Imp!Darlin not being mentioned by Ash or Milo as much as Imp!David is, is kind of sad...
It's like they're hardly remembered because they're not as important as David (which might be because it's easier to mention him than Darlin, from Erik's point of view) but still...
@ejunkiet was kind and obliged my begging to post the first part of the Imperium!Asher fic I’ve been foaming at the mouth for, so turnabout is fair play X3 😈❤️🔥❤️🤭🤩👀 have an Imp!Ash fresh out of the shower
Imperium!Ash wears David's leather jacket around and is extremely particular about it.
And because of that Imperium!Vincent has a life long mission dirty it however he can so in Cataclysm ep 1 when he scratched Ash, some blood got onto the jacket and pissed the hell out of ash.
>,> Sooo…. @ejunkiet and a handful of other wonderful people bullied (lovingly) me into shaking off the near decade long dust from my fanfiction writing… and I finally contributed to the Imperium!Asher universe i’ve been screaming into the last few weeks. Smutty contribution, obviously X3 ^^;;
Imma just go… sit in the corner and try not to freefall into the imperium chasm I’ve been clinging to the edge of lol
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
redacted asmr: imperium!asher/babe, some mature themes.
cw: injury, stitches mention. inspired by this.
READ ON AO3
The alpha of the wolfpack gets injured. Babe helps.
-
“Ash.” Their voice is soft in the hushed quiet, barely above a whisper. “Please. I want to take care of you.”
--
through a glass, darkly
They know something has gone wrong when the last patrol team comes in and Asher isn’t with them.
Milo is worried. He’s trying not to show it, but they’ve been around long enough, and spent enough time with the pack to see the signs of it - and if they can see it, that means the rest of the pack knows it too.
“He’ll be back. He’s made of stronger stuff than most.”
Still, it’s another hour before the door to the den clicks open, and the sound of heavy steps makes it down the hall. The relief that passes across Milo’s features is answer enough, and they step out into the hallway to meet the Shaw Pack alpha halfway.
Asher looks - exhausted. There’s a tightness in the way he holds himself, a strain in the tight line of his mouth as he slowly makes his way towards them with heavy steps. His hands are buried deep in the pockets of his jacket- oversized, worn leather, something he’d started wearing more recently, with obvious significance to himself and the rest of the pack - holding it close to his body.
Hiding something. Most likely an injury.
Fuck.
He catches their gaze as he draws up beside them, their eyes flickering across his form, trying to see beneath his clothing - and shakes his head, a silent request.
Don’t let the rest of the pack know.
Aloud, he speaks to the wolves waiting in the main room. “Debrief in the morning.”
Tilting his head for them to join him, he starts walking towards his rooms.
–
“Show me.”
He keeps his eyes closed. The exhaustion in him has only grown since he’d entered his room, collapsing into his well-worn loveseat. They’d followed, staying close, and their familiar presence is a welcome comfort after such a shit show of a day.
He wants to say no. He’s the pack alpha, and he can’t allow any weakness to exist in the world. Won’t allow it.
“Asher.” Their voice is soft, and he opens his eyes, meeting their gaze.
They’re closer now, hovering over him, a hand perched on the back of the sofa to keep their balance. They haven’t touched him, and they won’t, not until he asks, and that means more than they know.
Their hands ghost over his, curled around the edges of his leather jacket, holding it shut.
“Please. Show me.”
He holds their gaze for a long moment, before he lets out a long breath. Shifting upright with a wince, he loosens his grip on the jacket - David’s jacket - and lets it fall open.
“Fuck.”
He doesn’t need the exclamation, or the sharp inhale that preceded it, to let him know how bad it is - he can see it written across their features, as open and honest as they have always been.
“Ash, this is - Christ.” Their breath catches, and as they drop back onto their knees, he can see their hands are shaking. “I -I can call Milo, see if his mate is around-”
“No.” The word is barely more than a gasp, as their eyes flicker to his, startled. “They can’t see me like this.”
