#but turns out it’s just a study that’s severely under my capacities
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a safe haven l one
Post Outbreak! Joel Miller x Female Reader
series masterlist l next chapter
summary: After the events in Salt Lake City, Joel and Ellie are back in Jackson, Wyoming to start a brand new life in the safe haven; Ellie has a difficult time fitting in and adjusting in the community, but she finds a friend in you; Joel meets you for the very first time and strange new feelings instantly take root.
warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI. JACKSON ERA. AGE GAP (no specific age is mentioned, but reader’s in her late 20s/early 30s and Joel is 56). reader is basically an OFC but story is written in reader format and her physical descriptions are kept as vague as possible. i have my own face claim for her, but i will only ever share it under cuts and with disclaimers. reader is married, Ellie plays a very important role in the series, hints at her strained relationship with Joel but this will indeed be a fix it fic because he deserves it, okay?
word count: 8.1k
Jackson, Wyoming | June, 2024
Joel’s deep, dark brown eyes linger on you from across the town mess hall with sheer, almost unabashed curiosity. Then again, he doesn’t even realize that he’s staring.
It’s about half past twelve, the designated lunch break hour in Jackson, and the larger scale eatery, which for the last couple of years has been run by an older man named Seth and his two surviving adult sons, is alive and well, buzzing loudly with obnoxious, overlapping chatter.
The hall is almost over maximum capacity, packed to the brim with several members of the steadily growing community who had stopped in for a quick bite to eat before having to resume their daily work duties around the settlement. Or at least, a majority of them had, anyway. Others shamelessly try to milk their lunch hour for all that it’s worth and more, dragging it out and extending their allotted free time for as long as they possibly can before having to return to their scheduled tasks around the commune. They float about the place, socializing as if the mess hall had suddenly turned into The Tipsy Bison, the bar right across the road that’s also owned by Seth.
Somehow, by a stroke of sheer good luck, you’d managed to find yourself a smaller, unoccupied table nestled against the wall, away from all the hustle and bustle. It’s tucked away over in the furthest corner of Jackson’s busy and bustling makeshift canteen, near where the aluminum double doors that lead back to the kitchens are propped wide open for the mess hall staff who were coming in and out to replenish the dishes at the buffet.
You’re sitting at the table alone, your plastic lunch tray surrounded by an absurd amount of open books that Joel had very little choice but to assume came from the town’s modest, but decent sized library that he’d seen nestled between the schoolhouse and the old church, right behind Main Street. In between delicate bites of oven baked chicken and roasted vegetables harvested fresh from the gardens, you reach up and take the blunt, worn yellow pencil that’s tucked in the space behind your ear, using it to scribble on the notepad in your lap before putting the pencil back in its designated place. Although you’re clearly working through your lunch break today, that doesn’t stop you from being interrupted on several different occasions by numerous individuals—friends and familiar faces all approach you with hopeful expressions, eager to join you and keep you company.
Sure, the hall is full, but there’s still a number of available seats still left at other partially occupied tables nearby, bigger tables that aren’t crowded with books like yours, tables whose occupants aren’t busy working, studying—doing whatever it is that you’re doing. It becomes apparent to Joel that you’re something of a hot commodity around here. He can’t quite put his finger on it, but there’s just something about you that reminds him of the sweet and popular small town girl his favorite country artists would sing about back in the day. The kind of girl with a magnetic presence and irresistible charm—the kind of girl that anyone can fall head over heels in love with in one way or another.
There’s something almost too endearing about the gracious way you offer up just the most saccharine smile and apologetic doe eyes as you point to your books, politely declining every offer for companionship that comes your way, saying something he can imagine to be along the lines of, not today or maybe another time. Eventually, after a while, you’re finally left alone to bury yourself back into whatever it is that’s keeping you occupied that you can’t even have your midday meal in peace—you’re so engrossed in the task that you don’t even notice the older, salt and pepper haired newcomer who’s been blatantly staring at you from his table over on the opposite of the hall for the last several minutes.
It’s not the first time Joel’s seen you around.
He still vividly remembers the moment when he’d first laid eyes on you several months ago during the winter season.
It had been the morning after his fight with Ellie, after she’d confronted him and he had been forced to fess up about his plans to hand her off to his younger brother, Tommy—he’d asked him, pleaded with him, to get her to the Fireflies in Colorado. Joel’s mind had been in an all out raging war, his heart torn between doing what he’d felt was best for Ellie and what he truly wanted, which was to remain by her side and get her to where she needed to be himself. But how the fuck could he do that when all he’d managed to do in the few months prior to their arrival in Wyoming was fail to protect her over and over again? Sure, Ellie was a teenager, now closer to being an adult than anything else, but she was still a child, one who needed to be protected, kept safe. She needed somebody who could get to where she needed to be in one piece, and Joel had come to the conclusion that, as much as he wanted to be that person, he simply wasn’t capable. Slower, older, his hearing getting worse and worse as the days go by, he feared he’d only end up getting her killed if she continued on with him, a scenario he fucking refused to let happen at all costs. He wouldn’t hold another child’s dead body in his arms, not again.
