hero was especially attuned to the word counts of texts—rather than the number of lines in a poem—because he’d labored as a printer. As Charles Olson observed in his study of Melville, the central fact of 19th-century America was space, and Whitman was an expansionist of all sorts. Being the bard of democracy and the bard of empire aren’t wholly separable enterprises.

Efforts to cancel Whitman have largely foundered, though, especially as partisans of the canon have gotten cannier about circumventing the canon-smashers’ strictures. The recent PBS specials on Hemingway and O’Connor, for example, exculpated both of them on grounds of disability and all but declared Hem in particular to have been, by present standards, queer. Whitmanites arguably pioneered this approach with their (somewhat anachronistically) gay poet who is as much diverse representation as he is dead white male. The attempt to blow up a few admittedly ugly obiter dicta into a full-fledged charge of racism is likewise washed away by the overall democratic drift of his vision, hence the tributes from later figures like Langston Hughes and Pablo Neruda. Finally, his vision of democracy may have been expansionist, but I don’t see how today’s liberal establishment has any room to judge on those grounds; when he counted the costs of even emancipatory violence in his Civil War poems, our wound-dresser showed that he was hardly naive about these matters.

Returning to the competitive document above, I note that Whitman read Virgil and Dante, and presumably also Homer and the Bible, in translation, as do I (though I can make headway with Dante’s Italian when I put my mind to it). Language purists might be right when they say it’s hopeless to translate lyric poetry—I can’t imagine, for example, reading Gerard Manley Hopkins in another language; without his acoustic play, which is his theology, what’s left?—but epics, like plays and novels, should be able to cross linguistic and cultural borders on the strength of their stories, characters, ideas, and images. And Whitman, though he provides many local stylistic pleasures and is a much more intricate and careful poet than the “free verse” label implies, is as much an epic writer as a lyric one. Wasn’t it his American merit to go even further than Dante in making lyric and epic indistinguishable—making every man an Achilles or Odysseus?

Further reading: essays from me on Whitman’s Song of Myself and John Marsh’s In Walt We Trust: How a Queer Socialist Poet Can Save America from Itself (a book superior to its clickbait title). The last word goes to Walt himself:

Apart from the pulling and hauling stands what I am; Stands amused, complacent, compassionating, idle, unitary; Looks down, is erect, or bends an arm on an impalpable certain rest, Looking with side-curved head, curious what will come next; Both in and out of the game, and watching and wondering at it.

#walt whitman #poetry #american literature

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literatehiss · 3 years

Text

Eventuality

Read on AO3 here Oliver keeps coming into the Archives to flirt with Jon post-coma and Martin considers abandoning his whole fake-lonely thing just to take a leaf out of Elias’ book and smash Oliver’s head in with a pipe Head heavy in his hands, Jon sat in his dimmed office, debating whether to read another statement to take the edge off his headache when the door swung open. He recognised the man who entered only by the fact he had dreams of him without having ever knowingly taken his statement.

“Oliver Banks. What do you want? Unless you are here to tell me that it is my time to die? I’d rather not know if I am honest with you.” The man who entered his office just laughed and Jon was tempted to put some power into his questions to make the smugness leave the man’s voice.

“We both know that you aren’t being honest at all, you’re one of the Watchers, you want to know everything. Anyway, I came to give you a statement. That is what you do after all.” Jon’s brow furrowed in confusion.

“I already have two statements from you, well you gave one to Gertrude and somehow gave one to me while I was asleep. What else could you possibly have for me?” Banks tutted at him in disapproval.

“You know full well you weren’t asleep Archivist. You were dead. You are just lucky that you made the choice to come back. And I had an interaction with someone who was being affected by a Leitner, thought that you might be interested. I brought the book as well, as a gift.” He handed over a cheap plastic bag and when Jon checked inside there was an ash covered book laying within it. The front cover was slightly open and Jon could see the edge of the bookplate that would mark it as a Leitner. He nodded his thanks but couldn’t help but let out a weak, disbelieving laugh at the man’s words.

“Ha! Lucky. Sure. I’m sure you are the only person who thinks that. Everyone else seems quite upset that I didn’t stay dead.” He carefully pulled out the book and placed it on his desk. He desperately wanted to know what it did, how it worked. Part of that was the pull of the book and the other was the pull of the Eye. Not that it mattered. Jon would respect the memory of Gerard Keay and burn the thing in the Institute’s parking lot when the rest of the employees had gone home for the night. “Not the worst gift I’ve been given. Not a statement from the original recipient of the book though?”