Their mouth twists, as if they’re the one that’s hurting. “It’ll scar.”
He wants to laugh, but it hurts to move his ribs that much. “What’s one more to add to the collection?”
Their eyes darken at that, before flickering back down to his chest, tracing the lacerations across his skin, his shirt in tatters. It hadn’t done jackshit at protecting him during the fight - he’d been caught off guard, returning from the drop point, and he’d left the jacket back at the car. Probably for the best, all things considered.
“Is this all of it?”
He nods, watching the way they examine him, almost clinical as they assess the damage before their grey eyes flicker back to his.
“Can I touch you?”
He wishes they would. He dreams about their touch, their fingers in his hair, the warmth of their body curled around his. The softness of them against him, the way they’re always so gentle with him, so careful.
He nods again, and they take a deep breath. Their hands are steadier now as they lean forward again, pushing back the sides of the jacket until they can see the full thing, and fuck.
It looks bad; it should feel worse. The pain had dulled to a persistent ache by the time he’d got back, his magic absorbing the worst of it; something he’s noticed happening more often, in the months since he’s become alpha.
(A side effect of his new status, or his lingering trauma, he doesn’t know.)
It’d been a lucky jab during a short lived, but messy fight. He’d bound it as best as he could, tearing up the old shirt he kept in the backseat for emergencies, before making his way back across the city to the den.
“I’ll grab the med kit.” He blinks, refocusing on them as they remove their hands from him, and he can still smell their anxiety on them, see the way their expression wavers as they meet his gaze. “It won’t do much… but it will help.”
He inclines his head in a nod. “As long as the others don’t know.”
Releasing a low breath, they pull away from him. But instead of standing, they look at him, their eyes soft, clouded with some emotion he can’t read - before leaning back in, meeting his mouth in a soft kiss.
It's gentle, chaste; little more than a brush of lips against his skin, and it sets him alight.
“I was worried about you.” His breath catches at the confession, at the soft look in their eyes as they hold his gaze. His skin burns beneath their touch. “I’ll be right back.”
He catches their sleeve as they turn to go and tugs them back towards him, until he can kiss them properly.
They’re soft and warm against him, their scent surrounding him, filling his lungs. It satisfies something deep within him, primal and hungry as he holds them close, his hands slipping under the hem of their shirt, seeking the skin beneath.
It takes a moment for the tension within them to soften, their hand reaching up to trace along his jawline. Their trimmed nails scratch against the stubble there, and it makes him groan, and they press closer, their other hand coming up to tangle in his hair, and fuck.
He unravels beneath it, beneath them, letting them deepen the kiss, even as they taste the blood on his tongue.
It’s a long moment before they break the kiss, although they stay close, their forehead resting against his, sharing breath. He doesn’t want this to end. He doesn’t ever want them to stop touching him.
“Ash.” Their voice is soft in the hushed quiet, barely above a whisper. “Please. I want to take care of you.”
It’s the gentleness in their voice that breaks him. Or maybe he’s always been breaking, and their words are just the final straw, undermining the last of his defences.
“Alright.”
They’re not gone for long, the medkit he keeps in the ensuite secured tightly within their grip as they kneel on the floor next to him, and he wants to kiss them again, feel the heat of their touch against him.
Their motions are careful, as gentle as they can be as they peel away the remnants of his shirt, using scissors when the material sticks to the gashes.
They work quickly, leaving him for a moment to get a washcloth and warm water, using a bucket he keeps in the corner of the bathroom in case of emergencies like this. Their movements are efficient as they clean his chest, pausing when he flinches, attentive and always, always gentle.
(He’s still not used to that.)
He focuses on the motion of their curls as they work, the curved fit of their earpiece, the low hum of electricity he can pick up from it, amplifying his voice and the sounds around them. Such a small thing, so fragile. As fragile as the person before him. His mate.
