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#twc fanfic
crownleys · 6 months
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In that third drawer of my desk, beside the letters and the book, there are a pair of portraits. One is of my brother and I, before he went to sea, and it is… a strange feeling, to see him again. To recognise yourself in the features of someone you lost, so long ago; someone who you have loved for so much longer. A lifelong grief, recurring---a memory of a memory of a memory, and yet still it slices the same, even after all this time. Like an intake of breath, the shiver of realisation; what you thought you had forgotten, and what you’d sworn you’d never lose. My brother's eyes---they are always so startlingly blue. Vanilla, Bergamot by @evilbunnyking
A commission for @evilbunnyking based on the fic "Vanilla, Bergamot" (which happens to be one of my favorites, so I was delighted to draw for it!) of Nat and Milton! Thank you so much for commissioning me, Bunny!
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agentnatesewell · 3 months
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tremendous tasks, dear friends
the wayhaven chronicles | barbara robertson (f!detective) / nate sewell / mason + family (lucas daniels) | 5k words | rated G
happy holidays to @delucadarling on this twelfth night and epiphany eve! i have simply fallen in love with barbie and had such a wonderful time writing for her for the @wayhavensecretsanta
.🎄.
Within the forested woods surrounding a deceptively inconspicuous town, one brimming with holiday cheer and festive wishes, bustling with last-minute preparations of a yuletide celebration for humans and supernaturals alike, sits a dilapidated building. A relic of a time ago, thought abandoned and unbothered, hiding a veiled mansion beyond its crumbling facade. 
In this warehouse, now as familiar as home, Barbara Robertson - detective or agent depending on when and who one asks - sits in the center of the living room elegantly dressed for the season. One last task, a final check-in, for the next day’s Wayhaven Christmas Fete remains, and her trusted Filofax is set securely nearby, traded for a cup of steaming, glasses-fogging drinking chocolate. Hands warming against the gold rimmed and whimsically painted precious porcelain, she shifts her attention from event planning to listening, intently, of past traditions once forgone and now renewed. 
In this living room, now his home, Nathaniel Sewell - agent and acting commanding agent, a temporary promotion until their team leader returns from a self assigned important mission - sits adjacent, on the floor with long legs tucked beneath him; sweeping his hand over carefully laid materials, collected from the nature surrounding them, on the ivory lace-embroidered cloth covered coffee table. He picks out a hard confection from a glass jar in the middle of the table, passes it to her then reminisces, “My earlier days, when I was with my family, during the Advent period before Christmas Day, my brother and I would spend the morning hours collecting what we could on our grounds. Not dissimilar to what we’ve found on our strolls in town and the community garden this autumn.” 
Long branches of holly from the gardens, deepest green leaves with sharp, curved edges, clusters of bright, reddest berries; vines of ivy growing along on the outer stone of their home, long stems dense with lined green and white leaves; hardy sprigs of rosemary from their kitchen window garden, fragrant and robust; precious bundles of mistletoe, from the town’s nursery, with pretty pearlescent white berries; and perhaps his most prized possession of the season, from a bespoke shoppe, a singular pear sitting on a bed of gold foil. 
“Are you making a wreath,” she inquires, leaning closer to the greenery. Fingers already occupied with proffered candy instinctively seek her pencil, and blindly slide behind her ear, in case there is need to write any pertinent information of this tradition. As she inspects, Barbie notices there isn’t any sort of evergreen present that she’d become accustomed to with modern wreaths, though perhaps Nate had used all he could find to festoon along the fireplace mantle, perhaps all the evergreen in Wayhaven and the surrounding forest. 
“A Christmas Bough.” The corners of his eyes crinkle as a smile plays at the corner of his mouth, voice trailing and he falls into a fog of nostalgia, happy memories returning to overshadow those which usually haunt him. As his thoughts fade, Nate chances a glance at Barbie, and he is pulled back into the present. For behind a curling strand of her blond hair, fallen away from her gilded claw clip, peeks a twist of red and white, and the scent of peppermint. The pencil which is usually there in her hand, in peril of becoming her drink stirrer. 
“Barbie?” 
“Nate?” The abrupt change in his tone, now alarmed, draws Barbie away from her study. She looks up towards him, green eyes peering over her red plaid-rimmed glasses, taking note at how amusement highlights the honeyed hues of his brown eyes, and how he’s closing the already narrow gap between them, brows raised questioningly and silently awaiting permission to come closer.  
And it is easy for her to grant him such permission, as Nate is always so careful, comforting, safe, even in this spontaneity, and Barbie is quite curious what it is that has attracted his attention. 
The brush of his thumb across her cheek, his fingers curling at her temple and over the shell of her ear prove far more exhilarating than any spice and sugar rush incurred during the holiday season. Nate chuckles, deep and resonating, just as silver bells sing, and he pulls away, his palm open. “You might find that peppermint candy complements the dark chocolate of your beverage far more than your pencil might.” 
“What,” Barbie looks at her cup, pencil between the rim and its high handle, and groans. “Oh my god.” Shaking her head, she drops the utensil with a sharp laugh. “Guess I needed this break. Helping Tina organize the Fete  at the station this year is keeping me busier than I imagined. Especially with all of,” she waves her hand, “this.”
Nate knows she is referencing her continued training with the Agency and on-call, standby assistance for the Wayhaven Police Department’s local cases - taking a holiday encouraged, always, during their sporadic diners at the local bistro - but does hope she has been enjoying the past week spent transforming their, in his opinion, humble home into a Christmas wonderland so expertly designed, it would rival the most elegant department store displays. And though Adam and, by order, Unit Bravo, had been convinced by Nate’s suggestion of team building exercises, Barbie has been enjoying herself. Excitement casting her in gold and silver radiance, she is even more breathtaking, indulging herself in the season. Dressed in themed ensembles, time made and spent introducing Farah to popcorn tins and Christmas themed movies, baking and icing so many cookies, decorating while singing tunes so delightful, he has been humming them both in tandem and alone. 
Regardless, Barbie deserves empathy and understanding, and a second candy cane. “May I say that the Fete has been coming along quite nicely, and will surely be memorable for years to come.” 
“You may,” she accepts his compliment, allowing her fingers, nails painted to resemble ribbon tied gift wrap, to just barely glide along his as she accepts the candy. To avoid a repeat of a near miss, Barbie stirs her drinking chocolate with the straight side of the candied stick, inhaling the melding scents as the steam rises and evaporates into the air. “Thank you, Nate.” 
Pleasant moment aside, and desperately needing the embarrassing moment aside, Barbie points the candy cane, melting end, at the table. “Tell me about your Christmas Bough. I thought it was called a Kissing Bough?” 
Nate nods. “You’re correct. Formally, these were called Christmas Boughs, and traditionally, Kissing Boughs. Every year, from when we could carry in ash wood or willow wood branches, our bough would adorn the doorway to our drawing room, welcoming our guests for the many parties held during the twelve days post Christmas. Usually family, many cousins, family friends.” 
Barbie places her cup on the table, resting her elbow on the edge, listening intently once more. The cadence of his voice again melodic, a nostalgic recitation in celebration of a life passed instead of a sorrow of a life lost. 
“One modern convenience this year.” Nate points to a neat stack of green craft wire, set opposite of the shining pear. “Bending curved tree branches into circles is much easier these days, but I would like to focus more on this particular foliage” 
“Do they hold any meaning?” She asks, knowing too well that rarely does Nate take on a task casually. 
“Holly,” Nate works as he speaks, nimble hands still familiar with the process from centuries ago, tying the branches together with the wire, a blur of green and red repeating until creating a circle. “Everlasting life.”
The irony is not lost on Barbie. By how Nate blinks his eyes, an attempt to keep them clear, she knows it’s not lost on him, either. But then he clears his throat, shapes his mouth back into a smile, and transfers the rest of the holly branches and half of the wire to the space in front of her. An offer to join him, and she obliges; observing and enamored by his hands, mirroring his motions to create a second circle. 
“Ivy,” Nate continues, “dependence and endurance. Rosemary, remembrance.” Running the tip of a finger along the leaves, breathing in the released fragrance, he takes a deep breath. Another breath. 
As silence grows, the bough making process is acknowledged as a memorial by them both. When her half is complete and returned to him, Barbie lays a hand on Nate’s shoulder. Immediately, she feels him relax, and this time the deep breath is an exhalation. When he turns to her, his smile is genuine, grateful for her grace. “Thank you. My apologies, for my sentimentality.” 
“What about the mistletoe?” She squeezes his shoulder, and hopes the question cheers him up. 
“Ah, mistletoe.” Nate lifts a bundle for himself, a second one for Barbie. She keeps it for herself. “A good luck charm. One could, during the celebratory period, greet their guests or each other for a kiss. A suitor could kiss the one they wished to court, on the cheek, and we did make sure all parties were in accordance. All would hope to be kissed, lest they endure the bad luck of being left out. There was a limit, as with every kiss, a berry would be picked. When all was gone, the kissing ceased.” He chuckles, picking a single spray which had fallen out of place. “Milton’s pockets would be full by night’s end, as he was rather outgoing and effortlessly charming.”
Barbie plucks a gem-like berry to roll between her fingers, twisting her lips as her gaze shifts towards Nate, finding he has done the same. It comes as a surprise to them both, a happy and quite welcome surprise, when Barbie closes the space between, kissing Nate’s cheek. Drawing away, she puts the berry in his palm. “There, now you have one, too.” 
Behind a second, cordial-ish, exchange, through the doorway of this living room which has yet to bear the meaningful ornament of greeting, shaking bruising snowflakes off the jacket he’s worn during his overnight patrol of the town - stubborn to accept the order to dress weather-appropriately from their temporary leader, until an approving hum from Barbie, he will keep to himself that he did not mind the shearling-lined leather moto jacket that kept him from freezing - Mason grimaces at the warm welcome of glittering ornaments, the droning and inescapable music repeating too many damn times, and the strong and tangled scents of cassis, eucalyptus, white musk, and pine. 
Thick blankets of snow keep him from his reprieve on the rooftop, and if it was any other season besides one that compels humans to decorate their homes with garish and gaudy blinking lights, corral them into the streets to sing in groups, he would volunteer to take the next patrol. But it isn’t wholly terrible, though. In the living room he can wait for Barbie to tie up any loose-ends, as she’d called them, with her next-day festival preparation; maybe Nate will help her, and Mason can retreat to the quietest and dimmest corner of the room to look out the window and watch the hidden parts of the forest, untouched by merry well-wishers. 
Her voice cuts through his annoyance, happier he knows but unsure how to tell. She sounds like she did the other day as he watched her hang monogrammed stockings over the fireplace, Nate explaining some change, some rise and fall in her sound, more cheerful. When he hears Barbie laugh, the tension in his body fades, and the abrasive reminders of the season taunting his senses fall into the background. Mason sheds his coat, rubbing his hands over his arms to avoid losing too much heat too fast, and follows a conversation to the middle of the room, in front of the couch and on the floor.  
Too far to perch on the arm of the velvet armchair, where he’s most comfortable when Barbie is around, he instead sits on the edge of the coffee table, angling away from the herbs and plants invading his senses. Any other time the seemingly innocuous rosemary would have him retreating, but she turns to him. And Barbie is fucking - glowing. Mason blinks, wondering if his retinas are taking longer to heal from the morning’s snow glare than usual. Still glowing with a pink tint to her cheeks, and damnit if that halo around her doesn’t make him think of that angel on top of their second Christmas tree, and damnit that he’s lost the cool edge to his entrance. 
“Elf got your tongue, sunshine?” Barbie asks, smoothest he’s ever seen her, at least with a candy cane between her teeth. 
In his periphery, Mason spots a small bundle of leaves and the plant is easily identifiable. Cheap, plastic replicas in abundance at the previous night’s party in some sort of garden dome when he’d walked through the park on his route. He swipes a sprig and twirls it, answering, “Wouldn’t mind you catching my ton-”
“Hello, Mason,” Nate sighs, tying what is left of the mistletoe together. “How was your patrol?”
Giggling teenagers and metal scraping at the ice rink and the entire town smells of vanilla, chocolate and sugar, that flashing robotic Santa waving in the air are all enough to keep anything interesting from happening; too chaotic to focus any magic, too much of a headache to get up to any trouble. Mason shrugs, “Same old.” 
Settled, finally giving notice to whatever Nate and Barbie are actually doing, Mason juts his chin in the direction of the circles of holly. “You aren’t done decorating this place yet?” 
“It’s a Kissing bough,” Barbie explains, rising to her knees to meet Mason. Nate subtly coughs the alternative ‘Christmas bough’, likely as a means to keep the atmosphere light and less hot, less heavy - wholesome! “When you’re under, you give a kiss, and get a reward.” She leans in, one hand on his thigh and he grins, arm slinking around her waist, ready for a knock-her-tights-off kind of kiss. But instead of her mouth, his is met with a waxy, tasteless and not sticky clump of berries. “It’s not up yet, Mason.” Smiling, having amused herself, she sits at the coffee table once more, awaiting Nate’s next instruction. 
“You’re welcome to join us, if you would like to thread this wire through the pear.” Nate knows he is pushing Mason’s good will and willingness to participate in any more decorating, yet persists with his inclusion. “This should be our final project.” 
“Wait! One more!” 
From a flash of purple and a cloud of glitzing gingerbread scents and mirth, attention is captured towards the fir and cedar garlanded mantle in this living room, and standing between a cozy, crackling fire and the main Christmas tree, eight feet all and so elegantly adorned, skirt at the base holding exquisitely wrapped gifts, is Farah Hauville - home from one last visit to the Christmas Tree Lot at the edge of town for the season before taking over agent patrol for the rest of the day - standing atilt, resting an elbow on the top branch of a small, a quite small pine tree. 
Amber eyes sparkling with triumph, Farah sweeps her hand out in an arc, resting it on her hip. “Ta da! What do you all think? Natey, Barbie? Mason.” 
Not just quite small, the tree is rather sparse. Uneven weight distribution, inconsistent branch thickness and needle distribution - some thick with vibrant needles while others rather pale and almost white, some with just tufts at the end. A lone pinecone sits towards the base, and there may have been a debate if the bird’s nest fell or broke apart. 
Nate stands, stepping slowly and surely to the tree, mind whirling as he thinks of how to express his thoughts; keep Farah from being crestfallen, express his gratitude for her enthusiasm, how to hide the tree in plain sight and preferably outside. “Certainly a unique tree,” he manages, “though, I do wonder if it would be better suited in the hallway. Could be set in an urn outside of your bedroom door and we can bedeck after your shift - wrap a strand of fairy lights, drape tinsel, use the rest of the ribbon.”
“Knew you’d say that,” Farah replies, bouncing, “This tree has been in that lot since it opened, and no one has given it a chance! A second look! I know it’s not pretty, it doesn’t match the other trees we brought home. It’s not perfect,” Farah flails her arms, pointing to the three other trees in the room that could have been portraits in a magazine. “But it deserves love, doesn’t it? Like the great philosopher, Linus, said.” 
“Linus? I’m not familiar with their work.” Nate pokes at a dull needle with this index finger. “Unless you mean Linus of Thrace, the musician.”
Barbie soon joins, shadowed by Mason, and circles the tree to study it. “‘Charlie Brown Christmas’. Farah and I watched while you read ‘The Gift of the Magi’.”  
“You were even playing the song the next day,” Farah remarks, miming him at the piano. He nods in response, fingertips brushing along the edge of a healthier branch. She continues her plea, turning to throw her arms out, wide and dramatic, and quotes, “‘I never thought it was such a bad little tree. It’s not bad at all. Maybe it just needs a little love.’”
“Farah,” Nate rubs the back of his neck, knowing she’d likely practiced her speech during her last few patrols about town. The tree truly does not fit in with the well planned out, specific aesthetic of the room but he is moved by her effort, her passion. “I can promise to find space for it. In here.” 
To the great shock of everyone, Mason grabs a smooth, circular red ornament from the main tree, fixes it to a sagging branch on the new addition. He comments before Nate can protest, “I like it. It’s irregular, obviously intended by nature to be so. Has character. Leave it where it is, at least it’ll be something interesting to look at.”