“No she is… well she is indisposed right now. You will have to make do with me I’m afraid.”

“O-ok,” he cleared his throat, “Statement of Oliver Banks regarding the effects of a Leitner of the Desolation. Statement taken direct from subject. Recorded by Jonathan Sims, the Archivist.”

That was the first time that Oliver came to his office, but it certainly wasn’t the last. At first it was just Oliver coming into contact with various avatars or Lietners, such a suspicious amount of them that even Jon was starting to suspect that the other man was purposefully seeking these encounters out, but their little chats after the statement became them just meeting up for coffee or to just talk.

Basira had glared at them as Oliver had hooked his arm around Jon’s and pulled him out of his dingy office. She didn’t approve, didn’t think he should be hanging out with other avatars or leaving the Institute without good reason. Oliver thought she could get stuffed and reassured Jon when he insisted that he was a danger to the public. He could hurt someone, but the only reason that had happened before was because he was hungry and Oliver had just given him a statement so he should be fine to have fun for once. Arm in arm, they walked through the entrance hall of the Institute and out into the misty London streets, not noticing the fog-draped figure glaring from the Institute steps.

Martin hated Elias.

But every time he saw Banks with Jon we couldn’t help but think that maybe the other man had the right idea with the pipe murder. Not that Oliver could die. Probably.

Martin knew it wasn’t fair of him. Jon didn’t belong to him and these feelings wouldn’t be ok if they did mean anything more to each other than co-workers. It wasn’t like he was there for Jon right now, wrapped up with Peter’s plans as he was, but it didn’t help the twisting anger every time he saw the handsome man spending time with Jon, making him laugh and smile. It reminded Martin that Jon didn’t need him.

It made him feel lonely.

That was probably why Peter kept setting up situations for Martin to catch sight of the two of them.

The only thing stopping him from doing something very unwise was that Jon, despite his intelligence, clearly did not realise that Banks was flirting with him. Then again, he hadn’t noticed that Martin was interested in him either and he had been considerably less subtle about it, so maybe it wasn’t that much of a surprise.

He was sat on the steps that lead up to the Institute, waiting for the taxi that Peter insisted he go home in rather than risk Martin speaking to people, even if it would just be the workers at the tube stations. He saw them come down the steps and he felt grief grip his heart as Jon gave Banks a wry grin as the other man made a joke as they made their way to the little cafe bookshop around the corner. It had taken him months and a worm invasion to get Jon to look at him like that. He was surprised that Daisy was alright with the whole thing, he knew that she had become very protective of Jon since he dragged her out of the Buried but apparently she thought it was good for Jon. Had even defended the two of them to Basira and Melanie and would wait eagerly for Jon to return so that she could tease him.

Martin was giving everything for Jon, for him to be safe, and his only reward for that was Jon seemingly finding someone else. Just as he watched the two of them turn a corner and out of his vision, Banks shifted and his white eyes caught Martin’s. Banks gave him a considering glance and did nothing but give a quick grin before he vanished into the crowd.

Oliver thought this whole thing was hilarious.

He liked Jon. He liked the way his stern countenance melted into a smile when he laughed, he liked the way he would loose track of what he was saying and start a mini lecture onto whatever topic had caught his interest. He just found the man enjoyable to be around and he couldn’t deny the entertainment value of being so close to the soap opera that the Magnus Institute called an Archive. The other man didn’t seem to get that Oliver was flirting and he was so used to people finding him handsome and making assumptions that Jon was a breath of fresh air. It didn’t help the man wasn’t so bad to look at himself. So yes, he was interested in Jon.

He was also interested in the ball of repressed jealousy and rage that liked to watch them from foggy corners.

Oliver had never managed to sneak up on the other man close enough to actually speak to him before he just vanished into the mist. He knew that he was one of Jon’s old assistants before he had been snapped up by Peter Lukas. He also knew that the other man loved Jon, that his nonsense with Lukas and the Forsaken was in some way to keep Jon safe. Oliver couldn’t say that he approved, but he understood. He heard from Jon how the other man, Martin, was the one to trick Bouchard so that they could arrest the bastard, that he had survived a siege by Jane Prentiss for two weeks. He also heard that he apparently made the best tea and no cafe Oliver could find served tea that was up to Jon’s standards. The few glimpses of Martin caught his eye, the man’s ginger hair paling at the tips and his blue eyes starting to grow foggy. The picture of Martin that Jon kept in his wallet, a Polaroid with a man and woman he didn’t recognise, was well worn and showed a happy man with a shy smile that warmed Oliver’s cold dead heart.