A shiver runs down his spine at the word, although he hasn’t told them yet. Hasn’t asked. He wants to. He wants them, always, wants their future together more than he thinks he’s ever wanted anything in his life.
“Asher.”
He takes a sharp breath, eyes flicking back up to meet slate grey, and shit, maybe he was more fucked up than he’d originally thought if he was zoning out like this.
“I’m gonna have to suture this.” They’re holding a familiar needle and thread, one that he’s used many times on himself, but still they hesitate, even after he nods his acknowledgement. “Are you sure-”
“Do it.” His speech is slowed by exhaustion, his tongue stumbling on the consonants. “I trust you.”
They take in his reaction with soft, worried eyes, and he wants to press away the wrinkle between their brows. They let out a breath, pulling back again, and he misses the heat of their hands against his skin.
He can feel the pinch of the needle, but the pain that should accompany it is thin, dulled. The magic. He wishes he’d had the chance to talk to David about this, to understand fully what being an alpha meant before the role and title had been thrust upon him.
Before he’d lost his best friend. Fuck, he misses him.
Their voice draws him back into the moment. “Ash, you’re- you’re heating up.”
He is - he can feel it, the thrum of energy under his skin, the heat that’s radiating from him.
“Magic. ‘S helping.” At least, he thinks it is. It’s getting harder to think through the fog of magic, his mind fuzzy at the edges, and all he knows is that he wants them close, wants them touching him, grounding him to the here and now.
“It’s done.” Their words are a soft murmur, and he hums, his palms finding their waist again to draw them closer. “Wait, let me- let me clean you up.”
They’re quick with this too, their hands soft and warm as they wipe away the last of the blood, before they finally curl up next to him in the bed they’ve taken to sharing most nights. Milo won’t bother them, he knows to wait until the morning, knows when to give them space.
He reaches out, finding them and bringing them closer, until they’re pressed against his side, mindful of the stitches in his abdomen, and he can bury his face against the side of their neck, breathe them in. The tension in him unwinds, the magic taking over, and he can feel himself slipping.
“Just…stay with me.”
The bed creaks as they shift closer, and he feels the soft brush of their lips against his temple.
aka the imperium!asher au I’ve been working on for the last few weeks. >:3
part one of three, at least. rating will go up in later chapters.
redacted asmr: imperium!asher/babe. some mature themes (violence)
READ ON AO3
Steal the papers. Save the world. It was that simple. Right?
AKA how a whistleblower falls for the alpha of a wolf pack.
--
part one: trouble
“You’re trouble, you know that?”
The first time the wolf - Asher - had said it, the words had been critical. A comment on how they’d found themself in a situation so far over their head, they couldn’t see the start of it.
Since then, however, it’s become a greeting. Their call sign. Trouble. They don’t mind it. Afterall, it wasn’t untrue. They’ve been a lot of things lately, but trouble always seemed to turn up at the top of the list.
And after everything they’ve been through since joining up with his pack, they’d say he’s earned the right to call them out on it. There was a career to be made breaking into Departmental offices, after all; and they were the one with an inside lead.
(Steal the papers. Save the world. As much as they loathe quoting Imperium propaganda, they have to admit - the slogan was catchy.)
Besides, he liked trouble. Liked it enough to keep them around, at least.
They’re in his - den, for lack of a better word. It’s the place where he sleeps, and holds pack meetings - Asher has an apartment in the city, they've learned, but he doesn’t go there. From the whispers of his pack, murmured in undertones that they shouldn't have been able to hear (they haven’t figured them out yet as a lip reader), he hasn’t been back there in over a year.
Not since the death of his friend. The previous alpha.
(The pack don’t talk about him much, especially not when Asher is around, but they’ve heard enough to put the pieces together. To see the shape of him in the hole that was left in the rest of their lives; see the impact his death has had on all of them.)
