Disclaimer: I don't own "A Discovery of Witches" or any of the show/book's characters, wishful thinking aside.
Authors Note #1: I wanted to re-examine the moment in the boathouse in 1x01. What happened in the scene went a bit differently? Inspired by the following prompt: "You want me to give you your book/phone/item back? Make me," for chamblerstara.
Warnings: vampires, blood drinking, animal traits and behaviors, scenting, vague reference to mating, canon appropriate violence, drama, angst, romance, pining, possessive behavior.
Theophorous (or bust)
"If you want the book, why don't you go get it? I told you, I gave it back."
"I don't believe you."
"Okay, let's say I'm lying. What are you going to do? Rip my head off to get the truth out of me? "
"I could. But it's not how I operate."
"I'm going to say this to you one more time. I don't have your book."
He shivered in place, every muscle tense.
The predator in him was poised to strike. High and over-saturated as her chest heaved.
He'd been unable to get away from it after being in her rooms.
She was all he could smell and now he was spiraling.
Qu'est-ce que c'était?
What was happening?
It was his fault, of course. But he was seething at the residual effects. Content to blame her for the state he found himself in. He hadn't planned to confront her here. It was too much, too soon. He knew that. She was too headstrong to be forced into procuring the book. His appearance at the café that morning was proof enough. But he couldn't help it.
He didn't like her alone on the Thames after dark.
It wasn't safe.
Not that she seemed to care, however.
The challenge behind her words wasn't silent. It was blatant. Caustic. Charged. And predictably, the animal in him was roaring. Demanding he answer. The witch had cast the gauntlet, daring him to make her bend. And now the possibilities of response encouraged the imagination as her heartbeat thrummed faster and faster.
Christ.
He could make her tell him. He could know the truth faster than she could blink. One mouthful of her blood and he'd know everything. Everything she was hiding. How she had discovered the Book of Life. What she and the witches planned to do with it. She was the only thing standing in the way of the longest hunt he'd ever been on.
And he wanted to.
He wanted to make her.
But he also wanted her for other things. For other reasons that had nothing to do with the book.
He inhaled sharply, wounded by the realization as it came.
He'd never felt this way about anyone.
She was staring at him when it happened. Her witches' blood singing. About to turn away.
A growl rose in his throat at the blatant dismissal.
He wouldn't have it.
But as it turned out, she solved the problem before it could manifest.
"Ashmole 782 has been missing for centuries and yet you were able to call it up. Aren't you curious why? That book has never appeared to me or any-"
She slipped, graceless, long limbs trying to find traction on the wet concrete.
He caught her instinctively, cupping the small of her back.
But not before the raw scent of iron rose from the score mark on her palm.
"Are you alright?"
She didn't answer, eyes darting to his as he lifted her effortlessly.
There was no fear in her scent, not even when she knew he'd seen it. Smelled it.
All he could glean from her was confusion, fatigue, anger and something almost-
He said nothing more, merely steadying her and stepping away.
Or at least he tried to.
Because in spite of himself, his hand was still holding hers.
He'd never let go.
When he lifted his eyes, he found her staring back warily.
"My apologies," he murmured. Hating every moment of it as he forced his fingers to uncurl, returning her hand to empty space.
The blood from the shallow wound beaded, threatening to trickle down the taper of her wrist. Teasing. He followed it, swallowing hard. The smell was like nothing else - like no blood he'd taken in his long life. Her eyes flicked from it to his face, searching for something he didn't know had a name. The tang of ember-fire and honey curling like smoke from her skin.
The animal basked in it, wanting more than it deserved.
Wanting the witch in a way that was-
She caught him off guard when she offered the wound to him freely.
His inhale was ragged.
What a brave, tempestuous little thing.
"No," he rasped. Merde. No.
Her chin tipped up, stubborn.
"Why not?" she demanded, taking an insane step towards him. Feeling the potential pressure of a boat digging into his back if he allowed her to advance any further. Mind whirling at how things could have gotten so deeply out of control as her blue eyes glittered. The challenge still there. "Then you'll know. If you don't believe me, find out for yourself."
The growl that made it past his lips caused her heart to skip a beat.
His, however, pulsed strongly.
Like it had in the Cathedral.
Like it was a sign.
He scented the air as she lifted her palm towards him.
"Are you sure?" he asked, forcing the words as they came out thick and silted through the line of his teeth.
She didn't reply, but the stubborn spice of her remained. As if irritated he would force her to repeat herself.
The animal in him stretched.
Diana.
Goddess of the Hunt.