He was fully aware that Martin wasn’t the only one pining. That Jon was just as enamoured with the other man. He resolved to do something about it and hey, if he was a little selfish and got something out of it for himself, well, who could truly complain.

He pulled out a phone that he had swiped from the desk of current acting Head of the Magnus Institute. An order for coffee sent to one of the only three numbers saved onto the phone. Oliver waited in the almost abandoned coffee shop, thumbing through a book he had pulled from one of the shelves. He gave Jon a grin and waited for the show to begin.

#NaNo 2020 #Oliver Banks #Jon Sims #Martin Blackwood #Jon/Martin/Oliver

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voidselfshipp · 4 years

Text

Murder in paris

Pt3

♡~~~~~~~♡

Spy Walked hastily down the streets, where was that shop with the dress where is It.

He makes a beeline for it,and quickly enters as they are about to close.

Somehow he convinced the owners to sell him that black dress he saw earlier, and sighed in relief once he left the store with the bag.

Once back he left the dress besides jerico, and Walked outside to use the hotels phone.

Jer woke up, sitting on the bed still sleepy, she looks at the clock...its half past eight

She sees the bag just besides her, and a note in an incredibly done cursive"put this on,ill be back at quarter to nine...~spy".

Oh god.

She quickly ran into the bathroom and quickly showered.

Fifteen minutes later spy softly opened the door, stopping when he heard someone singing

-- " Marrow made a wife of Eve

But no one gave up a rib for me

And mine

My heart did expose to the elements

Calloused and untouched by a man's design

Oh, my ugly organs

How lucky we are

Brick and mortar between my bones

Built a kingdom fierce and fortified

My name fading from the yellow page

Stones are laid upon the mountainside

Oh, my savage empire

How lucky we are

Never to be moved by the words of a liar

The dark doesn't frighten me

I chose to close my eyes; it is mine

The night doesn't frighten me

I chose to let it ride; it is mine"

When he peeks at the door he sees jerico, wrapped in a towel while brushing her wet hair.

-- "Time has changed the metaphor

Now, dust is not the origin of bone

Little girl, don't let them sell you any armor

All your ribs are still your own

Oh, my precious child

How lucky you are

Handed down a shield for your tender parts

The dark doesn't frighten me

I chose to close my eyes; it is mine

The night doesn't frighten me

I chose to let it ride; it is mine

The dark doesn't frighten me

I chose to close my eyes; it is mine

The night doesn't frighten me

I chose to let it ride; it is mine...."

He coos softly,she had a truly beautiful voice.

He decided to give her some privacy and wait by the door.

Though as soon a jerico saw the dress she gasped softly.

--That damn snake--she whispered in a chuckle--i knew it

After changing she opens the door, weird of him leaving it unlocked, as soon as she steps out shes stopped by no-one but spy himself.

--Going somewhere,mon ami?

--i knew you were going to buy it,I knew it!

The Man rolls his eyes with soft smile on his lips,offering his arm, wich she takes as both walk down to the reception and then out of the hotel.

They take a cab, and in the ride,jerico scoots closer to him clinging to his arm--spy...where are we going?

--Youll soon see

Needless to say she was a bit confused, but it did clear when she saw the restaurants big letters, she chuckled.

Her frenchman companion went out the car and held the door Open for her.

She stepped out as he payed the taxist, he then put a hand ghosting her Lower back,softly pushing her to walk forward.

--Terran food?never took you for a fan of it --jer said as they enter the very luxurious place.

--well, some of it its very good--he answers playfully

--some?-- she elbows him softly on the ribs, and he snorts.

A waiter stops them, asking them if they had a reservation.

----Oui

- Sous quel nom?

--gerard surnois

-Suivez-moi monsieur et madame

It was unsual for him to use his Real name to book things,but this time it was special.

Jerico felt right at home when the food arrived,though he did hear her complain a bit about the way it tasted...but she did like it,wich was a relief to the frenchman.

After paying,they left again.

--where Will you take me now, mister fancypants

--cant you just wait and enjoy the secret?

--darling I am a Spy I do hate secrets being kept from me

--as all spies do

Jer rolls her eyes and takes his hand.