Barbie stops pacing, following Mason’s lead, with a green ornament she hangs on an opposite, slightly lighter branch. Just a little trimming, tinsel and lights and ribbon, and this tree could truly be special. One of a kind. Its own new tradition. 
It gives her an idea. 
Leaving the others to discuss re-arrangement, Barbie walks back to sit on an empty space of the coffee table to consult the ‘CF’ section of her Filofax.  A layout of the main room of the Christmas Fete is centered by a hallway length runner rug with tables at either side for Haley’s hot cocoa and treats station, beginning at an entry arch and a dais at its end. On the side of the page, the cast. Elves - Len’s kid and Douglas, Mrs. Claus - Tina, Santa Claus - Lucas, making his debut.  
Lucas, her beloved brother and subject of her final, most important task - confirming his, and Adam’s, flight details and estimated arrival. Barbie checks the time, and tapping her phone screen she notes alerts from his airline. Five minute delay, ten minute delay, confirmation of arrival, a text from him. 
Another hour or two from the city, and Barbie and Lucas will be reunited after far too long apart - and she can hardly wait! Smiling to herself, singing to herself that song from their childhood Christmas pageant, Barbie pencils in a small tree in the space between Mrs. and Santa Claus. She calls to the group, asking Farah, “Could you bring this Charlie Brown Tree to the Fete tomorrow? It’s just the right size, wouldn’t be in Lucas and Tina’s way. Added bonus, the people in town seeing what they missed out on, how a little love goes a long way.”   
Nate places a hand to his chest, mouthing a ‘thank you’ to Barbie. Farah claps hers in excitement. “It would be an honor! I’m going to get Nate’s decoration box and get this little guy ready for the show! I’ll drop it off at the station.” Taking a hold of the tree at its base, Farah lifts it like a piece of paper and runs off and out of the room. And it is a testament to Nate’s reflexes and agility that he catches the two ornaments shaken off, and returns them to their home. 
A ring of Barbie’s phone interrupts the calm in Farah’s wake. 
Video call, her mirror image on the screen and Barbie gives her glasses a quick adjustment before swiping her finger across the glass to answer. 
“Ho, ho, ho!” A voice bellows, and there is a grinning Lucas, dark brown hair expertly mussed under the brim of his vintage, thrift-shop treasure, red flannel and white wool Santa Hat. “Merry Christmas!”
Barbie waves, laughing, widening the camera view to show off the living room, then back to her. Nate greets Lucas, unsure where to stand and if he can even see him, moves to lean over Barbie’s shoulder where the pocket of his brown leather jacket fills the display. His own cellular phone rings and he excuses himself to answer. Mason shakes his head, and, arms folded, walks to settle on the edge of the couch.
Back to Lucas, and now Barbie spots a twinkling flash against the red of his hat, one more, behind him white snow flurrying and thickening with each passing second. His voice muffled, harsh streaks of wind silencing him, though she can pick up the unmistakable and clear, deep accent of Adam Du Mortain, calm and authoritative.
There is a leaden, sinking feeling in her stomach. 
“Snow squall,” she finally hears, and when did Lucas move? Blurred behind the camera lens, he has found shelter inside the doors of the airport. Fellow travelers behind him converge into small groups, collective voices rising in confusion and frustration relaying the news to their loved ones. Airplanes had been taking off and landing, no imminent threat of weather. “Barbie, roads are closed, don’t know when they’ll open. Promise I’ll be home as soon as I can, but I’m not sure I’ll be able to make the Fete tomorrow.”
“Oh. Okay,” she answers, nodding, glancing around the room to find Nate speaking animatedly and Mason watching snow swirling outside. “Just stay safe, Luke, alright? Keep me updated. Is Adam with you?” 
“Ordering the weather to behave,” he chuckles, attempting to keep her spirits from crashing. “Look, Barbie, I’m sorry.”
Trying to formulate a plan, alternatives and logistics, how to inform Tina, Barbie doesn’t respond until she hears her name again. She shakes her head, “It’s alright. Take your time. We will figure this out. Don’t do anything hasty or dangerous, you need to come home in one piece.” Barbie looks at the screen again, zoom tighter on Lucas, notices the same plush red and fluffy white at his shoulders. “Are you wearing your Santa costume?”
“If you’re going to travel for the holidays, you’ve got to travel in style and make a big entrance. Besides, someone has to spread holiday cheer amongst the masses.”
“Keep them distracted and don’t have too much fun. Again, stay safe. I’ll talk to you soon.” 
As she ends the call, Barbie consults her Filofax, searching for an answer. Surely, she wrote up a back-up plan for Santa, Mrs. Claus, and the Elves, and she did but Sung committed to the community Christmas Feast. She turns to a blank page, scribbles thoughts - Surely, Adam will take care of Lucas. Surely, Mrs. Claus could take the place of her husband, saying he needs a head start on his journey, the children could video-chat with him. 
“Barbie,” Nate’s voice is as understanding and gentle as his gait, taking a seat next to her, patting her back with a touch so light it does not register. He finds Mason, raising his brows and tilting his head and in seconds, Mason stands before them. “I spoke with Adam. Unexpected change of weather a few miles northwest of the city, might be due to magic gone awry, and does not appear to be malicious. Unit Golf has been dispatched to secure the situation, and Adam will be working with them. Bravo is on standby, but he feels this should be contained without our intervention.” 
Mason shrugs, Barbie is still writing in her organizer. 
Turning towards her, Nate’s smile is encouraging, “Now, you are in need of a Saint Nicholas for your Christmas Fete tomorrow. Do you have Lucas’ costume? He and I are of similar build and height, and I would be glad to stand in for him.” 
Barbie, facial muscles finally moving and her mouth falling into an unintentionally pretty pout, unlocks her phone, finds her text messages, and brings up a picture to show him, then Mason. Lucas, mid-laugh, Santa hat flopping to the side, Santa jacket open with a white shirt underneath, Santa trousers on underneath, standing with a not so stiff shouldered, slightly amused Adam in the midst of white and colored glistering lights. “Spreading so much cheer that he performed a holiday miracle, making Adam smile.”
Mason, concerned with the pallor of her skin and the dullness in her eyes, crouches down and pats his pockets, where his now banished cigarettes were once stored - to prevent a fire hazard in this room of shimmering, glimmering potential kindling - pulls out a package, a monstrosity, a little cake shaped like an evergreen tree, an emergency treat purchased at the convenience store. Smushed, and he decides there is no way he will let her raise her blood sugar with something that tastes like plastic. “Eat something if you’re going into figuring-out mode. Maybe not this, I’ll get you something that doesn’t look like reindeer vomit.” 
Nate, rubbing his bottom lip with this thumb, remembers the prior year’s Christmas celebrations. A truly magical time in this already magical town, every year healing from the tragedies at the start of their permanent tenure. He recalls a certain gentleman, an embodiment of the legend and a hero to each child, reading their name from a scroll and making them believe to be the most special. “Mr. Rockwell. He was treasured, and enjoyed the role.” 
“Retired. Out of town to visit his new grandchild.” Barbie taps her pencil against the cover of her Filofax. Nate’s mention of the Santa Claus of the past decade, of his generosity and love, his joy infectious, reminds her of a conversation - between Mr. Rockwell and his wife, Lucas and Tina, and her. A transition of tradition. 
“Wait.” Her eyes open wide, sparkling once more with another idea. “We are brilliant! Mr. Rockwell left us his suit, even though it was too short for Lucas, something about keeping the Christmas spirit. It should still be at the station, I’ll call Tina to confirm.” 
Once more in the middle of this living room, Mason returns to see two faces look at him expectantly, and though there is some he does not understand, he understands the faces of two schemers. Especially one who has talked him into decorating more than he ever thought he would in eternity, and one he would do just about any damn thing for. He shoves the cookie, on a napkin to avoid another lecture by Nate, towards Barbie. “Eat this. And what do you both want?”
“Tina said the Santa costume is at the station, and she’s running a lint roller over it to get rid of any dust. You’re about Mr. Rockwell’s height -”
“No.”
Nate makes a second attempt, honeyed words pleading, “for no more than two hours. It would mean so much to this town that has become our home. It would mean -”
“I’m not dealing with any little brat screaming in my ears about some presents.” 
“It would mean a lot to me,” Barbie finishes for Nate, flatly. “We will keep the kids calm, Nate and Farah will entertain them. Tina will talk to them, and you can just check their names against a roster and repeat their wish. Then take a picture with them.” 
“Nope. Besides, we’re supposed to be in the shadows.”
Nate nods, acknowledging that Mason is correct. The accessories, such as the full, white beard, may be uncomfortable for him, as well as the inevitable sounds which come with the excitement of children. It may not be such a fair ask, and there may be some other possibilities. “Babs, there may be some adjustments I can have made to the suit, to accompany the length of my arms and legs. The tailor in town, I am sure, is quite busy. I can, however, make a request with ours at the Agency.”
An attempt to speak comes out as a squeak, and Barbie throws her arms around Nate’s shoulders in a hug. “Thank you, Nate. Really. We should go now, and get to your tailor as soon as possible.” 
Mason, silver eyes sharp and observant, regards Barbie and he guesses she’s relieved, with the sharp exhale of breath, taking a bite of the cookie and writing down some last notes. There is an errant thump in his chest, and he rubs his palm against it. Then regards Nate, also exhaling a breath, longer, and his hands slide into his pockets, their refuge. 
And damnit, her smile is making his jaw tingle, and he stretches it to alleviate that sensation. Damnit, she is so fucking beautiful like this, merry and jovial. And, groaning, Mason drags his hand down his face, wrapping his fingers behind his neck. 
He thinks he might regret this for eternity, but then figures that being able to do what Nate is doing, make her glow like that again, so ecstatic? Maybe that’ll make an afternoon of misery worth everything. 
“Wait,” he reaches, finding Barbie’s hand, and pulls them both up. “You just have to promise to stay near me, alright, sweetheart?” 
Barbie’s mouth falls open, and she truly is stunned, frozen in place as she processes his answer. She then grins, thanking him with a kiss to his cheek. “You got it, Santa.” 
~
In the midst of hazing lights, luminous trees and the rising dawn of the Eve, there is a stir. In this living room, under a bough and honoring the custom of the mistletoe, a couple hushes each other between deep kisses and berry extraction. His senses are heightened once more, and he grumbles an announcement of visitors. She spies past the door and wishes, one small wish, that he will appear.
And to her delight, they are not just any visitors.
The commanding agent will claim this a completed, successful mission, but with a hearty and robust, “Merry Christmal to all!”, Lucas will say that with a little magic, he fulfilled his Christmas promise.
fin.
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nat-seal-well · 2 months
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Title: i’ll find you again
Pairing: Nat Sewell/Detective (OC)
Chapter: 1/?
Rating: Mature
Warnings: major character death
Living for three centuries means loss and grief follow Nat like an ever-present shadow. Love always goes hand-in-hand with pain; especially for Nat, who has never been able to stay away from humanity the way Ava wishes she would.
Three people over the course of over three hundred years. Nat doesn’t know how it’s possible, but they always find their way back to her. But that doesn’t make it hurt any less when they’re taken from her again. And again.
(A reincarnation/soulmate AU)
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eyecandyeoz · 2 months
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omg i’m obsessed with your new cad bane fic!!!! i love their dynamic and i just want cad bane to say “that’s a good girl” to me lmao. i would love to see more of them
Nonny asks and Nonny shall receive!!! I am a sucker for that rootin' tootin' bounty hunter, and we deserve to hear him call us his "good girl..."🥵🥴
Stay The Night
Fate's Right Hand Part II
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Pairing:Cad Bane x (of age)Padawan!Reader
Warnings: (18+) smut, secret relationship, PinV, (force)choking, finger sucking, face-fucking, oral f/m receiving, fingering, interspecies relations, cumshot, cum eating.
Summary: Following the severe events that happened the last time you and Cad Bane were together, you and your Master have come to a reluctant agreement about the affairs you find yourselves in. Although, his strict watch over you and excessive scheduling practically leaves you without enough time to even sleep. You’re a prisoner in your own home, unable to veer away from your responsibilities for even a second. Your absence is no doubt being felt by Cad Bane, and he conjures up a plan to rectify the ache in your hearts.
Read on ao3 - 4.5k words - Part 1 / Part 3
Masterlist   -   My kofi ✨
The walk to your private chambers was an exhausting one. You’re dismissed as Anakin is conducting a short brief with Obi-Wan after the final meeting of the evening. Knowing all that’s left for you to do is to try and manage to get a few hours’ rest before having to be awake again in the wee hours of the morning, he predicts that you couldn’t possibly have an opportunity to get up to foolishness. Keeping your battery drained is a torturous but foolproof plan that Anakin’s implemented, no doubt a prolonged punishment for fraternizing with a known villain of the Republic. 
The blast door slides open, and you walk into the pitch-black chambers. Your shutters are sealed, blocking the vivid neon signs of the bustling ecumenopolis from polluting your room with its burdensome sting. Suffering from a pulsing migraine already, you navigate to your bed mindlessly as you have done so many times before. Even visually impaired, you know exactly where to go and land atop your sheets, not even bothering to undress as you do the bare minimum of kicking your boots off and curling up in the blanketed warmth of your robe. The twin-sized bed is just enough for you, nestling into the coziness and ready to fall asleep any minute, that is, until something besides the door’s entrance catches your eye.
Your stomach drops as a soft blushing glow is being emitted from across the room. Burning, seizing your focus, you’re suddenly wide awake as you feel your blood run cold. How could you have walked past that and not even noticed? At first, you think it’s a trick of the light and the computerized inner workings of the door’s control panel are messing with your vision, but once you see it move, you no longer think it’s one of the flickering buttons mounted to the wall.
Reacting quickly, you reach for the lightsaber hooked to your belt, igniting it and immediately illuminating your surroundings. The dark silhouette is unexpectedly more difficult to make out in the shrouded darkness than you anticipated, momentarily blinded by the burning blade in your grasp. 
“Who are you? Show yourself!” You demand with a startled voice, scooting further into the corner your bed frame is tucked against.
The shadow approaches and you notice a wide brim resting at the top of the figure, the glowing orbitals slowly uncovered as he raises his head. “Didn’t mean to scare ya, little lady. I was just missin’ ya.”
“Bane!?” You scream at him in a hushed voice, unable to hide the overwhelming revelation of his presence actually appearing in your room. How long has he been here? How did he even get here? You’re desperate to interrogate him of his trespasses. “Do you know how much trouble I will get in if anyone sees you here?”
“Babygirl, if anyone saw me, we wouldn’t be havin’ this conversation right now.” Cad bane leans to the side and flicks on the dimmed overhead lights, a setting just below full brightness. “Or have ya forgotten that I used to loot yer holocron cache for a livin’?”
“How could I forget?” Rolling your eyes, you sit up in bed, not standing just yet but relaxing after realizing you’re not in any imminent danger. “That’s how we met.”
Cad Bane moves away from the wall he was perched against, his floor-length duster coat swaying hypnotically from side to side with every step. “Now, before ya start badgerin’ me with questions of how long I’ve been here or how I found out where ya chambers were located, I’ve been dyin’ to give ya some sugar first. 
Taking a knee, he crouches down and levels himself with you. He has a slight aroma about him that tells a tale of his adventurous life away from this indoctrinated penitentiary. You take in his scent, breathing deeply as you identify notes of carbon scoring and rhydonium riding on the coattails of his distinct sweat. The person before you is far from human, but incredibly more passionate than any machine-like citizen you’ve met in this cesspit of a city. You stare back at something between man and beast, your hungry lover born of a different breed and equipped with a mouth full of fangs evolved to kill. 
Cad Bane leans into you, drowning you in the shadow of his hat as his cold-blooded and noseless face makes contact when he collides his mouth with yours. He growls into the kiss, pressing his body firmly against yours until you can feel every buckle, belt and bandolier he’s currently wearing. He’s slender and his frame is strikingly bony, sharp edges digging into your supple flesh with every motion. Halfway on and off the bed’s edge, Cad Bane is draped across your form and influencing you to back yourself into the corner. You nervously traverse your way to the position you were laying in before your stealthy company made itself known, feeling especially cramped on the individual-sized mattress. 
