look, fic
--
fandom: sanctuary
characters: helen, will (helen/will)
title: and the veil tears and rages
rating: m
word count: 1500(ish)
disclaimer: is not mine.
notes: oh hey, this is because cartography dared me to write OOTB helen/will angry wall sex and I thought what the fuck. out of the blue (3.19) au. title nabbed from tori amos.
summary: Ruin it, because it should be ruined anyway.
It's not like they planned this, okay, and it's not like this changes anything (except it changes everything). Will thinks something about the feel of her skin is familiar, the push of her muscles against him comforting in the most bizarre way. He wonders inexplicably if he has some sort of passing amnesia because he feels like he's known her before but he can't possibly have--
--Helen hates her life (herself, who even is she?) just enough to snake the mug out from Dr. Zimmerman's fingers and slide her tongue into his mouth. Maybe they've figured out what this is and maybe they haven't, but there's this frantic loathing and scrambling between them like insects inside of a glass jar and for whatever reason, they both feel trapped. It's wrong and wrong and wrong but there's an understanding between them and that's why they haven't stopped yet.
Will could kill himself, they could kill themselves, to escape this paper-thin reality (even though it feels so real, with his pregnant wife across the street and the taste of tea on his lips; Helen's fingers slipping into his mouth and his breath across her skin). Or maybe sleeping with this woman is good enough, this woman with the sad eyes and the anger radiating like her soul's on fire, and all the more beautiful for it.
It's a rejection of his life if he's ever felt one, undressing another woman and letting Helen tear his shirt away while he hitches her legs apart against the wall, shameless, whispering and doing things he'd never done wouldn't even considering doing with his wife. This'll tear it all apart, everything, it'll drown his wife his child his career his home and it'll prove Abby right, whatever she'd accused him of, but he wonders if something is actually still considered self-sabotage when you want it with every fiber of your being.
Ruin it, because it should be ruined anyway.
Because it's not real (he's becoming more sure of this fact with every stroke of her thumb against him).
So something happened that made them dislike each other right from the beginning (whenever that was), but he can't remember and sometimes he wonders what the hell they'd done to each other because nobody hated their neighbors with that much passion, no matter how many times the cat trespassed or how loud the music was at night. He remembers thinking they just clashed on every level of existence but for no good reason, just because the universe decided they should grate that way and the more these dreams started happening (or had they decided it was reality?) the more Helen realized Will's was a presence she was drawn to, not one she cringed at (she cringed because she cringed at everything, pushed everything she loved or once loved away, why would she start caring now, why would she look at this suburban neighborhood with anything but disgust and painful almost-memories?). The more Will realized something inside of him pulled him towards this kind-of stranger, with her dark hair dark lashes and long, long artists' fingers, and without knowing why he wanted to follow her anywhere she'd lead. The more some sort of dark and unexpected promise between them began to bloom.
Helen thinks she remembers this from somewhere, the way his voice is a spur and also something grounding.
Her hair curls around his fists and he tugs it back sharply til the long lines of her neck are exposed; there's a moment where her teeth are bared and he almost expects a growl to rumble low in her throat but then she just smiles, slowly, and pulls him closer.
They're going to fuck everything up and they know it, but they're going to do it right. They're going to see this thing through. They aren't satisfied with these lives, they're being cheated somehow and it's becoming clearer and clearer that they're both addicted to a life they're only barely starting to recall (the rush, the thrill of something larger than this). They aren't satisfied with these lives they've been given here so they'll melt into each other until something gives, until something breaks. It must be right no matter how wrong it feels, because they're both insane enough to believe it.
He twists her round and presses against her back, into the wall, into her curves and she's breathing like something labored, like she's a masochist about to tear her leg from a trap. She can feel him hear him behind her, his hands spreading her and she thinks he's much too young and married to be murmuring hot into her ear like that and she's much too old and cynical to be feeling the words ring truer between her thighs than in her ears.
The paint is still wet against the canvas and it's splattered blue purple black white slick and wet and warm and it smears when she braces her palms against it; it slides through her fingertips and maybe she wants to smear herself into the painting, too, so that the world becomes still for awhile. She reaches blindly for Will and he's there, hard against her and then he's inside and their hips are flush for one, two, three delicious seconds before they start moving and it's almost too much and not nearly enough--
He holds her hands steady, his chest against the planes of her back and her breasts pressing into the canvas, when he runs a hand down her arm the paint trails and maybe if they can paint themselves with this image, this haunting ghost of a symbol, and then brand it into their skin with this heat between them they can make some sense of this whole situation.