She almost screamed when she saw the eiffel tower right infront of her, and even more so, as spy took her inside of it, to the very top.

--i was going to ask how did you managed this but I think I already know the answer...--jer said looking down at the city--its even more beautiful from here

Spy leans on the handrail and nodds--yes it is...--he then puts a hand on her Lower back, and looks at her,with a smile.

Jer turns her gaze to him and scoots closer,his free hand runs up her arm, up her shoulder, stopping on her cheek,caressing it.

--i dont usually get zhese feelings...to be zhis strong...you jerico..make a different Man come out of me, at first I thought it was appreciation,but zhese few days,spend togheter...and zhe years ive known you,made me realize zhat is something even more strong...zrusting is somezhing very...hard for me,given my work...but with you is different...and all im zrying zo say is zhat...jerico I am in love with you...

Jer stands there in silence...then a smile creeps up her face and kisses him, hugging his neck.

His hands rest on her waist and pulls her closer to his chest.

As they pull appart,jerico sighs,and smiles,ghosting her lips on his.

--I love you...jerico..

--and I love you spy...

--its Gerard...

--Wh what?

--my names Gerard surnois...

--have I told you you have a beautiful name?

--just now yes...

She starts to laugh hugging him tightly--you dork

He joins in the laughter--but you love me like zhis

--of course I do

♡~~BONUS~~♡

The plane back to teufort was way more enjoyable now that they could be more affectionate with eachother.

--About time he confessed--heavy said patting jericos back--i hope he makes you happy, sister if not ill break his bones

Jer laughs nervously-- alright misha maybe not so much!

--Are you freakin kidding me right now?!--scout screamed at the top of his lungs--first my ma and now my best friend....I hate you spy

Spy just rolls his eyes taking a drag from his cigarrette.

Jer looks at heavy with a playful smile, taking advantadge of the fact that she had to to into town to retrive the mail they couldnt Grab since they were in france-- Anyway I should get going..

Jer takes her bag and walks over to spy, she grabd his tie yanking Him to Her,kissing Him--love ya,bye!

And so she ran for her dear life as the mix of spy chasing after her and the groans of annoyance from the rest of the team are heard as she flees for her dear life.

This sure was going to be fun.

#self insert #self ship #my f/os #self shipping #f/o x s/i #romantic f/o #f/o #f/o community #f/o fic #🖤🔪the quickest spy🔪🖤#💛stab me in the back (and steal my heart)💛

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lostinmymindpalace-m · 3 years

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The Light of Knowledge

A warm comfort fanfic about Dead Poets Society introducing Diana Williams. Might not always be (chronologically) accurate, but has the intention to warm your heart and take you to a wonderful place. Will (hopefully) be updated, because I love wrtiting it. Feel free to give feedback and correct linguistical mistakes <3

Chapter one, in which the thoughts are free

Wer kann sie erraten, Who can guess them sie fliehen vorbei, they flee away, wie nächtliche Schatten. like nocturnal shadows. Kein Mensch kann sie wissen, No man can know them, kein Jäger erschießen. no hunter can shoot them. Es bleibet dabei: It stays like it is: Die Gedanken sind frei. the thoughts are free

Ich denke, was ich will, I think what I want und was mich beglücket, and what makes me happy, doch alles in der Still, but all in silence und wie es sich schicket. and how it acquiesces. Mein Wunsch und Begehren My wish and desire kann niemand verwehren, nobody can deny, es bleibet dabei: it stays like it is: die Gedanken sind frei. The thoughts are free

(from a German folk song)

I stop and take a deep breath. The time-honoured school building looks stunning against the setting of trees, whose leaves are starting to turn colourful. I still can't believe I'm really here. My heartbeat accelerates with excitement as I let my gaze wander over the dark, weathered brick bulidings and the adjoining school grounds. A river runs through the valley and flows into a lake aside the houses. Welton Academy. I actually made it. A blast opens up the cloudy sky and the golden sun rays of late summer bathe the school building in their light. I close my eyes, hold my face against the warmth and then set out for the Academy, for a new life.