His lips twitched. A smile. A snarl.
Of course she was.
He raised her hand to his lips, not breaking eye contact as he brushed the crinkle of her palm against his lips. Scenting her openly, nose hushing down goose-pimpled skin. Indulging himself as she shifted closer. Drawn in when she shouldn't have been. Why was she allowing this?
This wasn't about the Book of Life anymore.
It was about her.
It was about knowing her taste, not just smelling it.
It was about being allowed.
It was about having her eyes on him so intensely that-
Her breathing was uneven now, but insanely she didn't change her mind. Nodding once before he pressed his lips to the wound like a violent kiss. Eyes flaring wide at the first of her.
Oh.
She would be the ruin of him.
A higher power had clearly decided.
And already he knew he would be there for every second of it, gladly.
The welled beads were quickly laved from her skin. Leaving room for him to suck delicately. Trembling with the effort of maintaining control as she flowed over his tongue in warm rivulets. Receiving her memories in a strange, blue-tinged jumble. The throb of her burned hand against the oars as she rowed down the Thames. His face looking up at her in the library, 'Notes and Queries' nestled in his palm. The sudden jerk of an evaporating nightmare. A man with glasses bumping into her. A spider crawling along her nightstand. The lights in the Bod flickering. Ashmole 782 whispering in the oldest tongue - something only a witch could hear - crooning at her with a longing that spoke of centuries.
It had been waiting.
Waiting for her.
He experienced tea with another witch called Gillian. A nagging feeling of disquiet building in her as invisible cords tightened around her chest. Her mother's laughter. The feverish disbelief heating through her as she opened the first pages of the book and the words began to move. Him moving his chair a fraction of an inch closer than she was comfortable with in the diner at breakfast. The sudden sensation of being trapped, wrapped so tightly in spider-silk that she could barely move. Another nightmare. Her parents' picture glinting in the weak English sun. Ashmole 782 showing her it's secrets with an eager rush of moving words that started trailing up her fingers, hands, arms- No!
She didn't want this.
She was frightened.
He rooted at her wrist hungrily, nose nudging soft skin. Fingers pressing greedily into her veins as if to coax it up. Teasing his tongue across the minute cuts again and again as she fractured a high sound that seemed out of place, considering the circumstances.
His eyes flicked up, pupils blown and dark, only to find hers nearly the same way.
She shivered, watching him. Lips parted. Sensitive.
She liked to be touched this way.
He growled, unable to hold it in. Lost when her heart thumped faster.
He watched through her eyes as she pressed the words back into the page and cried out, clutching her hand. The burn. It had marked her. She slammed the book closed, the echo making a scene. Heart in her throat as she stared at the leather cover, chest heaving. Magic prickling under her skin. Ignored. Awake. Calling to her. The lights in the library flickered back on, but she was already moving. Almost running. She had the book. She was- she put it back, abandoning it on the desk as Sean called after her.
She had been telling the truth.
He pulled himself away with a wrench that gave far too much away. Fixed on her as she gasped, staring at the place the wound had been. Mended with the compounds in his saliva. Leaving no trace anything untoward had occurred save for the cooling wet against her inner wrist.
Her fingers twitched around the outline. Tracing it with an intimacy that made him want to present. To show her his worth, his strength, everything that he was so she might choose him. So she could-
The aftermath was stunned and quiet. Heavy with words neither of them dared to say. It was only when the building shifted, making her jump at the woodsy creak, that he realized he needed to get away. Recognizing the trembling under his skin as the animal snarled, wanting.
Christ, her taste.
"I see," he managed, fingers twitching at his sides. Remembering the warmth of her. "My apologies, Doctor Bishop. It appears you are correct, you returned Ashmole 782. You have my card, I'm afraid you might have cause to use it."
He left before she could reply. Leaving her standing there, shocked and still holding her wrist in her hand. Every atom screaming for him to return.
He didn't register her sweater lying on the ground outside the boathouse. Hardly daring to breathe lest he take in more of her. Knowing if he did it would all be over. He wanted her too much. Every line of him was taut and wanting to sup more. Wondering how out of all the experiences in his life, this was the moment he hated the most walking away from.
He was blocks away before he pulled out his phone and dialed.
"Haimish? Yes. Fine. Is the Lodge unoccupied? I need to hunt."
A/N: Thank you for reading, please let me know what you think. – This story is now complete.
Reference:
Theophorous: having the name of a god. So, technically, the title is a silly play on "Diana (or bust)."
Qu'est-ce que c'était?: "What was this?"
Merde: French word for "fuck."