Cad Bane maneuvers himself between your legs, kicking his own boots off so as to not dirty your sheets more than his clothing already is. At this point you don’t even care, you’re just happy to see him.
His kiss transitions from urgent and expedited to slow, soft and emotional as his long fingers thread themselves in the hair at the nape of your neck. He really, truly missed you and you can see it plain as day. He pulls away from you, tucking a lock of hair behind your ear before putting his fingerless leather gloved hand to your cheek. His hat is slightly shifted up from being so close to you, pressing his forehead to yours before he rears back and readjusts it, pulling the brim back down with the other hand.
“I know ya told me to wait until ya reached out, but I couldn’t any longer, darlin’.” Cad Bane looks at you apologetically, his rubescent eyes illustrating just how badly this time apart has taken a toll on him. You take his face in your hands, bending your knees and straddling him so that he’s locked in your loving embrace. His eyes close for a second as he lets himself be held by you, the input tubes of his breathing apparatus being shuffled between your middle and ring fingers.
 “Things took a little longer than expected to get back on my Master’s good side again…” You guiltily state. “He’s been watching me like a shriek-hawk since everything went down.”
“That blockhead master of yers shouldn’t take his hate for me out on you.” Bane grimaces. “What kinda example is that settin’ fer ya?”
“He has no room to talk either, so I suppose that makes us perfect for each other.” Shrugging your shoulders in disapproval of Anakin’s own deceitfulness, you sigh while stroking your thumbs along the lip of Bane’s protective respirator secured snugly to his cheeks.
“And what does that make us?” Cad Bane questions, rearing back a little to create space to examine more than just your face.
“Oh, we’ve been a splendid disaster since day one.” Cad Bane has taken very obvious offense to that statement, recognizing your playful yet backhanded comment about the less-than-ideal state of your relationship. Although, all displeasure melts from his face when you pull out your sparkling beskar wedding band from a pocket in your robes and place it over your finger, having missed wearing it proudly. “Even more so since you gave this to me.”
 “Things were different for me when we’d part ways in the mornin’, and it hurt knowing ya were away on a mission.” Cad Bane takes your left hand in both of his, interlinking his callous and downtrodden digits with yours before planting a kiss on your ring finger adorned with his promise. “I had heard somewhere that this was the custom fer… things like that.”
“You know, you’re real sweet when you’re old fashioned.” You bite your lip at him while twisting the ring on your finger.
“Careful, darlin’.” Cad Bane slips a hand between the folds of your tunic and gets a handful of your chest, moving upwards beneath your clothing until he’s got his extended grip coiled around your throat. He’s got you pinned against the wall now, your robes half open and leaving your chest exposed for him to drool over. “Remember what happened the last time ya called me old.”
“No, it seems to have slipped my mind.” You hook your ankles together and bring him even closer, his hand putting an increased amount of pressure on your windpipe but not enough to impede your speech. Feigning a struggle through the constriction, you taunt Bane with clenched teeth. “Why don’t you jog my memory.”
Bane adores it when you challenge him, telling him exactly what you want without the need to be literal in your requests. While keeping you pinned by the neck to the wall, Bane uses his opposite hand to throw your tabard aside and open the rest of your tunic. He looks between your deliciously pointed nipples and the wanton expression on your face, judging between which of your enticing assets to indulge in first. 
Cad Bane dives into your neck, his sharpened maw snagging sections of your flesh as he makes his way to your plush mounds until he’s alternating bites and suckles to each nipple. He groans when your whines announce your approval of his choice, jutting his tongue out to leave a trail of his spittle in little swirls on your skin. “How’s that fer joggin’ yer memory?”
“I uhm… I think I need a little more…” You arch your back upwards, offering him to sample more of your chest while still obeying him and not resisting his hold on your neck, but Cad Bane has something else planned for you entirely.
In an instant, he sits up on his knees and peels off his duster along with his pair of holsters hanging at his waist. After tossing it to the side on the floor, he starts working on undressing you completely. With your robes already thrown open, he assists in pulling your arms out of the sleeves, leaving nothing left to remove but your trousers. 
Tugging on the waistband, he shimmies you out of them and you’re left unobscured by the baggy uniform. Cad Bane begins to breathe heavily, salivating as he closely examines your nakedness. You both have waited and ached for this moment for so long, yet Bane pauses frozen in thought as if immobilized by his iron will. Even he couldn’t comprehend that he was here right now, baring his soul to the woman he loves right in the heart of the enemy’s reign.
Cad Bane hovers above you, nibbling your bottom lip amidst fiery dances between your tongues clashing behind each other’s teeth. His kisses trail lower and lower than before, holding you by the crest of your hips and bringing you up to his mouth where he marks you ferociously across your abdomen. He chomps down repetitively with no remorse, gruffly whispering lewd encouragements under his breath between each bite. “That’s my good girl. Get loud fer me.”
He moves on to high sensitivity areas like your inner thighs and your somewhat moderate moans elevate into pleading yelps and screams. You nervously laugh between catching your breath before Bane makes a meal of you once again, only this time, he settles himself with his famished mouth directly in front of your entrance with those gleaming eyes of his trained at you. 
It’s nearing midnight and he craves your attention. The guards Bane had to sneak past stand tall and defensive, maintaining the borders of this grand organization. None of them would let Bane in willingly, but his desire to be with you is stronger than that. You’ve stolen his heart and he’s never doubted the way he feels about you. With no regrets holding either of you back, the only obstacle in your path is a clock to beat and a path to choose where your loyalties lie. Though, with his tongue so dangerously close to your clit, it’s hard to debate any other option than this.
Bane hooks each arm at the back of your knees and swiftly seats himself on his feet, lifting your entire bottom half off the bed and preparing to eat you from the source. He latches onto your pulsing sensitivity, rapidly feasting upon you while administering incredible yet stoic force to keep you in place despite the flailing of your limbs.
His tongue slides between every nook and cranny of your center and you struggle to fight through these tremors. A few times, you nearly clamp Bane’s head between your knees but his grip on you is impervious to your squirms, holding you steady so that you don’t disrupt his respirator while still active enough to sustain this zealous dynamic no matter how many times he manages to make you climax. 
Your whimpers and wails are beginning to get painfully caught in your dry throat. The position Bane’s had you in is causing a substantial amount of blood to rush to your head with your upper torso being the only thing in contact with your mattress. Striking your arms in Bane’s direction, you give him a few notifying taps to get his attention. “B-Bane… I- I can’t…”
Cad Bane pauses and lets you breathe, but he doesn’t set you down just yet. “Yer gonna have to speak up fer me, little lady.” He teases while licking your arousal from his face. “Be a good girl and use yer words.”
“Please, put me down.” You beg breathlessly while trying to evade his sturdy hold. You’re not serious in these remarks, you just want to see how wild he can get. “I’m starting to get sore.”
Bane tilts his head at you, the brim of his hat cutting off about a third of his eyes from view and he reads between the lines, understanding what it is you’re asking of him. “I think you and I both know that the word ‘can’t’ ain’t in our vocabulary, darlin’.”
And with that, he stakes his claim over you again, more serious and feral. You hold onto his forearms for stability as you let your body ride out the shockwaves of his persistent tongue fucking. You’re drenched in his spittle, feeling the tickle of its drip as it runs down the creases of your anatomy. He slurps and drinks your arousal, finishing you again with another moment dedicated to nursing on your clit. His serpent-like tongue flutters against it just the way you like and he’s pushing you over that heavenly edge.
Bane drops you back on the bed at last. You bounce a few times on the springs and the strain in your muscles is nothing compared to the blissful afterglow of what he’s just done to you. Letting you have a bit to recoup, Bane starts unbuckling his pants, pumping his already half stiff cock into his fist before yanking you towards him at the edge of the bed.
“Wait!” You stop him, smiling and reaching out with grabby hands towards his crotch. “I wana taste too.”
Cad Bane reads your expression, always surprised when you look at him with such lust and you have him thinking that there’s always new, animalistic sides of you to uncover. The allure of you having origins in different worlds beckons the suggestion that what you share is no coincidence. Of all the people for you to set your heart on, you’re pleased to know it’s him. He is such a benevolent lover, but you have no qualms with reminding him that he has a right to the same treatment. 
“I knew I had struck gold meetin’ ya.” He remarks boastfully, dropping his pants alongside his boots while keeping his hat and top portion of his flight suit on. As much as you want him to take the rest off, you understand he may not like the idea of being completely undressed in rival territory.
“That makes two of us.” You’re settled on your elbows as Bane walks to stand next to where you lay on the bed, the ridges in his cock pulsing under the throbbing flexes of muscle. Taking his length in one hand, you spit into the other and begin stroking while swirling your tongue about his bulging tip. Bane lets out an exhaustive sigh and you watch as he stabilizes himself with his hands on his hips. You stare up at him with big, bright eyes as you begin to bob up and down on his cock, sliding both hands along his ribbed shaft. His breathing hastens and he keeps flashing his fangs at you, squinting and letting out unruly grumbles. With one hand still on his hip, he places the other at the top of your head and begins thrusting into your throat. You concentrate on cycling your breathing through your nose, peppering this exchange with exaggerated theatrics of choking on his cock as you cough and gag while still pulling him in with every thrust.
Your gasp resounds through the room when you finally pull him out of your mouth, looking up at with a string of saliva connected from his tip to your chin. He clenches his fist in your hair as he sways where he stands, drunk on your indulgence. 
“Such a good girl with that purty mouth of yers…” He gruffly whispers, naughtily shoving you back onto the bed with your glistening mess strewn across your features. Cad Bane pulls your legs up and presses your knees to your chest. His abrasive palms and worn-out leather gloves skate across your ribs to the sweet spot between your breasts until those slender fingers make their way around your neck. He leans in to kiss you, likewise guiding himself into you with a singular delicious push. He holds himself there, forcing past all known bounds and into the farthest reaches within you, his bony pelvis digging into the flesh of your ass. Still gripping your neck, he breaks the kiss to speak into your ear. The hiss of his voice coupled with the flutteringly full sensation drives you to wriggle under his weight, frantic for even the smallest movement. “Ya really know how to use it.”
Bane releases his hold on your throat, shoving his index and middle finger into your mouth just as he sets a gradual sequence of thrusts in motion. You keep your knees to your chest and spread wide, putting every inch of yourself on display as Cad Bane squeezes the lavish softness of your thighs with his digits in your mouth. You bite down hard and squeal when his pounding alternates from steady and moderate to erratic and powerful. He retracts his hands from your mouth and moans fall from your lips in a ceaseless cascade now that there’s nothing buffering them. You reach for his flight suit to anchor yourself to, falling short of the article of clothing but still clenching your hand in his direction.
Cad Bane’s huffing and grunting is halted in an instant as his own airways are being compressed via an unseeable force. His breathing apparatus is triggered. The mechanical whir of its inner workings power on and you’re left speechless when you find that you’re the culprit for this monumental instance. Though, this was not your intention. Frightened by not knowing the range of your strength, you immediately release this phantom hold on his windpipe.
“Did I tell ya to stop?” Bane flirtatiously argues between winded thrusts, reaching for your wrist and requesting that you continue. 
You’re already so dazed, sure to come again any second and he pulls this move on you? Fulfilling his wish, you reach for his throat again, curling your fingers into your palm but never completely closing your fist. Bane chokes through these salacious breaths as the machine’s whirring is kicked into high gear to compensate for the lack of oxygen his body is getting.
Despite the anoxic torture he’s suffering, he fucks you without fatigue, the steel blue skin of his face blooming with a deeper and darker cobalt. The spectral opposites of his hellish eyes embedded in such a cold face is a handsome contradiction, revealing his sweet side only for you.
Bane struggles through the divine constriction of his airways, hushed heaving and stifled gagging propelling ripples of confidence through your stomach when you watch him succumb to your gratifying torment. Anticipating his explosive end coming quite sooner rather than later, he scoots himself back a little, pulls out and finishes himself off all over your stomach. Warm ropes glaze you all the way up to your face where a particularly powerful stream managed to strike you dead on your bottom lip.
Cad Bane is known for being a famed marksman, it’s even more enticing to know that his impeccable aim carries over in bed. Your hold around his neck disappears when you feel the tasty little gift he’s left you on your face. Bane gasps for his first real breath since you started doing this, his apparatus hissing loudly with his exasperated bodily reactions. Finally able to breathe through his mouth, he curses under his breath while milking his cock for all it’s worth. You lick your face clean, making sure Cad Bane watches you consume every pearlescent drop he left on your chin. 
“Like how that tastes, darlin’?” Bane asks, standing up to search about your room for something to clean you both off with. 
“I missed it.” You humm in satisfaction at him, tempted to dip your finger into the spend across your stomach to taste some more but Bane returns with a clean washcloth from a nearby drawer and soaks it all up before wiping the slick from his own appendages. He finds his clothes and gets dressed, ready to spring into action in case anything happens. 
You’re saddened by the sight of him putting his duster back on, pouting as you find your sleepwear and clothe yourself as well. Bane makes note of your demeanor and turns to you. “Somethin’ the matter, darlin’?”
“You’re probably thinking that you should leave now.” You tell him despondently, afflicted by his absence when he hasn’t even left yet.
“Baby girl, I ain’t goin’ anywhere.” Bane climbs back into bed with you, and you cuddle up closely, falling into his safeguarded embrace with your head just under his chin. The textile of his flight suit is surprisingly not scratchy. It’s comfortable and you find yourself falling asleep while wrapped in Bane’s arms.
The instance of tranquility doesn’t last long when Bane realizes he’s let his guard down. He hears heavy footsteps approach as a knock resounds from your chamber door just a few feet away and all drowsiness is extracted from your senses when Bane nimbly stands to flank the door with both blaster pistols drawn from their holsters. You anxiously input your access code into the door’s terminal after throwing on a sleeping robe with your hood pulled up to hide Bane’s sinful evidence.
“Master! What are you doing here at this hour?” You communicate who has paid you a visit to Bane with a pop-eyed greeting. Bane grits his teeth, pressing his slender body flush against the wall in hopes that he remains in Anakin’s blind spot. Your lips are burning and swollen, you smell of sex and saliva and sweat. You’re praying to the Maker Anakin doesn’t realize what just happened, let alone who you’re hiding.
“I brought you something.” He looks ashamed, not even acknowledging the obscene hour mentioned in your greeting but instead offering a little wooden box engraved with an insignia for the Republic on it. “My way of saying I’m sorry.”
You take the box, tying your robe ensuring to preserve your decency. You open it and find that a gorgeous blue charm for your Padawan braid is resting atop a small bit of silken fabric just a few shades above black. Looking between Anakin and the charm, you’re touched by this kind gesture of his. You were beginning to believe he resented you, but this makes you fall back on that assumption. 
“Master I-I don’t think I should take this.” You guiltily refuse, unwilling to accept his gift at first.
“I shouldn’t have reprimanded you so harshly for my flaws. You’re supposed to trust me and feel that you can come to me for guidance.” He steps forward and puts his cybernetic hand on your shoulder, squeezing you empathetically with his metal limb. “I’m sorry if I pushed you away.”
“Oh…” You’re speechless, processing his sincerity as you search for the words to respond with. “Uhm… Thank you, Master. That actually means a lot more than you think.”
Anakin lets go of your shoulder, sensing your exhaustion with an inquisitive and examining glance across your form but nothing in his expression leads you to believe he knows your corrupt secrets. “Why don’t you take the morning off. I’ll see you at the commissary at lunchtime.”
Anakin parts, walking with both hands behind his back in steady strides to his own pursuits. You give him thanks in exclamation, waving him goodbye as he walks down the hallway. “Thank you, Master! I’ll see you then!”
The blast doors seal behind you and you’re alone again with Bane. He relaxes, putting his blasters back in their holsters as they will not be discharging anytime soon. “What’s that he gave ya?”
“It’s a charm.” You disclose to him, finding the braid you’ve formed at the nape of your neck and bringing it forward to separate it from the rest of your hair.
 “Who woulda thought that Skywalker has great tastes.” Without even having to ask, Bane takes the charm from the box and fastens it to your braid, letting it decorate your hair as he brushes his thumb against your cheek before dropping his hand to his side. “It matches.”