In front of the entrance door, an old man with grey hair is waiting for me. He introduces himself as Dr. Hager and shakes my hand. „You must be the recipient of the Eisenhower-Scholarship. Diana Williams, right?“ I nod. „Yes, Sir.“ „Well, in addition to my function as teacher of mathematics, I am residential supervisor for grades eleven and twelve, a cordial welcome to Welton Academy on my behalf. Please follow me to the director now.“ I tightly sqeeze my suitcase as I walk behind Dr. Hager. In the entrance hall, the walls are covered with pictures of former years and special awards of students. One day, my picture will be on these walls, too, I think and feel like I could scream with joy. But of course, I controll myself. Keep it upright, a slight smile on my lips, just like my mother told me to. Dr. Hager stops and knocks on a door made of the same dark wood the walls here are covered with up to shoulder height. „Come in!“, it sounds from the director's room. I square my shoulders, adjust my glasses and step in. Behind the huge mahogany desk sits a man with short, white hair. For a moment, his eyes behind the round glasses linger on my school uniform before he signifies for me to sit down. „Miss Williams, it is a pleasure to welcome you to this school. Your parents don't seem to have arrived with you?“ „No, Sir. They were both indispensable, so I took the train here by myself.“ Director Nolan takes notice with a nod and then continues. „You certainly understand why the school has asked you not to attend the traditional welcome ceremony. Students and parents have been informed about the project, but the school administration considered it appropriate to avoid any possible disruption of the ceremony.“ In other words, the teachers think the presence of a girl would lead to inappropriate behaviour on part of the students? I internally roll my eyes. „Miss Williams, as you know, your admission to this school is a pilot project. An attempt to see if teaching female students at an institution like Welton is possible. Of course, you are familiar with the rules of this school as well as our four pillars?“ „Yes, Sir. tradition, honor, discipline and excellence, Sir. It is a great honor for me to be able to attend this school.“, I say in a steady voice. Nolan nods again, almost approvingly this time. „Here, you are expected to adhere strictly to the tried and tested standarts and to understanf the four pillars as the headstone of your life. Be aware that your success or failure at this school contributes a major part in the decision about an enlargement of the pupils.“ I can feel his stern look on me, but I don't even blink. I have been aware of the efford and the responsibility this scholarship would entail from the very beginning, when I was suggested by my principal. „As for your school uniform“, Nolan throws a glance at my legs in the suit pants, „an alternative will be found as soon as possible. You will understand that until now, this institution hasn't had any need for adequate skirts.“ That's what I was afraid of. Why can't I just wear pants? Skirts may be pretty, but most of all, they are impractical. Well, my school uniform surely doesn't have top priority here. Who knows how long it will be until I actually have skirts to wear. „It also goes without saying that you won't exploit your position as, well, unique. It is an important requirement for the continuation of your scholarship that the concentrated working atmosphere in the classroom won't be disturbed. For this experiment to be successfull, you too are expected not to let living with male students diminish your achievements.“ „I assure you this won't be an issue, Sir.“ Nolan hands me a paper on which my schedule appears to be printed. „From tomorrow on, you will attend class with your classmates and, based on your last report cards, you will take part in the following extracurricular activities: Pupil's magazine, yearbook and debate club. Dr. Hager will now lead you to your room and I will have your class representative lead you through the school during the afternoon. He will also tell you where to pick up your books. Dinner starts at preciely six o'clock. He rises and so do I. „Thank you for your time, Sir.“ After a quick handshake, I am dismissed.