For their stay here, they’ve been given a room - little more than a cupboard, really. It’s not much, windowless and fitting barely more than a futon - but it’s private, and it’s a lot more than they had been expecting. And, if they’re being honest, it’s better than an interrogation cell, and the pack knows it.
It’s adjacent to Asher’s own room, by design, all the better for him to ‘keep an eye on them’. It was as much for their own protection as for the pack’s security, they’d learned early on - the wolf named Chrissy had already made a move to turn them into the department.
Turns out that some of the pack did not take as kindly to trouble.
Asher hadn’t taken kindly to the insubordination.
(His hand squeezes tight around the other wolf’s neck, Asher had snarled the words into his face. “Go behind my back like that again, and I will tear your fucking throat out.”)
After what happened with Chrissy, he doesn’t trust them alone with the rest of the pack. They’ve learned that he doesn’t trust much in the way of anything, except for his second.
But they could care less for pack politics. They don’t have the time for it.
They don’t think they have much time left at all.
At first, their role is to just provide the intel, the connection. The freelancer - their inside lead - had proven to be just as loyal and trustworthy as they’d hoped they’d be. Someone with a similar drive, a similar goal.
But that’s not all they can bring to the table. Years of working in Department bureaucracy means that they’re adept with paperwork, especially paperwork connected with the Imperium. And after the first few drops, there’s more than enough of it to work with.
In the end, they come to an agreement. Their assistance, in return for their freedom.
It’s a fair deal.
–
Over the next few weeks, they find themselves spending a lot of time with the pack leader.
It makes sense. With the sensitivity of the information coming in, and with his pack beta coordinating patrols, there’s no one else he can trust enough with the task. He’s smart, a quick study, and it doesn’t take long until he can match them, an impressive feat in and of itself.
And the longer they spend time with him, the more questions they have.
Asher is an enigma.
He should be intimidating. Unapproachable. But they’ve spent most of their life learning how to read people, and they just don’t see that with him. It’s in the way the members of the pack act around him, the care there. The beta and his mate, especially.
He isn’t as hardened as he first appears.
There’s a softness there. In the curve of his eyes, the curl of his cropped hair, the way he acts with those of the pack he is close too. The touches he can’t seem to hold back, despite himself.
And as they get to know him, they can’t help noticing other things too.
They’d walked in on him in the communal showers in the early hours of the morning.
He has a leanness to him, almost a hunger. A strength that lies just below the surface, evident in every movement. He’s a predator, and he’s marked like one, scars littering his skin, his chest, his back.
But the one they can’t stop staring at is the one that bisects his chest, from the jut of his collarbone to his hip.
“You’re staring.”
They’re not going to deny it.
“I was trying to figure out how someone could survive something like that.”
The water turns off, and he twists to grab a towel from the rack next to the shower head, running it through his hair once before fixing it around his waist. Then, and only then, does he turn and meet their gaze.
They don’t expect an answer, and they’re surprised when they get one.
“Stealth.” His lips twist downwards in a grimace. “It wasn’t pretty.”
Now that he’s facing them, they can see it fully. It’s a wicked scar, long and jagged, cutting across the lean lines of his torso, its raised edges catching the water that drips from his hair onto his skin.
“It was a parting gift. Quinn. A lucky hit, just before we ripped the bastard apart.”
Quinn. The name is only ever whispered, and not in general company. The vampire that killed his best friend. They can understand the loss. It took them over a decade to get over their own.
He takes a step towards them, and then another. Their grip tightens on their handful of shower supplies - the same brand that the rest of the pack uses, odourless, efficient. His eyes are dark: unreadable, intent.
A shiver passes through them, but it’s not an unpleasant one.
His shoulder brushes against theirs as he passes. “You should wash quickly. The next patrol will be back soon.”
They take his advice, scrubbing themselves down in half the time they’d usually spend, before retreating back to the relative safety of their own room.
Then, and only then, do they admit to themselves what they’d just realised.
They’re attracted to him. The alpha of the wolf pack.