Looking between the charm and his skin, it’s a strikingly familiar shade of blue and you treasure this gift even more so. “I love it.”Bane spins you around, tucking you under the shade of his hat as he folds his arms around you, smiling into your lips. “I love you.”
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honeysofte · 27 days
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fandom: the wayhaven chronicles
rating: mature (minors dni)
pairing: nat sewell/female detective (unnamed)
word count: 1,072
A/N: been meaning to write this for literal years lol. be kind, my first twc fic in years <3
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There's you, there's Nat and there's a piano.
There’s also a look exchanged, which ignites something deep and molten in the pit of your stomach as your breath starts to quicken at the sight of Nat's warm brown eyes glinting with desire.
You're sitting on top of the grand piano and you stare at each other, vampire and human, the moment crackling with electricity around you. You are incredibly aware of Nat's power as a supernatural during this moment. She could kill you with a snap of her fingers. You're not sure why you find the thought so appealing and you are certain Nat would be absolutely horrified if she knew what you're thinking, but luckily mind reading isn’t one of Natalie Sewell's many talents yet.
Nat wiggles you out of your shirt, laughing when the fabric gets stuck on the silver necklace you're wearing, making you curse under your breath. You try to settle your nerves by steadying your breath, but it's all but useless. It's a little frustrating to lose your composure so easily, when Nat appears to be in full control of herself despite her obvious desire for you. At least for now. You hope that will change.
When your shirt is finally out of the way, Nat's eyebrow quirks, your blush deepens and her long fingers dance on the bare skin over your ribs; like she is playing them the same way she played the piano for you only a few moments earlier.
You sigh at her touch, and Nat smiles, wholeheartedly gentle, and you kiss her, because there's no other conclusion for this moment. You love kissing Nat. She does it like she does everything: all-encompassingly.
Her lips are so soft and pillowy you absent-mindedly wonder what lip balm she uses, before all the thoughts disappear from your mind at the force of Nat's devotion to you. You love her so much you feel faint with it; it feels it wouldn't even be possible to adore a person so much as you adore Nat, its might almost taking you by surprise during this moment.
[ao3 link]
Nat helps you out of your bra by unhooking the clip at the front, taking the time to compliment the rosy pink colour against your complexion, which makes you giggle stupidly, because you're so in love with this one woman you would do absolutely anything she asks or desires of you. It should be scary but it isn't, because she's Nat.
You attempt to remove Nat's green plaid shirt (it's horrendous if you're perfectly honest) as well, but she gently pushes your eager hands away and instead opens the button and zipper of your washed up jeans and helps you out of them.
Then she falls on her knees and the sight takes you out of breath, makes you feel like all of this is just a hazy dream and you will soon wake up with your life turned back to normal without this devastatingly attractive vampire kneeling in front of you. You scoot closer to the edge of the piano when Nat crooks her forefinger invitingly.
And then… then her mouth is on you.
There’s fabric between you, but that doesn't slow Nat down at all, she's eager and you're wet, and it's so good you almost feel like you're going to pass out at any second.
Nat doesn't let you, though. She folds her hand into yours, linking your fingers as she devours you with your lips, keeping you in this moment with her. Not letting you escape.
The piano’s surface is cold against your back, but you're barely even aware of it, to be honest. You can't feel anything else but Nat. And that's possibly her whole point.
After a moment Nat pulls back to breathe and finally diacards your underwear. Your flimsy pink panties are left to dangle from your ankle, as Nat returns to her task to make your world a better place. She's so fucking amazing that you feel almost livid with it, because you know in your heart that you don't deserve her, you never will. But that doesn't mean you can't try.
You moan and Nat echoes it to you. Her lips are glistening as she raises her head to meet your almost fever-like gaze. She smiles, a little smug, her fingers stroking the side of your left thigh, leaving only goosebumps behind.
“You're nearly there, ya rouhi,” Nat murmurs. “Good girl,” she adds, almost cheekily, and you feel like you could burst from the seams. Or maybe just die.
You groan and kick her shoulder lightly with your foot, the underwear drooping on it flying away, which only makes her chuckle, amused at your impatience.
She leans back towards your, pressing a  sweet sort of kiss to your inner thigh, making your heart feel fuller than it's ever been, before putting her mouth on you again.
You moan and sigh and groan, and Nat takes all of it as if they were a gift, her tongue working wickedly on your wet core. You think she might be naturally gifted at it, and only realise you have said it aloud, when Nat giggles, endlessly amused, with a shake of her head. Her soft hair brushes your naked sensitive skin as she shakes with laughter. You would probably get offended if you weren't so out of it, the pleasure making you feel soft as dough.
“Nat…” you say and you're not proud of how her name comes out of your mouth more like a whine.
Nat hushes you, before licking you again, almost ferociously. She wants you to come, wants it badly, and it doesn't take long for it to happen.
It's a thunderwave, a tsunami, a hurricane, and you scream so loudly that you're worried that Farah will come running soon in her need for misguided mischief.
Then you laugh. And Nat laughs, still on her knees in front of you, fully dressed. You lift yourself up as Nat retrieves your misplaced panties (they're somehow stuck on a lampshade) and brings them to you. She offers them to you, but you just raise your eyebrow and Nat ends up sliding them on you, her touch teasing and soft.
She bends down to kiss you. You kiss her.
“Well,” you say, “I wouldn't mind having more piano lessons with you some other time, Ms. Sewell.”
Nat grins. “Your desire is my command,” she says, utterly sincere.
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serially-wayhaven · 2 months
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Always for the First Time - Ch 2 (Explicit)
Fandom: The Wayhaven Chronicles Pairing: Nate/Mason/F. Detective (Kat Langford) Rating: E (18+ only) Warnings: None Summary: It's a snowed-in cabin 3-some fic with SO.MANY.FEELINGS! Chapter 2/3, word count: ~5800 (We earn our rating in this one...)
This will be three chapters total - planning to post them all within a week!
______ Excerpt:
Nate’s fingers wind into her hair and gently pull, tipping her head back. 
Her mouth opens, a soft gasp escaping. 
His gaze is dark and heavy, and a flush, barely visible, colors his cheeks. The tells of his desire are subtle; if she were standing any farther away, she’d probably miss them. But she’s not farther away, she’s right here. Against him. Aching. 
Does he want this too? Has he dreamed of her like this?
He leans down and brushes his nose against hers, his breath warm on her skin.
“May I?” he murmurs against her mouth and she feels like she’s about to fly apart.
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Read more!
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The art of losing
Fandom: The Wayhaven Chronicles Characters: f!detective (Sadie Langford) & Unit Bravo Word count: ~2.5k A/N: Here's my secret santa for @nsewell. I had so much fun getting to know Sadie for this @wayhavensecretsanta! She's a sweetheart and I hope I did her justice. I hope you'll enjoy this!!
A yell echoes down the corridors as soon as Morgan steps inside the warehouse, making her instinct take over as she runs to the source of the ruckus. 
The screams lead her to the living room, and although she’s not quite sure what to expect, she understood, as the screams turned into a weird mix of laughter and complaints, that she didn’t have to worry. So, when she reaches the door, it’s not worry guiding her anymore but curiosity. What she definitely didn’t expect to find though, is the rest of the team, sitting on the carpet, Ava, towering over the other three as she kneels over the coffee table; pointing an accusing finger at Farah.
“I know you’re cheating!” She growls, almost making Morgan shiver. This is a tone the commanding agent rarely uses on them - despite them constantly getting on her nerves - and Ava must have sensed the very faint hint of fear in her teammates as her tone is way softer, almost pleading, when she adds: “You keep taking the pot!”
“How the heck do you want me to cheat!? I didn’t even know the rules of that game half an hour ago! You’re just mad because you’re losing-” The young vampire retorts, before she adds with a little glint of mischief in her eyes “-loser!”
Morgan has to hold back a laugh when Ava’s ears flush red with anger and Nat quickly scouts closer to her to land a soothing hand on her friend’s shoulder. She remembers a similar night, decades ago, when they had to ban game nights after Ava forced them to play the same game for hours because she kept losing or could tell that they were letting her win on purpose. Had she known they were playing a game, Morgan would have actually avoided the living room at all cost.
She catches Sadie’s gaze and cannot hold it anymore. The detective is seated between Ava and Farah and the look of pure panic in her eyes gives away that she’s regretting not going to the local Christmas market like they had planned. That she would have rather braved the heavy-falling snow than whatever is going on right now. 
‘Get me out of here’ she mouths, but Morgan doesn’t make any move to help her. In fact, she steps even further into the room, thinking this debacle might at least entertain her for a little while. It’s not like she’s got anything else to do anyways.
The detective, realizing that she won’t be able to get out so easily, mouths again ‘I hate you’, to which Morgan answers by blowing a kiss in her direction. 
Admitting her defeat, Sadie holds up her cat in Ava’s direction. “Could you hold while I play my turn, please?” She asks, barely hiding her attempt at defusing the situation.
And for a second, Morgan thinks this might work as Ava eyes the hairless cat, barely annoyed at being handled in such a way. She watches as the commanding agent sits back down, crossing her leg, almost preparing to take the cat. That is until she goes “You’ve been holding him just fine the whole time.”
Sadie makes a face at her. “Yeah, well unlike you, my legs are getting numb.” She states, not waiting for the vampire’s answer before putting the sheriff in her lap. The cat is already falling back asleep.
There's a moment of latency as everyone waits for Ava's reaction and, as she doesn't show any sign of exasperation, Sadie reaches for something on the table and the silence falls heavier when she makes it spin.
Morgan steps a little closer and sits on the sofa behind Sadie. On the table, she makes out the blurred lines of a wooden spinning top. Underneath it, the detective is crossing her fingers as tightly as she can bear.
In front of Sadie, two glass pebbles are sitting on the table. Morgan looks around the table and noticing that the others have similar piles before them - some much bigger, like Farah’s, and others only containing one more than Sadie’s stash, like Ava’s - she understands, despite having no idea what game they’re playing, that her friend is losing. 
The four faces of the spinning top become more and more visible as it slows down and starts wobbling. Although she can now make out the symbols on the four faces of the toy, she still doesn’t know what they’re supposed to represent. She hears Sadie take a deep breath before she actually stops breathing. She can’t help but think the human is being a little-over dramatic, but then…
***
The dreidel finally tips over and…
“Nun!” she yells, much louder than she intended. 
She hears Morgan hissing sharply behind her and realizes she’s probably broken her eardrums. So she turns around and mouths a silent apology, to which the vampire answers with only a grunt, before she goes back to the game.
Sadie stares at the dreidel laying on its side and lets out a relieved sigh. She’s not losing that round either, she thinks before handing her dreidel to Ava. The vampire sitting by her side, mumbles something as she does, but Sadie doesn’t get it. 
The two are competing for the second to last place and, so far, Ava is winning. Sadie crosses her fingers once again and prays. She prays that Ava lands on ‘Shin’, which would force her to add another token into the pot, meaning they’d be even. But as she realizes what she’s praying for, Sadie is torn between shame and an irrepressible need to laugh. She’s usually not that competitive, but seeing how invested she is in that game, she guesses being around Ava is starting to rub on her.
Ava spins the dreidel and it flies across the room, making everyone duck.
“Ava!” They all scream in unison.
“What?” She asks, acting like nothing happened. She acts like it’s completely normal to turn a dreidel into a projectile, despite the fact that they all know how much control she has over her own strength. 
Her ears turn pink as they all stare at her and she sheepishly avoids their gaze. A move Sadie has grown accustomed to these past months: she is trying to hide the shame of letting her emotions get the best of her. 
A loud gasp echoes around the room and they all turn to Nat who went to fetch the toy. “Ava! It made a dent in the wall!” she cries in horror, staring at the toy encrusted in the wall. 
Sadie’s mouth falls wide open and she struggles to hold back a laugh, but as she sees Farah and Morgan trying as hard as she is not to laugh and that the rest of Ava’s face is turning a bright shade of red, she cannot help but crack up in laughter. 
Ava and Nat instantly start arguing like an old married couple about repairing that hole.
But as the argument grows in length, Sadie’s attention is caught by a flash of light in the middle of the room. She could have sworn the Christmas tree wasn’t turned on when she  got here earlier this afternoon.
Farah, noticing her confusion, leans in her direction. “I set a timer,” she whispers, “although magic would have been cool!” She adds like she had just guessed what the human was thinking.
“You can do that with Christmas lights?” Sadie asks, genuinely surprised by that fact.
“Nat bought really fancy ones” Farah explains and Sadie can’t help but chuckle at this. 
Knowing Nat she should have known everything they had gotten to decorate the place was really expensive and she dares not imagine how much she actually paid. But judging by the tree sitting in the middle of the room, she probably spent more than Sadie’s salary this month.
This tree is so gigantic it’s almost comical. Upon seeing it, her first thought had been about Ava having a heart-attack when she first saw it and having another one when Nat asked her to bring it inside. Because although Nat could probably make Ava do anything as long as she used her best pleading eyes, Sadie is still wondering what Nat could have possibly bribed Ava with so that she accepted to do it. Not that she doubts Ava could do it, in fact, Sadie knows Ava can haul a tree without any difficulty. It’s just that her brain still cannot comprehend how she managed to fit that ginormous tree - that almost touches the high ceiling and takes up half of the room - through the tiny doors of the warehouse.
Yet it’s not the size that made Sadie burst into laughter when she first saw it, but rather the wide array of colors ornating it and she instantly guesses Farah had been the one doing the decoration.
She remembers the young vampire, less than a couple weeks ago, begging Ava to get a Christmas tree so that, as she put it, she could get the best of the human experience. But the commanding agent had refused, so Sadie supposes Farah must have changed strategy after that refusal and pulled on Nat’s heartstrings so that she would indulge her, like she always does, especially when Farah pulls the ‘I never got to be human’ card.
And today, Sadie was met with this… She’s not quite sure how to describe it. Calling it an atrocity would be quite harsh, but this is definitely a little bit of an eyesore. It’s like Farah had randomly grabbed garlands and ornaments and let her excitement take over when she put them on the tree. It kind of reminds her of that time her kindergarten teacher would let them decorate the Christmas tree in her room every year.
Sadie still has to hold back a laugh when she thinks of Nat’s reaction when she first saw it. She actually snorted when they decided to settle in the living room and saw Nat scrunching her nose at the sight of it, desperately trying to hide the fact that she disliked the arrangement. Before that, she had even caught her trying to arrange some of the garlands a little more neatly and actively replacing some. Nat had begged her not to tell Farah.
There’s a loud grunt by her side and Sadie realizes Ava and Nat have stopped arguing. And it seems like Ava has already played her turn. The dreidel they both share is laying on the table and she can’t believe her eyes. Ava has to put another token into the pot.
“This isn’t fair,” the vampire grunts.
“You’ve just got bad luck,” Nat tries to soothe her.
“My spinning wasn’t optimal. The cat sleeping in my lap is reducing my range of movement.”
“Are you really blaming the sheriff because you’re losing?” Sadie asks, offended.
“All I’m saying is that I couldn’t spin the dreidel properly.”
“Yet you’re still petting the cat,” Farah points out.
Ava’s mouth opens as she looks for something to say, but nothing comes out and instead she readjusts her position to accommodate the sheriff as he shifts in her lap. Sadie shakes her head, forces herself to look away not to let her feelings transpire. Yet she can’t hide the soft smile tugging at her lips after noticing the fondness with which Ava looks at her cat. Neither can she hide her heart beating a little too erratically.
She clears her throat. “It’s your turn, Nat,” she announces, barely hiding her attempt at changing the subject.
Yet as the small wooden top starts its rotation, her attention is brought back to the vampire sitting beside her.
Ava is readjusting the hairless cat’s sweater. She tugs on it, making sure it covers most of the sheriff’s body, despite the fact that it's not cold inside the warehouse. She rolls the little collar properly so that it doesn’t bother him, and when she’s done she scratches him behind the ears, a spot he particularly likes.
She likes catching these moments where the commanding agent briefly lets her guard down. These moments where her caring nature shows. Not only with her cat, but also with the members of the team. When she helps Nat to cook, despite the fact that she herself doesn’t eat. When she listens to Farah’s new interest that week and actively asks questions so that Farah knows she’s listening even though she doesn’t really understand what she’s saying. How she closes the blinds without a word when the sun shines a little too brightly through the windows, bothering Morgan. How she often comes to check on her when she’s sleeping over at the warehouse, making sure Sadie has everything she needs.