My new home is a small room, the last one on the left side oft the hallway, that has my name on it's door. The walls are dirty white and it's very plain, but at least it has a window with a wide ledge. It was probably originally used as a storage room or something, but now it has everything I need. A simple metall bed, a wardrobe for my clothes and a desk with a chair and a small lamp. It reminds me of home. I slowly put down my suitcase and step up to the window, from which I have a beautiful view of the school grounds. A slight mist is rising, making the lake and the far edge of the forest seem blurry and mystical. I feel tears rising in my eyes and I can't tell wether it's the beauty of nature or the fact that I'm actually here, at the best preperation school in the United States. Six month ago, I couldn't even dream of an opportunity like this. But now, with a lot of work and a degree from Welton Academy, I should even be able to go to college! Almost floating with happiness, I start unpacking my possesions. I didn't bring much, just a few everyday clothes, my coat and a pair of shoes, which I put into the closet next to the school uniforms that have been sent to me. I have just stored my books and writing material and am wondering what to do with my bathroom stuff when I hear muffled noises outside my door. A moment later, someone knocks. That's probably the class representative, i think and quickly put away my bathroom bag. When I open the door, a boy in grey Welton uniform is leaning against the frame and looks at me with a mischievous grin. Behind him stands a group of boys around my age whose facial expressions range from enthusiastic to mild panik. It's hilarious. I slightly raise my eyebrows. „Can I help you?“ The boy that's leaning in the door frame casually extends his hand. „Charlie Dalton. Welcome to Hell-ton.“ „Diana Williams. Pleased to meet you.“ As I shake his hand, he looks deeply into my eyes and pulls my hand to his lips. I sigh internally and stifle a grimace, but I continue to smile nonchalantly. Of course, I knew what kind of attention I would get here. Remain polite and kind, I admonish myself. Mother taught you the best way to handle situations like this. Fortunately, another boy steps forward and I can withdraw my hand. The boy's school jacket is covered with pins. „Diana, I'm Neil Perry, the class representative. Mr. Nolan sent me to show you around and“, he gestures to his companions and gives me an apologetic look, „these guys absolutely wanted to welcome you, too.“ I inconspicuously wipe my Charlie-Dalton-kissed hand on my pants before i extend it to Neil Perry. „That's nice of you“, I say, even though I can't quite avoid a mocking undertone. „I understand that it must be rather unusual to have a girl here. Let me tell you, it's a weird situation for me, too. But please, come in if you want to. We really don't have to talk with one foot in the door.“ I sit down on the window sill and watch the whole group enter my freshly occupied room. Charlie Dalton immediately makes himself at home on my bed and another one takes a seat on my desk chair, but the others keep standing more or less awkward in the middle of the room. For a moment, nobody speaks, until I tilt my head and casually ask: „Alright, and how is the rest of my eloquent guests called?“ Charlie Dalton's grin widens as he begins to introduce the other guys. „This right here“, he points to the boy that is sitting on the desk chair, „is Steven Meeks, the genius of the class.“ Steven Meeks makes a face and slightly rises his hand. „To his right, we have Gerard Pitts.“ The boy is so tall that in order to stand unter the pitch of the roof, he has to crouch uncomfortably. „Those two are Knox Overstreet and Richard Cameron...“ A smiling boy and another one with a very neat haircut nod to me. „And this“, he points to a guy that is kind of shyly standing next to Neil Perry, „is Todd Anderson. You already know Neil here. We are the best your class has to offer, the rest is dull.“ I have to smile. „Alright Charlie Dalton, Steven Meeks, Gerard Pitts, Knox Overstreet, Richard Cameron, Todd Anderson and Neil Perry“, I say without missing a beat, „it's a great pleasure to meet you.“

The guys seem smart and adorable and I feel much more comfortable with them than I expected. We talk for a while, then Neil shoos them to the common room so he can carry out his duty as a guide. He shows me where to put my stuff in the bathroom and leads me through the school buildings and the classrooms in which I'll have class tomorrow. Neil chats to me cheerfully and tells me stories about teachers, but i hardly listen. I'm enchanted. The escritoires made from dark wood, the chalkboards, the pin boards, the smell of ink and paper. With every breath, I can feel all the knowledge, all the thoughts and hard work. In the room we have english class in, I sit on one of the escritoires, pull my knees to my chest and stroke the wood, that generations of students chafed with the back of their books, with my fingertips. „There is one thing I don't get“, I say and draw a circle around an ink stain. „You are telling me all these awful things about the teachers and how exhausting the classes will be and yet all I can think about is how beautiful it is here. Don't you feel the freedom this place is radiating?“ I look up and see Neil frown. „Freedom? If Welton lacks in one thing, than it's freedom, believe me on this one. You do have to be disciplined, or else you'll get penalty points.“ I nod pensively and jump off the escritoire. „Hm, I don't think that's what I mean.“ So we go and pick up my books. On our way back to the living quarters, we meet Todd who apparently has been waiting for Neil. Both of them accompany me to my room, where I store the books. Neil turnes to Todd. „Do you get a feeling of freedom when you enter Welton?“ Todd shakes his head. „No, if anything, the opposite of freedom.“, he says quietly. „Why?“ „That's how I felt.“ I turn around to face the boys. „And I think now I know why. You may not feel this way, but for me, this place is more than I could ever dream of. When I can make it here, then...“, I gesture vaguely, „basically anything seems possible.“ Neil and Todd nod. „I'm glad you feel this way“, Neil says with a smile. „You are right, your situation is just different. You didn't expect to go to Welton. But you'll see how little controll they give us here.“ I shrug as I watch the last rays of the dying sun slowly fade away. „The thoughts are free, boys.“ Before I can go on, the bell calls us to dinner.

#m's words

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