"ohgod yes, Will, like that--"
She isn't sure why half of her wants to caress him, to soothe the line of tension out from between his eyes with a kiss and the other half wants to suck the smirk from his lips until they bleed. Why does she feel like she has a right to him, to take him away with her whenever they find a way out of this? Why does she feel like he's hers? Is this why she couldn't stand him before, because he isn't?
"Helen, fuck."
It feels a little desperate and like they're sharing a rage, a tremor, like they want to physically tear themselves from the world with every thrust, and every time Helen's right there to meet him like she's the one leading, guiding this. His cheek is brushing right up next to hers and she's got these fingernails that reach up, reach around, to trail just a little too harshly down the back of his head and neck (but it's okay, he nips her neck and he makes sure to leave a mark -- they're even).
The moans pass breathy from open mouth to open mouth and when they come, Helen chokes something back (a sob, a cry, he doesn't know) and Will holds her hips too tightly while they ride it out, and it shatters something hard and fast between them. Something in the air around them breaks, finally tears right down the middle.
The moment they break through the water it's like waking from a dream, just like they thought, and it all clicks into place and the before is the now and everything is clear again. She's Magnus and he's Will and this was all some big crazy thing that happened but it's over, now.
It's all explained, and they head back home to prepare for this newest round of fresh hell.
Magnus knocks on Will's door quietly late, late that night in that suspended moment before the dam bursts and they exchange silent looks half-tinged with emotions shaded black and just a little confusion but something's changed and it's okay, they both know it. Their secrets have been a little more exposed and their flaws, their dark, are all gutted out for the other to see in a way they'd never been before.
But it's a tribute to their relationship that when Magnus pulls him in tightly for a hug and says, "I didn't ever hate you, Will," he wraps his arms right back around her waist and closes his eyes, breathes out deeply like he's just come up for air after a decade underwater. "I hated myself. I hated that life."
He swallows. "We aren't those people, right?"
"Of course not." But maybe she doesn't sound so sure.
Somewhere in the back of his mind he's already half-realized that he'd give his body or his mind or his heart to Helen Magnus in any reality they happened to find themselves in, even if that meant sacrificing everything else he had, and it's a little because of how he feels about her and a lot because he's already so far down this road that he knows he'd never be happy turning back. And he's not sure what any of these things mean for him, right now, in this moment as Helen sighs against his neck and he feels slightly ashamed because he doesn't regret any of it.
--
--
fandom: sanctuary
characters: helen, will (helen/will)
title: and the veil tears and rages
rating: m
word count: 1500(ish)
disclaimer: is not mine.
notes: oh hey, this is because cartography dared me to write OOTB helen/will angry wall sex and I thought what the fuck. out of the blue (3.19) au. title nabbed from tori amos.
summary: Ruin it, because it should be ruined anyway.
It's not like they planned this, okay, and it's not like this changes anything (except it changes everything). Will thinks something about the feel of her skin is familiar, the push of her muscles against him comforting in the most bizarre way. He wonders inexplicably if he has some sort of passing amnesia because he feels like he's known her before but he can't possibly have--
--Helen hates her life (herself, who even is she?) just enough to snake the mug out from Dr. Zimmerman's fingers and slide her tongue into his mouth. Maybe they've figured out what this is and maybe they haven't, but there's this frantic loathing and scrambling between them like insects inside of a glass jar and for whatever reason, they both feel trapped. It's wrong and wrong and wrong but there's an understanding between them and that's why they haven't stopped yet.
Will could kill himself, they could kill themselves, to escape this paper-thin reality (even though it feels so real, with his pregnant wife across the street and the taste of tea on his lips; Helen's fingers slipping into his mouth and his breath across her skin). Or maybe sleeping with this woman is good enough, this woman with the sad eyes and the anger radiating like her soul's on fire, and all the more beautiful for it.
It's a rejection of his life if he's ever felt one, undressing another woman and letting Helen tear his shirt away while he hitches her legs apart against the wall, shameless, whispering and doing things he'd never done wouldn't even considering doing with his wife. This'll tear it all apart, everything, it'll drown his wife his child his career his home and it'll prove Abby right, whatever she'd accused him of, but he wonders if something is actually still considered self-sabotage when you want it with every fiber of your being.
Ruin it, because it should be ruined anyway.
Because it's not real (he's becoming more sure of this fact with every stroke of her thumb against him).