Despite how much she hates admitting it, she cares deeply for every single one of them.
Ava looks at her, a puzzled look on her face, and Sadie quickly reverts her eyes. She tries to find something else to look at other than the vampire sitting beside her, and her eyes land on the menorah sitting on the mantel.
This is the first menorah she has lit in years and, to be honest, she didn’t expect to find one here today - just like she wasn’t expecting the Christmas tree. But what really moved her was its beauty.
Sadie is usually not a material person, but this menorah is amazingly well-crafted. 
It looks a little bit like a tree made out of brass. The trunk divides into two branches, on each of them sits four flowers to hold the eight candles. The ninth flower sits in the middle, slightly higher than the others, and holds the shamash. 
Vines spread out  on each side of the trunk and rise to coil around the two branches holding the candles. On those vines are carved small, intricate flowers.
Upon seeing it, she teared up a little at the thought that Nat must have spent so much time carefully picking such a gorgeous menorah for her.
And so, after the sunset, before they started playing, she kindled the first candle, answering Farah’s questions about its meaning.
Someone taps on her shoulder, bringing her attention back to the game. They’re all looking at her expectantly and she understands that they’re waiting for her to add another token to the pot so that they can start another round of spinning, meaning she’s left with only one glass pebble.
Ava hands her the dreidel. She spins it and once again she’s crossing her fingers.
Sadie looks around herself as the spinning top starts wobbling. Ava is discreetly trying to pet her cat who purrs in the vampire laps, making the others chuckle. Farah whispers something to Morgan and they share a mischievous look and the detective wonders what they’re up to, although she’ll come to know sooner or later. Nat is sipping on her tea, keeping a fond eye on each of them and she smiles when their gaze meets.
The dreidel lands on ‘Shin’, but Sadie doesn’t care. She does feel a tinge of disappointment, especially since she has just taught them to play. But after all, this game is all about luck and she realizes she’s been lucky enough to find a new family this year, so maybe that’s all the luck she needed. 
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dottiechan · 3 months
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TWC Secret Santa @wayhavensecretsanta ❄ - Happy holidays, @ejunkiet!
It was an absolute pleasure to create for you, I love Lizzie and Ava so much!!! 🩵 I couldn't decide whether to draw or write, so enjoy a bit of both. (BTW I seriously recommend @ejunkiet's fics of their detective OC Lizzie Quail, they're so good.) Happy holidays again! xx P.s. If you saw me accidentally post a draft of my gift to you a few days before... Shhh no you didn't. 🥲
Summary: After Unit Bravo's holiday dinner with Detective Lizzie Quail, Felix realises all the photos he took with his polaroid camera are botched.
Wordcount: 835
Warnings: smoking, Fuzzy Holidays Feels™
Too blurry. Too crowded. Mason is holding up his middle finger. Not focused on the subject. Ava appears to be sneering?
The polaroids scatter on the floor as they’re being dropped, Felix’s frustration seemingly travelling through his fingertips and into the botched pictures as they skitter across the parquet. He had such high hopes for this holiday dinner they’ve panned - he even volunteered, much to Nat’s suspicion, to help decorate the warehouse to prepare the background for his perfect winter photos. There doesn’t seem to be a single wall or piece of furniture without strings of fairy lights or garlands hanging off them - and yet somehow, he managed to mess up all the pictures he took.
“I should have just used my phone, not this stupid polaroid Nat gave me,” he grumbles, as he sinks to the floor dramatically from the sofa. He turns his head to the left, expecting a response from Mason, but aside from the shrug of a shoulder, and a puff of smoke, he’s as disinterested as always. Felix allows his head to loll right now, and peeks through the open doors into the dining room, but his other team members are too far to share in his misery. Lizzie is in the middle of a story, which has Nat’s full attention, and Ava’s full, well, everything? Attention, adoration, respect, senses, everything. They’re cute, the way they hold hands over the table, how Ava squeezes Lizzie's hand encouragingly when she trails off or gets embarrassed by her own rambling. Felix hoped he would capture a moment between them, something candid, something like right now, but he’s missed his windows of opportunity - like for instance when Ava finally allowed herself to be dragged under the mistletoe with Lizzie, but their picture was ruined by the detective spilling her drink all over herself.
“Felix?”
“Leave me alone,” he replies, but he also cracks one eye open to make sure Nat, who’s just entered the room, doesn’t lose interest in his pity party on the floor. But she’s already retreating, so he starts flailing his limbs as if he were making a snow angel in the sea of polaroids. “Please don’t leave me alone. Mason won’t talk to me and I’m embarrassed. I messed up all the pictures. I tried taking them like you showed me but I messed up.”
“They’re not so bad,” Nat says kindly as she sits with her friend, plucking the odd semi-decent pictures from the ground. “See? This is lovely.”
“Yeah, but Lizard has hot chocolate spilt on her sweater in that one.”
“Don’t call her that,” Mason grumbles, as he sweeps some polaroids off his lap - the by-product of Felix’s snow angel performance - and flicks his cigarette into the flames of the fireplace. Nat pretends not to see, but the pain flashing across her features has already made Felix feel a little better. They spend the better of the next hour going through the pictures and sorting them out, while Mason sits close-by, smoking, lost in his thoughts. All that breaks their peace is Frank Sinatra’s drawling voice coming from the record player, and the occasional laughter from the lovebirds still camped in the dining room. By the end of it, they’re left with a handful of decent-ish photographs, and Felix wastes no time sticking them into the photo album he got from Lizzie for Christmas.
There was a moment today, a moment worth capturing, one that was befitting of the old silver screen movies Nat made him and Lizzie watch, between Ava and their beloved detective. Naturally, Felix - a rotten romantic at heart - is pissed that he wasn’t able to capture it. It was a moment far better than the forced kiss under the mistletoe, a moment of intimacy, when the pair thought they were away from prying eyes. A hand under Lizzie’s jaw, Ava’s eyes fixed on the prize, wanting to kiss but being unable to take their eyes off of each other… Obviously the shutter of the camera ruined it, causing the pair step away from each other, and Lizzie to hide her blushing cheeks behind the curtain of her frizzy hair, but that’s beside the point. They were happy. Maybe happier than he’s ever seen them. Things are often so fucked up, with the odds always stacked against them, that Felix sometimes lives in the comfort of these moments. He lives in his family’s happiness, in his friends’ laughter, in Lizzie’s tight hugs, in Ava’s pats on the shoulder… If he could, he’d capture all these moments in a jar and keep them very close always. Photographs are the next best thing - which is why he’s bummed out the picture he took of this moment must be so unrecognisable that it was swallowed by his sea of botched photographs.
He’s lost in thought when Mason nudges his shoulder, a polaroid of Lizzie and Ava in his hand stretched towards him.
“Found this under the sofa. Not too bad, if you’re into this lovey-dovey shit.”
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fauville · 4 days
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fandom: the wayhaven chronicles rating: general pairing: nate sewell/female detective (charlie langford)
i'm so embarrassed because of how self indulgent this fic is, but people wanted me to post it soooooo. i think about dad!nate a lot, so maybe i will write more about it at some point!
★ ★ ★
Charlie is frowning at the inadequate selection of apples at the marketplace, her hand resting on her belly over her chiffon summer dress when she hears Nate calling her name in the crowd.
She turns around with an exasperated sigh, a half-smile on her face and scans the mass of people for her husband, but Nate must be somewhere further in the crowd, because she can't see his towering frame anywhere near her. But he will find her soon enough.
She left him at the book stall where he was distracted enough for her to slip away for a moment. She intendented to go back to him before he noticed her disappearance, but she got hungry and left to find a snack at the food section of the market.
The owner of the fruit stall is glaring at her, so Charlie quickly points out the most juicy looking apple and pays for it, before Nate appears from the crowd with a worried frown on his brow.
For a moment Charlie just stares at him; she will never get used to how attractive he is and they've known each other for three years. His hair is tied up in a knot and he's wearing a pure white t-shirt and jean shorts. He kind of looks like a dad.
Which is lucky because he will be one soon.
“Charlotte!” Nate says, when he reaches her and immediately pulls her into a loving hug. “You're alright.”
Charlie can't help the snort that she lets out. “Yes, I am. I'm not lying dead in a ditch somewhere, don't you worry, dearest.”
Nate scowls. “Don't even joke about that,” he says and lays a protective hand on her stomach.
Charlie chuckles and covers Nate's hand with her own, patting it reassuringly. “I was gone for ten minutes,” she says gently.
“Fifteen,” Nate huffs and shakes his head. “That’s fifteen too many.”
“I'm pretty sure we're safe enough at the moment,” Charlie points out, when Nate bends down to kiss her forehead, cradling her closer to him.
“Maybe,” Nate admits a little reluctantly. He takes Charlie's hands to his own, rubbing a thumb against her knuckle. “But I would still prefer you would remain close by.”
“You know I can take care of myself,” Charlie reminds him, but her tone comes out mostly fond instead of firm like she attempted. This is a conversation they’ve had for countless of times in the last six months, but so far nothing has changed.
Nate starts leading her away from the crowd and Charlie bites into the apple she bought earlier. It’s dry and sour and she grimaces after the first taste.
“I know,” Nate says, so softly Charlie can barely hear it through all the noise around them. “But I can't help but worry.”
He stops walking and spins around to look at her properly and takes her hands, the bitten apple rolling from her hand on to the stone paving. There's something in his gaze Charlie can’t read. Something desperate and insurmountable.
“You're carrying my child,” he says. “Our child. That means I can barely think beyond the worry I constantly feel when you're not near. I'm so afraid of losing you both that it's almost making me lose my sanity and all reason.”
Charlie swallows. She can feel her eyes starting to water. Damn pregnancy hormones. “Nate…”
“I know,” Nate murmurs before she can open her mouth, smiling softly down at her, pressing a kiss to their linked hands. “I will work on it. I promise.”
Charlie nods, something inside her chest soaring. “Thank you,” she answers, because she knows that Nate means it and that’s enough for her.
Then she looks sadly at the dropped apple on the ground. It may have been dry and sour, but she’s still hungry like… well, a woman who’s eating for two.
“I'm hungry,” Charlie says and Nate laughs so loudly a few people close to them flinch and give him the dirty eye. He throws them a sheepish smile and gets a few starstruck looks back, which makes Charlie roll her eyes affectionately.
“Let's go home, ya rouhi,” he replies, guiding her towards the car. “I'll cook.”
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grapecaseschoices · 7 months
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thank you for being a friend~
this is my @wayhavenficexchange gift to @rosejellyy. thank you so much for this opportunity to learn about iris; i adore her! i had a great time reading yours, and others, works in my research about her. i hope i did right by her and that you enjoy!
who: Iris Lee & Farah Hauville when: sometime post book three; so some spoilers but i tried to keep it vague what: that's my best friend, she a real cool chick. [a lot of introspection with smatterings of dialogue; 2.5k just about] where: haley's and the warehouse! warning: cute.
Growing up, Iris hadn't had many close friends.
The more correct determiner was 'any' -- Iris hadn't had any close friends. She had made acquaintances growing up and had even been invited to parties. But for the most part, Iris tried to keep to herself. Growing up, she had convinced herself that it had been to keep people from asking awkward questions, that it had been because she wanted to avoid any problematic situations for Rebecca. (She had hoped maybe if her mother viewed Iris as undemanding and manageable … convenient, even, that her mother could better make space for her.)
(Those were the little reassurances that lonely children whispered into their pillows as they tucked themselves to sleep.)
The truth of it was that Iris had been afraid.
The reasons behind her fear didn't matter at the moment. Partly because the concerns of that lonely little girl seemed feeble in the face of the woman she had become and the friendships she had made. But mostly because it was difficult for fear to violently, steadily erect itself into her consciousness at the face of Farah Hauville's twinkling, bright gaze.
Still, Iris had to fight a desire to fidget. She took a steadying breath, her eyes glued on Farah's face as her friend took everything before them. The truth was evident in the taller woman's expression, but she still had to ask: "Do you lik -- oomph."
As a detective, Iris prided herself on being discerning and understanding - and as a friend, she did her best to maximize those traits - so she probably should have seen this coming; nevertheless, she managed to absorb the impact of Farah's tacklehug (and bouncing shouts of happiness) enough to keep them both steady on their feet.
"How did you -- ! -- this is -- this ... ! ... and the colors! The unicorn is HUGE Iris!!"
Iris hugged Farah tightly in return, her own happiness bright inside her chest as she listened to the young vampire stumble over her words.
Farah pulled back slightly, golden eyes shining, "Did you -- you did all of this for me?"
"Tina and Nat helped. Actually, Tina helped a lot." It seemed fair to give credit where it was due. Especially since Tina was the only one with actual sleepover experience, Iris' former coworker and still close friend had been as much of a resource as Google.
It seemed even more fair to give Tina credit as it had been her suggestion.
The idea had been borne from a casual conversation during their first bi-monthly "friends date" at Hayleys. The change was difficult. And the new shift in Iris' career meant she wouldn't be able to see Verda and Tina as often as she had in the past. While they all agreed to continue meeting for drinks whenever possible, she had devised a more structured way to catch up with them. Dinner once a month with Sol and Verda (with an open invite to Ava) and coffee time twice a month with Tina.
Sometimes, Tina was magnanimous enough to invite Nat and Farah.
They both always showed up when they could.
That late afternoon, they had flitted through several topics of conversation. Experience had taught Iris how to keep up with Tina's boisterousness. But for the most part, she had followed along with an indulgent smile until they'd dived into the topic of childhood favorite books. It was a pick-up from a previous conversation. It had gone from Tina enthusiastically chattering, "I definitely was a Stacey growing up; I bet you were a little bit of a Mary Ann!" to Iris admitting she had never read the Babysitters Club series (to Tina's mild shock though forgiving understanding). And then Farah declaring that she had never participated in a sleepover (to Tina's horror).
Iris'd decided it was best to not confess to her own lack of experience -- she didn't want to be the first person responsible for making the resilient Tina Ponome wither away in surprise -- but the conversation had stuck with her throughout the day.
No, it hadn't been precisely the conversation but Farah's reaction: The resigned disappointment hidden behind a determined smile. It had prickled under Iris' skin with burning familiarity. She had known Farah had made friends and acquaintances outside of Unit Bravo. It seemed strange that no one had ever invited the young vampire over to spend the night or to go on a girl's trip.
 (She ignored the little voice that reminded her that - outside the occasional stayover at the warehouse - even as an adult, no one had ever invited her to do such things either.)
 Farah's 'smile' had remained under Iris' skin -- unwilling to leave her alone. After the conversation, she found herself looking up the general term to satiate her curiosity. From looking up the word, she found herself looking into decorations (from what children enjoyed to what adults did during girls' nights), and from there, she ended up watching films. It became a full-blown research affair that would've made Nat proud.
In fact, it <i>had</i>. And the tight, hesitant, wary knot that had tried to dissuade Iris from going through with this idea unsnarled under the warmth of Nat's gaze. Nat had been absolutely delighted when Iris handed her an invitation. She shared her excitement over doing this for Farah. Nat's approval, the prospect of Farah's happiness, and her determination buoyed her to also hand Morgan an invitation.
 Morgan had declined as Iris had expected. However, she hadn't expected Morgan to offer to go on a "beer, and other shit, run". 
"It's nice," She had scoffed underneath the surprise Iris hadn't managed to mask. "You wouldn't catch me dead with a giggling, drunk Tina trying to do my hair, but --" Though the rest of the words were bit out, a small smile curled up a corner of her thin lips. "I'll help. Only if you really need it," She added hurriedly beneath the wobbly beam of Iris' smile, "don't go wasting my time for anything less."
"I won't," Iris promised.
"Good," Morgan stated sharply, placing an empty cigarette in her mouth before she turned briskly and walked away. But there was a look in her grey eyes when she shot Iris, a last lingering look that almost made the usually self-restrained detective bounce giddily on her heels. Almost.
Something almost friendly, something that almost caused the dryness that always clogged Iris' throat when she was near Morgan to vanish. 
Though her interaction with the intimidating vampire had turned out fruitful, Iris had little hope for her interaction with Ava. However, it became a non-issue. Before Iris could set the infuriating team leader with an invitation, the Agency had requested a meeting between Commanding Agents and their second-in-command. Meaning Nat ended up having to cancel.
In a continuation of the bad luck, a joint case based in The City ended up pulling away New Detective Tina Ponome at the very last minute. It left Iris little time to reschedule. But decided to be flexible about it -- these cancellations only opened up the door for doing this again in the future. 
A nebulous plan that Iris was sure would go over well with Tina and Nat. (Morgan was another story ... The offer to be their deliverywoman might've been a one-time thing. But that was fine!) 
Iris had mentally filed that away. She shifted her focus on tying any loose end for a group girl's night that had become a sleepover for two. There hadn't been much left to do except ensure that Farah stayed away from the selected sleepover room until -- well, the hours for sleep. That would've been the hardest part if not for the timely visit of the mailperson. 
A purse filled with coupons and Farah in hand, Iris dragged her friend for her first visit to the Wayhaven Mall. A day of shopping and splitting each other up until they came apart at the seams was a great way to pregame for the evening. 
As the time neared, they stopped for ice cream before heading to the warehouse.
And that was how Iris ended up with her arms full with a wiggly vampire. Foresight and knowing Farah well (hopeful for her positive reaction) allowed her to take the bags containing their cold treats and place them somewhere safe. After another hug and a session of bouncing gleefully in place, Iris pulled away, "Come on." She encouraged with a bright smile that stretched for miles, "Let's get changed. I want to reheat the brownies before our ice cream melts." 
"Be back in my jammies in a jiff!" Farah winked as she zoomed into her room. The precision of the vampire's speeding hit more like a pleasant breeze.
Farah made good on her promise, and Iris is just pulling the blood from the microwave -- warmed exactly to her friend's preference -- when a slight gust of wind is her only warning before the other woman speaks, "But you're not even dressed yet!" 
Iris doesn't have to turn around to see the smaII pout or the impatient bouncing on heels. She bit back a giggle as she looked over her shoulder, "This blood isn't going to warm itself."
"And I can't have this sleepover by myself!" Farah expertly volleys back in response to her pert response.
"I was going to change as soon as I finish adding the marshmallows that --"
Farah's golden eyes took up her entire face in surprise. They were wide and bright and pulled Iris in like a ship to a lighthouse. Iris hadn't stopped feeling warm since her friend had seen everything she, Nat, and Tina had set up for her. She wasn't just proud of how well they set up but also couldn't stop the delight that echoed what burst across Farah's features.
Her fingers itched to grab her phone to take a picture. She knew Tina and Nat were regretting being unable to make it tonight, and they deserved to bask in Farah's joy as much as she did. Besides, Iris wanted to immortalize this moment, as well. It earned a special place in her apartment among the slowly growing gallery of memories.
"Are those the special, limited edition rainbow 'mallows??" Farah burst out. Iris didn't mind the interruption at all; she nodded earnestly. She handed the bag into Farah's hands. This time, Iris couldn't suppress her amused snort.
"How! They were sold out at Wayhaven Mart. I couldn't even find them in The City. I checked in almost ALL the online weekly circulars!"
"Let's just say now, I know better than to bet against Nat when it comes to finding rare things and shopping," Iris stated as she poured some of the blood into Farah's favorite large mug. Typically, it was straight from the bag, but Farah occasionally enjoyed her marshmallows floating in warm blood. (A strange tendency that Iris had quickly learned to make peace with.) This occasion merited a special treat; she had even gotten the young vampire a new twisty, purple straw for it as well.
Farah let out an impressive squawk. 
Iris placed the mug down and washed her hands at the sink. Marshmallows and blood were somewhat forgotten as the taller woman trailed after her, "Nat got these? Natalie Sewell? Nat Sewell brought Miss Maples' Monstrous Marshmallows? Did she know it's dyed <;i>with food coloring&lt;/i>??!!? Nat thinks food coloring is --'' Farah freezes as a thought almost bowls her over, "How did Nat even find these? Did Nat use the Internet? Iris?? Iris, where are you going! I --"
"I thought you told me to get dressed!" She called over her shoulder as she made her "escape" (Iris was sure if she looked behind her, she would find the bamboozled vampire still holding onto the bag of sweets); her teasing laughter filled the corridor. 
Her joy, at this moment, was bigger than her body. It was almost bigger than this space.
ris was no super-speeding vampire; however, it wasn't very long before the two of them were enjoying the set up. Iris had Farah choose the movies and Farah choose the games. After all, this night was for her friend. And though Iris was in the same boat of sleepover-less past, her true enjoyment came from knowing that she had done right with all of her choices. Her true enjoyment came from the very fact that she had a friend and she was helping said friend heal parts of her that needed healing. Iris liked being needed and it helped fill a gaping hole in her own chest when she succeeded in taking care of those she loved. She didn't want them to have any doubts that she appreciated them in her day-to-day. (Iris didn't want to give them any reason to unfit her from their lives.)
Of course, it wasn't easy to pull "whatever you want to do" with Farah.
"I could do that on my own anytime!" She protested. Farah's earlier words echoed in Iris' mind: <i> "And I can't have this sleepover by myself!"</i>
Iris put her hands up and smiled slightly, "All right. All right, you're right! How about this? You pick a movie now and we'll eat a snack that I want. Then I pick the movie and then we play a game you like after?"
"Deal!"
Things didn't exactly go to plan, but for the most part they kept their compromise. By their third film, Iris ended up sitting between Farah's legs as the other woman gently brushed her mass of curls from her face, "I didn't know you were so good at doing hair! I don't think I've ever gotten my hair to compromise." Iris tentatively touched the soft strands that Farah had managed to get to lie (mostly) flat against her scalp.
"How else do you think I look so fire fly everyday?"
Iris flushed slightly. That was a good point. "Agency beautician?" She was grateful that Farah briefly let go of her hair before she jerked back and began cracking up.
She was still giggling when she started braiding Iris' hair again. Iris didn't have much opportunity to stay settled in her embarrassment as she found herself giggling in return.
--
Later in the night (well into the next day; the birds were already chirping outside though it was still dark), after they had stuffed themselves and watched every film on the roster - and some shows to boot - Iris found herself drooping to sleep. Her body curled so forward that it was a surprise that she didn't topple the comfortably recling Farah off her lap. But maybe because of that she managed to hear the gentle whisper, "I had so much fun." A tiny, answering, smile tiredly stretched across Iris' lips. Even if Farah hadn't said as much - and she had several times - she had shown it. And that was enough for Iris. "Thank you for sharing tonight with me."
Something sharped pricked at the back of Iris' eyes and her eyelids fluttered open. Her breathing hitched slightly and she corrected herself: No. This – this was enough for her. Getting to have this moment with one of her best friends.
"Thank you for sharing tonight with <i>me</i>."
Farah's smile was soft as she looked up and tucks a stray curl behind Iris' ear, "Anytime, bestie. Anytime."
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nelkenbabe · 10 months
Text
Wayhaven WIP:
While hanging out in the living room, Nate once again encourages the Detective to put more effort into the improvement of her and Rebecca’s relationship. Unfortunately, he has to learn that goodwill is not all it takes. Set sometime during Book 2
"It's fine," Erin said casually, but with an undercurrent of finality.
Nate peered at her, slightly discomforted by the way she closed off ever so slowly. The silence didn't feel as amiable as before. Concerned that his words hadn’t been taken as intended, he decided to venture forth once more. Perhaps his tone hadn’t been well-meaning enough.
"I hope you two will continue to improve your relationship. I know the distance may seem insurmountable at times, but your mother loves you very much."
The reaction was so instantaneous that Nate almost flinched. Erin tensed under his arm, her blood pressure spiked, and a distinct scent of stress suddenly wafted off the detective. It took a moment to taste it on his tongue and identify not only anger, but fear, and in that moment Erin had already pushed herself off the couch. 
For two long seconds she simply stood there facing him, facial muscles frozen, her chest expanding and deflating at a rapid pace. Her lips opened, something on the verge of falling out, something crucial. Then she pressed them back together.
"I better get going," Erin finally said in a tone that was all-too-reminiscent of Adam, and Nate’s face fell.
Because with Adam, his clipped responses never meant the end of anything but the conversation. Regardless of how often they would disagree on something, his and Nate’s friendship remained untouched. There was a security there that he had thought he had with the detective as well, until now. And the sense of her potentially slipping through his fingers had a slick fear gliding through his belly, constricted his throat.
He rose from the couch slowly, smoothly, while Erin darted over to the table to grab her bag. She had trouble expressing her feelings, she’d told him so. But now she didn’t seem to trust him enough to meet his eye, and this hurt most of all.
“Erin,” he called out softly once her fingers clenched around the deep red strap of her leather satchel.
He could hear the way her heart skipped a beat, indicating that she’d heard him. She turned in a tightly controlled whirl, a strained smile on her lips that reminded him of Rebecca.
Talk to me. Tell me what I’ve done wrong.
“It was nice,” Erin said, voice softer than the stiffness in her stance would suggest. “Thanks for hanging out with me, Nate. I’ll see you soon.”
And then, with a deep inhale that she would not release, Erin started towards the door to leave the living room, pulling the mobile phone from the pocket of her jeans. 
I can tell you of the love you will share. Of a love so strong it may survive eternities. Of comfort. Of passion. Of truth.
Nate finally started to feel his limbs again. He couldn’t let her walk out on this note. Couldn’t bear to spend a day or more apart wondering if he’d irreversibly broken what they’d been building. If she would ever look at him with precious candidness again.
Just as Erin had exited the living room, he heard her exhale and sped after her.
“Erin, wait!” 
Look at me. 
She turned, the expression in her eyes weary and knuckles pale where her hand clenched over her phone. But she did return his gaze.
“I-” Nate’s mouth grew dry before he composed himself. “I didn’t mean to overstep. Your relationship with Rebecca is yours alone. As someone who cares for both of you, I simply meant to offer some support. Forgive me. I didn’t know this was such a sensitive topic for you.”
To his absolute relief, the air around the detective immediately lost some of its acidic tasting static. Her shoulders dropped immediately, her head tilted back, and her breath and pulse both slowed. She gave a short nod. Averted her eyes. Hesitated. Focused her gaze back on him.
“I don’t like talking to you guys about Rebecca,” Erin said, speaking in a slow and measured manner. 
Nate had noticed this way of speaking a few times now, and suspected she adopted it when she wanted to express herself with the utmost accuracy. 
This can be salvaged.
With renewed hope, Nate stepped closer, a warm, careful smile playing about his lips.
“May I ask why?” he asked, low, so the rest of Unit Bravo wouldn’t overhear too much.
It took Erin a while to reply. She simply looked at him, the same as she had after jumping off the couch, as if she were measuring how well he’d take her thoughts. Previously, he must have left her wanting. This time, he hoped she would reconsider.
“Because,” she began, “I feel like you guys think my issues with Rebecca just come from her lying about her job, and that’s not true. I don’t wanna put myself on a pedestal, but I think I handled myself well enough when I found out about the supernatural world.”
Nate choked his instinct to jump in and validate, lest the interruption cause Erin to break off. And sure enough, the more she talked, the more the tension in her jaw eased.
“My issue is that after I learned about everything, she told me we’d work on our relationship. No more lies or secrets, as long as it wasn’t something classified or whatever. But everything else I learn about supernaturals, or the Agency, I still learn by complete accident while everything is already going down the drain, and only cause I remember to ask questions. And even then I am sometimes blown off, like how nobody wanted to tell me what Trappers are.”
A pang of guilt hit Nate squarely in the chest when he remembered Adam’s dismissal of her question. He hadn’t even registered it in the moment.
“And then,” Erin continued, picking up the pace, “I learn, basically in a subclause, that my father knew about all this and was also a human liaison for the Agency.”
Her gaze shot up and fixed him with heated intensity, as though willing him to understand the urgency of that revelation. 
“Two months,” she said, voice wavering. “Two months, I barely hear from her, or anyone. Cause you’re all busy, I know. But she couldn’t make time to meet me once and fill me in on things she kept from me as a kid? About our family? 
“Do you realize that you’ve probably had more conversations with her in the last ten years than I had with her between the ages of ten and twenty? I spent more time with neighbors that I’d go to after school than my mother, cause she was never home. I had to teach myself how to cook and forge her signature for report cards and other documents cause she was never home. At age 15 I was running around town until after midnight and got picked up by cops, cause all I had at home was silence. 
“And I was willing to leave all that behind us, cause now I know the reason and Rebecca said we’d work on it. I’m not just holding a petty grudge for the hell of it, Nate. Nothing’s changed. She’s made no effort to fill the blanks. All she’s done is tell me she doesn’t want me to die. And she does this when all of Unit Bravo is around, too, where I have to choose between pretending everything is fine, or having you guys think I’m being a bitch for no reason. I’m sorry. But I think I deserve better.” 
Erin took a deep breath. 
“And I didn’t wanna talk about it because I know you guys love her. I didn’t want to put you in this spot where you could feel like you have to pick a side.”
Something in Nate melted, and before he could stop himself he closed the rest of the distance between them. The fingers of his right hand laced in hers, and he gingerly lifted his left to touch her cheek. She leaned into it as if almost by instinct, and he had to remind himself to breathe. 
She still felt safe around him. That was all he could ever need.
“It’s kind of you to worry about us,” he said gently, and watched the frown on Erin’s face smoothe over. Grimness gave way to grief. “I didn’t realize the situation was so complicated. And I’m sorry all of us weren’t diligent about keeping you in the loop. Believe me, I wanted to. Very much so, in fact.”
A soft, tired laugh escaped Erin that caused a tug in Nate’s chest. But she tipped her head forward and rested it against him.
“Yeah,” it came muffled from somewhere below Nate’s chin, “would have been nice to not feel like I was dropped off the face of the earth right after being mauled by a vampire.”
Nate frowned.
“That was not the intention. R-”
Erin’s head snapped back up.  A chill wound down Nate’s spine when he realized the mistake he had just committed.
“Rebecca said what?” Erin asked sharply. 
A little part of Nate had to almost laugh at how quickly she had pieced his choked off sentence together. And he might have. If he didn’t have the distinct feeling that he had just put himself in the exact situation that Erin had not-so-tactfully tried to avoid in the first place.
“Ah… she said… it would be best to give you space to heal after everything that happened,” he admitted after a few seconds. “To adjust.”
Anger flashed over her face, just for the briefest of seconds. Then she let go of Nate’s hand to raise both of hers to palm her face. A mix between a scoff and a bitter laugh came muffled through her fingers before she inhaled deeply and dropped her hands again.
“Do me a favor, please, going forward,” she said with a slightly ironic undertone, “and don’t ever assume that Rebecca knows what’s best for me.” 
“Done,” Nate replied.
“She really thought that after everything, I wanted radio silence from you guys?” Incredulousness was poured into every word. “The only people who could understand what-... what happened that night? The absolutely insane few weeks I’ve had? All of it, and I was alone afterwards. Without so much as a phone call from Farah. I thought you guys were busy with cleaning up the mess so I didn’t want to be a nuisance. But the longer I didn’t hear anything, the more I thought you had changed your minds about wanting to work with me, cause I was human and too squishy or something. Rebecca has no idea who I am or what I want. What I wanted was to see you.” 
Erin paused, holding her breath again for a long moment. Then she added, voice small and just barely above a whisper: “I-... I wanted to see you, Nate.”
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wayhavensecretsanta · 9 months
Text
Wayhaven Fic Exchange
Hi TWC fanfic writers!
I’m excited to announce this Wayhaven gift exchange!
Now that Book 3 has been released for a while and we’ve had a change to read it and let everything sink in (and read it again), this seemed like a great time to do a fic exchange.
The idea of this exchange is that you will get assigned to another participant, your “giftee”. You will then write a fic featuring that person’s detective*, and someone else will write a fic for you, about your detective. This can be a sweet, romantic fic about the detective and their LI, but it can also be about found family feels with UB, or you could go in a more angsty direction. Whatever you think will make a great gift for the other person!
At the end of the exchange, all participants will share their gifts with their giftee and on here, so everyone will be able to see what has been created for this event ^^
When?