So something happened that made them dislike each other right from the beginning (whenever that was), but he can't remember and sometimes he wonders what the hell they'd done to each other because nobody hated their neighbors with that much passion, no matter how many times the cat trespassed or how loud the music was at night. He remembers thinking they just clashed on every level of existence but for no good reason, just because the universe decided they should grate that way and the more these dreams started happening (or had they decided it was reality?) the more Helen realized Will's was a presence she was drawn to, not one she cringed at (she cringed because she cringed at everything, pushed everything she loved or once loved away, why would she start caring now, why would she look at this suburban neighborhood with anything but disgust and painful almost-memories?). The more Will realized something inside of him pulled him towards this kind-of stranger, with her dark hair dark lashes and long, long artists' fingers, and without knowing why he wanted to follow her anywhere she'd lead. The more some sort of dark and unexpected promise between them began to bloom.
Helen thinks she remembers this from somewhere, the way his voice is a spur and also something grounding.
Her hair curls around his fists and he tugs it back sharply til the long lines of her neck are exposed; there's a moment where her teeth are bared and he almost expects a growl to rumble low in her throat but then she just smiles, slowly, and pulls him closer.
They're going to fuck everything up and they know it, but they're going to do it right. They're going to see this thing through. They aren't satisfied with these lives, they're being cheated somehow and it's becoming clearer and clearer that they're both addicted to a life they're only barely starting to recall (the rush, the thrill of something larger than this). They aren't satisfied with these lives they've been given here so they'll melt into each other until something gives, until something breaks. It must be right no matter how wrong it feels, because they're both insane enough to believe it.
He twists her round and presses against her back, into the wall, into her curves and she's breathing like something labored, like she's a masochist about to tear her leg from a trap. She can feel him hear him behind her, his hands spreading her and she thinks he's much too young and married to be murmuring hot into her ear like that and she's much too old and cynical to be feeling the words ring truer between her thighs than in her ears.
The paint is still wet against the canvas and it's splattered blue purple black white slick and wet and warm and it smears when she braces her palms against it; it slides through her fingertips and maybe she wants to smear herself into the painting, too, so that the world becomes still for awhile. She reaches blindly for Will and he's there, hard against her and then he's inside and their hips are flush for one, two, three delicious seconds before they start moving and it's almost too much and not nearly enough--
He holds her hands steady, his chest against the planes of her back and her breasts pressing into the canvas, when he runs a hand down her arm the paint trails and maybe if they can paint themselves with this image, this haunting ghost of a symbol, and then brand it into their skin with this heat between them they can make some sense of this whole situation.
"ohgod yes, Will, like that--"
She isn't sure why half of her wants to caress him, to soothe the line of tension out from between his eyes with a kiss and the other half wants to suck the smirk from his lips until they bleed. Why does she feel like she has a right to him, to take him away with her whenever they find a way out of this? Why does she feel like he's hers? Is this why she couldn't stand him before, because he isn't?
"Helen, fuck."
It feels a little desperate and like they're sharing a rage, a tremor, like they want to physically tear themselves from the world with every thrust, and every time Helen's right there to meet him like she's the one leading, guiding this. His cheek is brushing right up next to hers and she's got these fingernails that reach up, reach around, to trail just a little too harshly down the back of his head and neck (but it's okay, he nips her neck and he makes sure to leave a mark -- they're even).
The moans pass breathy from open mouth to open mouth and when they come, Helen chokes something back (a sob, a cry, he doesn't know) and Will holds her hips too tightly while they ride it out, and it shatters something hard and fast between them. Something in the air around them breaks, finally tears right down the middle.
The moment they break through the water it's like waking from a dream, just like they thought, and it all clicks into place and the before is the now and everything is clear again. She's Magnus and he's Will and this was all some big crazy thing that happened but it's over, now.
It's all explained, and they head back home to prepare for this newest round of fresh hell.
Magnus knocks on Will's door quietly late, late that night in that suspended moment before the dam bursts and they exchange silent looks half-tinged with emotions shaded black and just a little confusion but something's changed and it's okay, they both know it. Their secrets have been a little more exposed and their flaws, their dark, are all gutted out for the other to see in a way they'd never been before.
But it's a tribute to their relationship that when Magnus pulls him in tightly for a hug and says, "I didn't ever hate you, Will," he wraps his arms right back around her waist and closes his eyes, breathes out deeply like he's just come up for air after a decade underwater. "I hated myself. I hated that life."
He swallows. "We aren't those people, right?"
"Of course not." But maybe she doesn't sound so sure.
Somewhere in the back of his mind he's already half-realized that he'd give his body or his mind or his heart to Helen Magnus in any reality they happened to find themselves in, even if that meant sacrificing everything else he had, and it's a little because of how he feels about her and a lot because he's already so far down this road that he knows he'd never be happy turning back. And he's not sure what any of these things mean for him, right now, in this moment as Helen sighs against his neck and he feels slightly ashamed because he doesn't regret any of it.
--
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