Deadline signing up: 9 July
Everyone will receive a message with the information of their giftee before 14 July 
Deadline for turning in fic: Monday 14 August (09:00 CEST) This corresponds to 17:00 AEST; 01:00 CST
Gifting: 20 - 27 August 
Since the gift is meant to be a surprise, the gifter will only reveal themself to the giftee when sharing their fic.
The minimum word count is 800 words.
If you want to sign up, send me a message! You will get a link to a sign-up sheet on which you can give some basic info about your OC(s) and their worldstate.
*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***
Looking forward to hearing from you and to reading the no doubt wonderful fics that will be written <3
For more information, see the pinned post.
*Other TWC OCs are also very welcome!
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agentnatesewell · 7 months
Text
by allegoric bards
for the lovely @lalizah as part of the @wayhavenficexchange ! Thank you so much for letting me borrow Liz and Mason, I had so much fun getting to know them and write them!
The Wayhaven Chronicles / Mason x f!detective (Liz Khan-Langford) 3.6k words / characters do not belong to me
~~
It’s quiet in the warehouse. The kind of quiet Mason usually enjoys, used to enjoy in the large space only he occupies. A rare afternoon alone, Felix on patrol, Nat helping god knows who with god knows what, Ava training the newly promoted Agent Khan-Langford. 
Liz Khan-Langford, his Liz. Mason had offered to train her instead, a wicked curl of his lips pulling heat from her pretty, deeply-flushed cheeks; launching Ava into yet another reminder of how he would only serve as a distraction while she outlined Agency hierarchical rules and codes of conduct. A necessary distraction from the boring shit, he’d about said before Ava groaned, grunting instructions to leave before he could suggest anything more. 
As she’d turned, spinning on her heel to catch up with their commanding agent - already halfway down the corridor - Mason caught Liz in his silver eyed gaze. For a singular, shared moment, her eyes returned a flash of warmth and beneath, her mouth moved, shaping words not immediately recognizable to him, soundless so he could not hear. 
He’s leaning against the exposed brick wall of his bedroom, close to the door left ajar. The sunlight is heavy enough to hug and brighten the edges of the heavier, darker curtains of the windows facing him; might be worth the trouble, being able to listen out for Liz, sense any sign of her return. An unlit cigarette passes through his fingers, but the urge to smoke is lessened, though the urge to have his mind occupied is heightened. 
The quiet, the utter silence, isn’t quiet at all.
Mason closes his eyes, tries those deep breaths that are always suggested by those who don’t know him so well, and he thinks of Liz. In the darkness, he outlines her in his mind, he hears her voice, and soon the nothing that surrounds him starts to crackle. The sound stretches and grows louder, staticky like Liz’s car radio searching for a station while roaming the outskirts of town or the dead air whenever Nat attempts to use a walkie-talkie. 
Mason growls, securing the cigarette between two fingers and feeling along his pocket for a lighter with his free hand, and it reverberates, rolling from the base of his throat and onto his tongue. 
The tip of it is heavy against the back of his teeth, and he tries, once more, just to focus on her. How she’d fit between him and the door frame, back against the rough interior left from the old warehouse, how her lips would taste. His mouth moves on its own, mimicking the shapes she’d made before she left - the same she’s made another time before - attempting to remember what she’d said. 
Eyes opening again, Mason schools his expression flat. He can push thoughts away, turn them off, and the touch of the crystal dangling from his neck grounds him; can fade that background noise away. He doesn’t want to, though, not these thoughts. Just like everything else about Liz, this confuses him. 
Why is this so important? 
Riding back to the warehouse, Mason curled into himself as the spotty speakers in the even spottier beat up tin can of Liz’s car did its best to carry music that he wasn’t familiar with but clearly made her happy. Hands on the steering wheel, she sang out loud, swaying her shoulders and her head from side to side, fingers dancing in rhythm along the curve of the steering wheel. She’d turned her head, glancing at him as she sung a particular line, pointing her finger and poking his shoulder. Mason rolled his eyes, chuckling under his breath and returned with a lick of his tongue across his lips. Liz stopped, suddenly speechless and flabbergasted, and he took the opportunity to turn the volume dial. 
As she pulled into the unassuming driveway, slowed the car to a stop in front of the dilapidated building, another song came on and she squealed excitement and Mason, to temper the acute sound, placed his hand on her thigh as she shifted the gear to park and turned her car keys, leaned over to kiss her; she met him, singing the words against his mouth. 
“Come on,” he sighed, and she laughed, kissing him fully and unbuckling her seatbelt, then pulled away, stepping out of the car. He did the same, ducking to slink out of her car and stretch against its side. He reached for Liz as she went to stand in front of him, taking a curl of her hair between her fingers, and fuck, even that lightest touch felt good. She giggled, and she squeezed her hip, and she wrapped her arms around his neck. When Mason kissed her, she did the thing she always did, leg lifting behind her, bent at her knee, the sign of what she deemed to be a very good, perfect kiss. He never hated it, it gave them the excuse to be closer, and for him to secure his arm around her back. 
Song still on her mind, she pressed kisses onto him, kisses all over his face, catching every freckle possible and with each, she repeated something, some short phrase. Over and over. So damn endearing. Kissing until she found the freckle on the corner of his mouth, and he captured her lips once more. Then lead her inside. 
Because what she’d mouthed right before leaving with Ava, was the same thing she’d spoken into her kisses. And it’s what’s making Mason’s fingertips tingle; lifting his features into a hint of a smile that feels like it should be there. Natural.
He turns, pressing his shoulder to the wall, and shoves the cigarette back into his pocket, loose, not caring to tuck it back into the carton. A whisper in his mind muting the dead noise, some stem of a thought, tells him that anything that can make her that happy has to be that special. That it should be something to familiarize himself with. Singing and laughing, talking without taking a breath, from anyone else would be a racket pounding in and between his ears, but damn it if it didn’t make his chest squeeze and open in a funny way he can’t recall ever feeling. A way he liked. Relieving some unknown within him. 
Mason’s walking now, steady footfall the only audible sound in the hallways of their increasingly familiar home. Fidgeting, his fingers wrap around the leather cord of his necklace, curling it like a strand of Liz’s hair, helping him concentrate. Nat had mentioned once, deep in the forest following a path towards a dryad family home, something about neuronal connections, something about synapses and plastic or plasticity, how they all create memory. Activating and reactivating to recall something. She always did find a way to fill the silence, pass the time during those sorts of low-stake assignments; her mind is always too full, thinking too much, yet, thankfully, with just enough to say. Mason, in the meantime, had maintained majority focus on their surroundings, to not miss any snap of a twig under their feet or rustling of leaves. 
Shaking his head, knowing he didn’t need to fill the precious space of his brain with, what Nat declared, informative conversation, he finds himself at a threshold. Nat’s library. Last fucking place he’d never think to voluntarily wander into. 
Immediately, he’s met with the scent of metallic fresh and faded ink, paper aging back centuries, preserved, notices the absence of dust. The sun rays are longer and brighter here, and the change from incandescent to natural light makes his skin itch. Once more, he fishes the cigarette out of his pocket, pinching the middle of the tube, and pats outside of his pants pocket for the lighter. But then he remembers another thing, Nat’s more or less staunch stance; the string of mild curse words, warning him that smoke shall be nowhere near her precious collection. 
Placing the cigarette back into the carton in his pocket, no chance of fire or a lecture, he steps into the room. His fingers tap against his thigh. Mason isn’t sure what exactly it is he’s looking for, but figures this isn’t the worst place to distract him, might even help. 
Neuronal connections is how Nat organizes this place, and he thinks, guesses, it’s a way to keep everyone out. Including Ava. He chuckles, he’s already had too much to think about today. And if he never had to think about neuronal connections again in his infinite life, it would be too soon. 
Eventually, he finds himself eye level with a second row of books, a particular group of them with swooped lines and diamond shaped dots and identifying them, writing that Liz and Nat would recognize. After everything the silence has put him through this afternoon, something, some force around him, is finally giving Mason a fucking break. He steps closer, following the calligraphy, how they meet and separate and curve. Maybe if he stared at the things, whatever the sides of books are called, he can extrapolate the information. His fingers feel what he sees now, gliding over the embossed, gold colors. And then he stares, mouth closed and slacked, fingers tapping. One, two. One, two. One, two. 
“Shit,” he swears, grumbling to himself, closing his eyes and exhaling when he hears familiar steps; catches a familiar scent, too expensive, Ava had called it with Felix nodding, impressed, and that hum under her breath. Of course, of course he’s caught. Even from the hallway, he knows Nat knows he’s here. It’s in the way that hum has taken on a far more playful, far more annoying, far too inquisitive tone. 
It’s in no time at all that Nat is standing near him, an arm’s length away, eyes sparkling with the energy of a million questions. The usual, characteristic worry, the few times she's spotted Mason in this room, dulls them, however, and Nat clicks her tongue in perturbation. But her attention has shifted, and what has caught it is a book. Muttering to herself, she laments that the foundational book of the history of selkie transformation does not reside next to the compendium of the evolution of stylish fur in fashion. 
Once she mentions Ava, who apparently knows well enough that any used book should be placed on Nat’s desk, Mason takes the opportunity to leave. He’ll have to thank Ava later for the opportunity to dodge Nat, or at least initiate the next sparring session. 
“Mason,” Nat calls, quicker in her greeting than he can be in jetting out of their shared space. She pulls the book from where it’d been neatly, inconspicuously placed. He stops, caught again, and slowly, begrudgingly walks back towards her. In a quick motion of her limbs and hands, the offending book is tucked back into its home, the shelf above where it’d been stashed. (Mason neither sees nor cares that it’s in between a book on Midsummer’s Eve and a collection of Bardic tradition). 
Straightening to a full stand, her books in proper order once more, Nat sighs in relief, sliding her hands into her pockets. Her face brightens with the hint of a smile, and she’s rolling her lips inwards to keep from bursting into amusement. “I would ask you if there was anything you needed,” she starts, then lifts her brows, tilting her head just slightly, her line of vision lining up with the books behind them, “but I see that you may have found what you were looking for?” 
“Don’t need anything,” he snaps, not yet moving, feet firmly planted where they’d just been. “Just on my way out.”
But he knows she’s heard him, heard the rhythm of his drumming fingers against the hard book exterior; they’re all aware of the pattern of Liz’s heartbeat. Mason wants to walk away, needs to walk away before she starts poking around at feelings. But something, that same force, is keeping him from walking away.  
Maybe, and Mason doesn’t want to let himself believe this to be true, Nat can help him find those words. Afterall, she and Liz speak her language together. 
“In this book, you’ll find some of the greatest contributions to poetry. Ghalib, in particular, resonates with me.” Nat reaches, plucking his book of happenstance interest off of the shelf and holds it flat in her palm. She sets her other hand on the front cover. Assessing him, her eyes softening, Nat considers her next words with a widening, eager smile. "You'll find, in here, some that may mean a great deal to Liz.” 
He crosses his arms over his chest, slumping against the opposite shelf. If Liz had ever ever mentioned poetry, he was probably distracted with something else, the poetry they could make together. Mason clears his throat, under the watchful eye of Nat he thinks it might be better to go along with her sincerity, and counters, “She prefers songs.” 
“Of course. Though not mutually exclusive. Poetry may serve as an inspiration, may serve as lyrics to the music surrounding the words.” Nat rotates the book between her hands, clutching each side, and then after a moment, narrowed eyes hiding the debate within her mind, she opens the book and turns the pages to one in particular. 
“There is a poem, an Urdu poem. By the Poet of the East, Allama Iqbal.” She sweeps the back of her hand over the words, over letters from the multiple alphabets of its translations. “It reminds me of you, the both of you. If you wouldn’t mind, I think you might find this interesting.” 
Nat has recalled and recited book passages and the like to Ava and Felix, but this is definitely a first for Mason and he wouldn’t mind it being a last. But she is so damn compelling. And he knows that this is not just for his sake, he knows this because she thinks this might also help him with Liz. 
Mason scrubs his hand down his face, yet keeps still; silent, exasperated permission. It would be a better option to get comfortable against the bookshelf while suffering the infectiousness of Nat’s earnestness. Arms folded close to him, rapping his fingers without pattern against his elbows, he decides it’s as good of a time as any to inspect his boots. 
Smiling, easy and completely in her element, she begins. “Sitaron se aagey jahaan aur bhi hain; Abhi ishq keimtiha’n aur bhi hain.” Her gaze lifts and she looks, pointedly at Mason, translating without prompting, “Other worlds exist beyond the stars; More tests of love are still to come.” 
His head snaps up, eyes wide and darkening, the familiarity of her recitation entangling his thoughts. Has she said this to him before? No. No, she hasn’t but she’s said something similar. To Liz. The night of that party, at her apartment. Afterwards, leaning out of the window, half inside her bedroom and half out over the fire escape he’d noticed -
How the beauty mark under her eye had aligned with that star, the one in the sky that never moves, stays in the same place night after night. Constant. Anchoring. Watched the movement of her face, excited as she spoke, stopping only when she ran out of air, her mouth widening and teeth showing, grinning as her words became more melodic until she was singing.
As he hears Nat, muffled behind his memories of Liz, seamlessly speaking the original Urdu and translated English, he picks up a sound. A frequency. Jumbling, increasingly solid images of Liz form in his mind. Earlier in the day, her parting words; that night, serenading into that night. Her eyes, her mouth. It’s soft at first, what she says, but as he can see her, he can hear her. Hears her and understands her, clearly. As though she’s whispering into his ear, the weight of her against his side and against the books. 
“Gone are the days when I was alone in company; Many here are my confidants now,” Nat completes the final phrase then closes the book. Extending it with outstretched arms, in hopes that Mason would take the initiative, she looks in front of her and sees that he’s already gone. 
She finds him, not too far, in the research annex of the library. Mason is hunched over a side table, pen in hand, scrawling on a piece of stationery, threatening to topple and flatten the very neat square of blank sheets beneath it. Hair falling and framing his face, hiding his expression and any indication of what it could be that he’s writing. 
Nat watches, resting against the corner of a bookshelf and her hands back in the safety of her pockets. “As I live and breathe,” she says, awestruck, hoping not to interrupt. This is interesting, it’s unexpected, and she wonders what it is which has drawn this reaction. Wonders if what he’s writing could be the theme of their story. 
But of course she does interrupt, and Mason comes to a stand, shoving two pieces of paper into his pocket. With a final acknowledgement of Nat, he nods in her direction. 
“Thanks, Nat,” he bites out, awkwardness blunting his gratitude. Then, at last, his feet are allowed to propel him forward, and he leaves, before Nat can trap him into talking of anything else too sentimental. And he has had enough poetry for one lifetime. 
~
It’s quiet in the warehouse again. Familiar. The crackle of fire in the living room, the turn of a page. Mason paces in the foyer, a turn in the opposite direction at every tenth tick of the grandfather clock. Occasionally, he reads what he’s written on the papers then crumples the papers; smoothes the sheets out and reads again. 
Mason wants to be on the rooftop, wants that tranquility that the trees afford, empty his mind of all the thoughts of this particular day and simply exist under the blanket of stars in the night sky. Not alone, though, never alone anymore, not without Liz. 
She’d texted him some time ago, reporting that Ava has finally released them after satisfactorily answering assessment questions over the day’s lessons. Mason snickered as he sent a response. Liz is going to tell him everything, down to every answer and how, regardless of Ava’s response, Liz was right. 
The card reader beeps and the front door yawns as it opens, and he hears them, their voices echoing and permeating the space. Mason pushes the papers, balled and crinkled in his grip, into his back pocket. Since he’s standing at the sofa, he perches on the arm. Nonchalant, unbothered. 
“Took you long enough,” he smirks as Ava and Liz walk in, making sure the door clicks closed behind them before walking any further. “There aren’t that many rules and regs to get carried away with.” 
Liz, surprise illuminating her beautiful face when noticing him, turns to Ava and thanks for the training, then quickly makes her way across the pristinely waxed wood floors to Mason.  
“You would understand if you ever completed the required, once per decade, readings, Mason,” Ava quips, voice cool and steady as she removes her aviators and coat, securing them over her arm as she walks to the stairs. “Agent, you performed well today. We shall resume our training in the morning. Check your calendar for details.” 
“Did you hear that?” Liz waits for Ava to be out of near-ear shot, the steps of her boots heavy on the floors above them, sidling close to Mason now, flush against him as he wraps an arm around her waist. “I have the Commanding Agent’s seal of approval.” 
Mason chuckles, touching her jaw with the tip of his finger to draw her to face him. “Would you like a reward?” She nods. With a beat of hesitation, he inhales. Her skin is warm as he exhales, murmuring the words into her soft skin, “Meri jaan.” He smiles against her cheek, feeling a shiver run through her. His favorite feeling. 
Liz sighs, overcome with affection, then gasps. She turns, eyes locking with his, and Mason seems proud. She’s had a long day, has had to process too much information, follow too many algorithms and graphs. Is her mind playing a trick on her, willing her to hear the words of endearments she cherishes? The words given to him that night they’d come from the Agency party they’d snuck away from? What she’d mouthed that morning, her own secret hoping to be theirs? 
“What? Did you say?” 
She holds him, arms around his neck, stepping in between his knees. Eyes wide and shining, Mason can read her happiness. The clenching and relaxing of his chest returns, and he fills with a pleasurable sensation as she touches her lips to his, kissing her once, and repeating, clearly, “Meri jaan.” 
“My life.”
Mason stands, letting his hands settle on her hips, squeezing them. His gaze never strays, and he feels her warmth, enticing, hears her thundering heartbeat, even more enticing. He repeats the words, moving his hands up, along her sides then to the nape of his neck. Fingers finding hers, they lace together and they come down. He steps back, tempting her to follow. 
In the time he’d been waiting, thinking, he memorized what else he’d written. A phrase or lyric. The song, sung from her car speakers; sung, from her mouth, out and into the starlight and perplexing him in the best and most discombobulating ways, with that smile that makes him fall to his knees. 
“Haji lok makkey nun jandey; Mera ranjha mahi makkah.” 
Mason doesn’t know what he said. But he does know, by the way she sways so he has to catch her, by the way he kisses her in that perfect way that makes her do that thing with her leg, that it means a whole damn lot to Liz. 
Mason will ask her, later, what it means. When they’re sitting together on the rooftop, enjoying the soft melodies of the night and each other, their minds finally clear. 
~~
Poem is "Sitaron Se Agay Jahan Aur Bhi Hain", Bal-e Jibril 60, by Allama Iqbal (Muhammed Iqbal)
Lyric is from the song "Kamli" by Hadiqa Kiani and translates to: Pilgrims go to Mecca; My beloved Ranjha (sweetheart) is my Mecca
Both are in Urdu!
Title is from the poem "Memory" by William Wordsworth
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nat-seal-well · 3 months
Text
Title: the best gift
Pairing: Farah Hauville/Detective (OC)
Words: 2,782
Rating: General Audiences
What Farah sees in her will always be a mystery. It’s impossible to understand why someone as golden and bright as she is wants to be with someone… someone like her. A big, black hole, who sucks everything in and tears it apart with the thoughts that never leave her alone.
“I… I just… want it all to be right today,” Muri says finally. “It’s our first one together. And—that’s a big deal. I didn’t want to mess any of it up, but I was worried that you wouldn’t like what I got you, so I thought…”
“So you wanted me to find it after you left.”
Muri sighs. “Yeah. I’m sorry. It’s dumb, but—”
She’s cut off by the press of lips against the corner of her mouth.
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thewayhavenchronicle · 11 months
Note
26 for Saoirse and Mason ❤️
Romantic Confession Dialogue Prompts
thIS GOT AWAY FROM ME
26. "please...say something."
The Trapper realizes he's fucked up approximately half a second before anyone else does.
The fight is going normally enough, at first -- typical seven or eight Trappers against Unit Bravo. There hadn't been anything out of the ordinary, really. Saoirse is having a lot of fun with her Volt baton, dancing around the Trappers, watching them get more and more agitated the more they fail to down her. She's just caught Mason's eye from across the clearing, admiring the way his steel grey eyes look alight with the rush of the hunt, when everything goes to hell.
The Trapper he's fighting reaches for him blindly, scrambling for purchase to try and keep himself upright, and finding it in the one thing that he shouldn't have.
The cord holding Mason's crystal strains for one breathtaking moment...
...and then it snaps.
Saoirse can hear the sound of the break from the other side of the clearing.
The Trapper falls backwards with a muted thud, and the crystal goes flying somewhere into the underbrush.
For a moment, Mason almost seems fine. He stands there, frowning down at the man for a heartbeat -- and then one of the others catches him in the back with one of their stun batons and he crumbles.
"Mason!"
The wave of pain hits her a beat later, that same sharp, buzzing feeling at the base of her skull that she's felt around him before, but it seems to be nothing compared to what it does to everyone else. The Trappers around the clearing collapse to the ground in crumpled heaps. The scent of blood fills the air, strong enough that even her dulled almost-human senses can smell it. The vampires around the clearing are doubled over much like Mason is, but they aren't the ones screaming.
She's never heard screaming quite like this.
It is raw and guttural. Animalistic. Mason stumbles in the direction his crystal had gone, but he only makes it about a step before he collapses, wailing and clawing at his head. There's a desperation to it, clawing at his skin as if it were crawling with insects as a ragged sob punches its way out of his chest.
Saoirse doesn't think -- she just moves.
"Mason, Mason," she gasps, falling to her knees in front of him and wrapping her arms around him. He struggles, but she can tell a part of him is aware of who she is and where he is, because he doesn't struggle hard. He could easily break her hold and shove her away, but he doesn't, squeezing his eyes shut and coughing as tears drip down his cheeks, mingling with the blood where he'd dug his nails into his face.
"I've got you, I've got you," she mumbles, rocking him slightly in an attempt to soothe. "You're gonna be okay, my love, just breathe. Breathe. You're alright."
Something about her touch seems to be soothing him, somehow. His body is still as tense as a viper ready to strike, breathing still ragged as he coughs out a few more rough sobs -- but he presses closer instead of struggling. Buries his face in her shoulder and drags in ragged breaths like he's trying to drown everything else with the smell of her skin, with the feeling of her pressed against him.
What happens after that is a bit of a blur. Someone finds his crystal and brings it to them. Someone else tries to pull him away from her -- and he snarls, tense and out-of-sorts, so they leave them be.
When the Agency arrives, something... happens.
She doesn't know what it is that happens. Mason's breathing has slowed by then, leaning heavily on her as he tries to center himself, one hand clutching his crystal in his lap. She hasn't been paying attention to the cleanup of the Trappers -- doesn't know if they're even alive or not -- too busy focusing on holding her love to notice until it's too late.
Apparently, there is a protocol for Mason.
One that none of them are aware of until a nameless Agent has jabbed a needle into Mason's neck and injected him with a full dose of DMB.
"What the fuck--" Mason spits, trying to lunge for the agent, but the effect of the shot to the jugular is too quick and he collapses, eyes rolling back into his head.
Saoirse will be honest: she doesn't remember grabbing her stun baton. She doesn't remember lashing out at the nearest suit-clad Agent. She doesn't remember needing to be sedated herself. Apparently, they'd needed five men to finally take her down.
Not that she really cares about that either way.
It's been hours, and Mason still hasn't woken up.
Rebecca had come to try and talk to her once they got to the Warehouse. Saoirse hadn't given a fuck what she had to say, or what the explanation was for what happened. Miscommunication, she said. It was a miscommunication. They thought he was out of control.
Saoirse doesn't care.
Everything she cares about is laying in a hospital bed, still as death, covered in bandages, not healing because the fucking DMB is still in his system.
Saoirse shifts anxiously in her seat by his bed, leaning forward to rest her arms on the bed. His hand lays still on top of the crisp linen, and she sighs as she slides her hand under his just to feel the warmth of his beating heart. Sighing softly, she bends to press her lips to the back of his hand.
"Mm..."
A gasp leaves her as she sits up, eyes on his face. Mason's brows furrow as he takes a deep, slow breath in. His eyelids flutter, and then he blinks a few times -- and she can see the moment he registers where he is as his eyes snap open wide, and his entire body tenses.
"Hey, hey," she murmurs, squeezing at his hand to draw his attention. Wide, frenzied grey eyes swing around to her face, and she smiles weakly, lifting his hand to press another kiss to his knuckles. "You're okay."
She can see him fighting to piece together what happened, eyes fixed on her face, darting across her features like he's looking for the explanation somewhere in the lines of her face. A few moments pass, and he exhales heavily, slumping as his brows furrow.
"...Sweetheart?"
"I'm here." Saoirse tries her best to smile normally for him, but he must be able to tell something's wrong.
She watches him swallow thickly, licking his dry lips and clearly mulling over what to say. She watches a thousand different thoughts run through his head, but she truly doesn't have an explanation for what happened tonight, and it's not like she's been quiet about her distrust of the Agency before all this happened. Now? Well...
After a long moment, he snorts, turning away and rubbing at his face with his free hand. "Fuck me."
"Maybe later," she jokes, and she grins when it makes him laugh breathily.
He sighs, dropping his hand back to his side heavily. A muscle in his jaw twitches as he stares off at the wall. She can tell he's trying to figure out what to say, but she doesn't really know what to say, and neither does he, it seems.
His lips twitch, eyes softening at whatever thought has crossed his mind.
Saoirse smiles, squeezing his hand again. "What?"
Mason rolls his neck so that he can smirk at her, though his eyes remain soft. "My love, huh?"
She blinks.
Oh.
Oh, she fucked up.
She's quiet for a beat too long, trying to decide between acknowledging that she did, indeed, say that and trying to convince him he imagined it. She can't tell if he's upset about it, but he looks...
"Speechless already, sweetheart?" he jokes, squeezing her hand. His brows pinch a little with worry. "Maybe I misheard. Lot was going on when you said... whatever you said."
There is a level of fear rising in her chest that paralyzes her. They haven't talked about this -- they haven't talked about anything. This certainly isn't the ideal scenario to be talking about feelings and the state of their relationship. She--
Mason laughs, though it kind of sounds like a cough. His eyes are a little worried now as he says, "Say something... Anything?" He laughs a little. "Please?"
...fuck it.
Saoirse grins, leaning forward on the bed and propping her head up on her hand. "You don't like 'my love'? You didn't like sunshine either. What about baby? Darling? My moon and stars?"
He rolls his eyes, but his smile speaks more of relief than anything. Not ready for that any more than she is, she supposes. She's about to change the subject when he sighs and half shrugs one shoulder.
"...baby isn't so bad. Just... not in front of anyone."
Saoirse laughs and the tension between them breaks. "I'll call you whatever you like as soon as you're better, how's that?"
He smirks. "Sure. I'll hold you to that."
"I'd be disappointed if you didn't."
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lykegenia · 7 months
Text
Come Night, Come Morning
Fandom: The Wayhaven Chronicles
Characters: Mason x Olivia Greene
Rating: T (can anything with Mason be less than T?)
Warnings: None
My contribution to @wayhavenficexchange for @ejunkiet - just a little bit of fluff set after the main events of Book 3 but before th MC goes back to their apartment. I hope you like it!
Now with AO3 link!
--
He remembers when he didn’t stay. And more, before that, he remembers when he didn’t care at all, when Wayhaven was just another mission – another too-loud, too-bright spot on a map, ripe with humanity, to be endured and then escaped like one of the tactical seminars Adam always insists they attend. Looking back at those first days, it’s hard to see the slow, inching change in him, the pull in his chest that led him to the sanctuary of having Olivia sleeping at his side. Her heartbeat is steady, her breath a roll of slow, even waves that ruffle his hair where it lies against his collarbone.
He doesn’t mind the sensation. In fact, he’s lulled by the reassurance of the motion, the measured swell of her ribcage with every inhale. She’s alive. Defiant but impossibly outnumbered, the image of her on the auction house stage is something he can’t get out of his head, and with it lingers the rage that welled within him, white hot and sharp as teeth, at the sight of all those covetous bastards in the room shouting over each other for her blood.
Birds are singing outside the window, the dawn chorus in full throat. So far out into the wilderness it’s deafening, and though he prefers it to the roar of car engines on the morning commute, the sheer vastness of the sound normally has him chaining cigarettes until the little fuckers decide they’ve had enough of screaming at each other for the day.
And he didn’t notice it.
Now he has, the tumble of song fills his ears, but not to the usual point of pain, and with the rhythm of Olivia’s pulse undercutting it, it’s even almost… tolerable. He can pick out threads in the tapestry to appreciate their melody. The realisation brings a frown to his features, and he turns further into her embrace, unsettled.
There’s been a growing awareness of the calming effect she has on his senses, but along with all the other changes in his moods – he ran out of cigarettes a week ago, he stayed to not disturb her sleep, and they didn’t even fuck first – this sudden burst of understanding reminds him too much of other things. In the past, his memory barriers have slipped, and every time the first early warning signs were always altered behaviour and senses blurring into confusion. This doesn’t feel exactly the same, but then there’s no other name for the tightness in his chest when he looks down at Olivia, either.
His movement has disturbed her. As she shifts, a moan rises from her throat and a fleeting smile touches his lips. Over the past few months he’s learned various ways to draw that sound from her, but this morning he has no interest in such exertion. He brushes his lips over her forehead instead.
“Sleep, sweetheart.” She’s had a rough few days, between the debrief over the auction and the slew of new training she’s been drafted into for her promotion to full agent. “I’ve got you.”
“What time is it?” she mumbles.
“Early.”
He turns slightly to better pick up the change in her heartrate, the barest quickening of her breath that he doubts anyone else would notice. That he does has ceased to be a surprise.
“Tell me what you’re thinking?” he asks, stroking a hand over her back.
There’s a small inhale, fingers twisting in the sheets. “You stayed again.”
At one time he didn’t – wouldn’t have considered it. He covers with a lazy smile.
“Would you rather I hadn’t?”
“More like I’m scared I’ll get used to it,” she admits.
Inside his ribcage, his heart clenches at the loneliness laid bare in those words, so strong that for a moment instead of a reply all he can muster is a phantom yearning for tobacco.
“I might get used to it myself,” he replies, once the moment has passed.
She sits up, eyes him warily. For an instant, struck by the tangles her hair has gained in sleep, he’s tempted to pull her into his lap and see how much wilder he can make it, but while he shifts against the pillow he doesn’t act on the impulse, only waits for her to decide if they’re going to talk about this uncertain, dangerous thing between them.
She breaks his gaze. “What about when my apartment is fixed?”
He hasn’t been thinking about it. He lives in the moment, because in his experience moments are all you get.
“What about it?”
“Never mind.” A fleeting smile. “It’ll feel weird going back after spending so much time here.”
Silence falls between them as she turns towards the window, the dawn light plenty for his vampire eyes to pick out fine details as it catches against dark eyelashes and the tempting curve of her lips. Who says she has to go? He never has the inclination to stay and he doesn’t ask others to stay either, but he’s used to her, to the calming if unexplainable effect she has on his senses. Instead of letting the words slip unguarded off his tongue, however, he focuses back on his observations, on the tremor in her heart that tells him as much about her mood as her half-turned away expression.
“If there’s something you want to say, sweetheart, I’m right here.”
“Hm?” She blinks. “Oh, no – it’s nothing. Just thinking.”
Lie.
He smooths a hand down her spine, under her pyjama top, her skin no more than a tingle against his fingertips.
“I don’t think there’s time for that, sunshine,” she chides gently. “Not with everything Adam has planned for me today.”
“Pity. But I wasn’t thinking about that.”
One dark eyebrow lifts. “Who are you and what have you done with Mason?”
I can think of other things, you know.” He smirks. “It’s just more fun not to most of the time.”
With a fond sigh and a roll of her eyes, she wriggles towards the side of the bed, only halting when he brushes a hand over her wrist.
“We don’t have to get up yet.”
“You want to cuddle?”
He manages to make his shrug look casual. “If you want to call it that.”
There’s another moment of wary scrutiny, but his open arm is an invitation she chooses to accept, and he catches her smile as she snuggles down with him once again. As her weight settles against his chest, right where she should be, he allows the contentment to escape in a sigh. He remembers when he didn’t stay, and this is much better.
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