Following a very long and sleepless night of tossing and turning, Joel had pulled himself out of bed just after sunrise that morning. After getting dressed, he’d quietly slipped out of the house and made his way down to the horse stables, hoping he could leave the commune as soon as possible and without notice from Tommy—and especially without notice from Ellie. It’s not that he had wanted to leave without saying goodbye to her, but Joel knew he wouldn’t have it in him to follow through with the decision he’d made about parting ways with her if he saw her face again, not a fucking chance. And so there he’d been, in one of the stalls at the stables, saddling up the horse he planned to steal and take off on when you’d walked by, flashing him a warm and friendly smile, probably assuming he was just another patrolman getting ready to head out for the morning shift.
Joel had just stared at you, lips pressed together into a tight, thin line with an emotionless expression on his hard, stony face.
Of course, you were nothing more than a complete stranger who didn’t have the slightest clue as to what was going through his mind. You couldn’t have possibly imagined what was happening to the tortured older man you’d just encountered, the way his inner turmoil was a single thought away from tearing him apart from the inside out. You’d probably just thought he was rude for not smiling back, or at the very least, offering you a courteous good morning.
He’d almost forgotten about you since then.
Almost.
It’d been rather difficult for him to forget all about the prettiest goddamn fucking face he’d ever seen since the world ended two decades ago—not even after all of the events that followed that fateful morning.
The next time Joel had seen you was on his second day back in Wyoming. He and Ellie had made a trip down to the produce market on Main Street to pick up some vegetables and jarred preserves to stock up the kitchen pantry of their new, forever home. He’d caught sight of you as you made your way down one of the aisles towards the sweet potato bins with a brown, woven basket hanging from one arm and a reusable shopping bag draped over the other. Before Joel even realized that he’d been staring, your kind gaze met his own from across the market and you smiled at him again.
Still just as warm, still just as friendly. And you were still just as fucking beautiful as he remembered.
Much like that winter morning in the horse stables, Joel didn’t smile back at you.
Two for fucking two—surely you must have thought he was a mannerless asshole at this point. He honestly wouldn’t blame you if you did. He’d think the same.
Tommy, who had made it back from leading his morning patrol group just in time to join him for lunch, waves a hand in front of Joel’s face, looking thoroughly amused. “Maybe we should find you a goddamn camera,” he teases, letting out a small chuckle once he’d finally managed to break the older Miller’s trance, garnering his attention. “Y’know, so you can take a picture. It’ll last a hell of a lot longer.”
Joel scowls at his brother, though he says nothing.
He can’t very well deny that he’d been caught openly gawking.
“Shut up, Tommy,” is all he can come up with before taking a large bite of seasoned carrots, heat flooding his face. The way Tommy’s looking at him, with that mischievous glimmer in his eyes, it reminds Joel of their younger years, when Tommy would make it his mission in life to do anything that would cause him discomfort just for his own kicks.
“Hey, I don’t really blame you, y’know.” Tommy reaches over for his glass of sweet iced tea and picks it up, taking a long and refreshing sip. Smacking his lips together, he casually shrugs his shoulders, shooting Joel a knowing smirk over the top the glass as he comments, “She’s certainly a sight for sore eyes, ain’t she, big brother?”
“Watch it. Don’t think Maria would appreciate you sayin’ that kinda thing ’bout another woman who ain’t her,” Joel warns, cocking an eyebrow at him. His brother hadn’t always been the most faithful of partners in his first life, but Tommy truly seemed to be head over heels in love with his wife. Hearing him talk about another woman makes Joel wonder if perhaps remnants of his playboy ways still lingered behind even after twenty years. With Maria having just found out she was expecting his child, Joel certainly hopes that isn’t the case. “Eyes to yourself, asshole.”
Tommy shrugs again. “Ain’t no real harm in just takin’ a quick peek every once in a while,” he muses, although there’s a joking edge to his tone. Setting his glass of iced tea back down onto the table in front of him, he leans back into his chair and glances over at you. He lets out a long, low whistle, another smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. “Oh trust me, I get it, Joel—hell, every man around here gets it, fuckin’ single or not. She’s a real fuckin’ beauty, she is. But I should probably go ahead and warn you now that it’s best you don’t go gettin’ any ideas when it comes to that one.”
Before Joel can even stop himself, he finds himself asking, “Why’s that?
“Well for starters, that girl’s damn near half your fuckin’ age, you old fucker.”
Joel flips him off.
“Besides that, she’s already spoken for.”
“She’s got a boyfriend.” It’s a statement, not a question.
“She’s got a husband,” Tommy corrects him. “She’s a married woman, Joel. And here’s the real fuckin’ kicker. She’s married to Jackson’s only doctor.”
Joel snorts, rolling his eyes. “A real doctor? Or just some fuckin’ clueless prick who claims to be a doctor?” he questions, shoving another forkful of his carrots into his mouth.
The younger man laughs at the bitter skepticism, knowing that it’d come from a place of envy more than anything. “Real, Joel. The guy’s around my age, give or take a couple years. He was finishin’ up his medical school residency when the outbreak first happened, at least that’s what Maria says,” he explains. He notices the confusion flash across Joel’s face and continues to elaborate. “Two of them go way back, went to the same college before she transferred out to another school for her law degree. Maria came across him and his group one day while out lookin’ for supplies. She said he still knew his stuff after all these years and decided to bring him in as the community’s physician. He looks after everyone around here. Delivers the babies, stitches up wounds. Hell, I broke my arm in a stupid ridin’ accident last summer and he set the bone right back into place, had me good as new within a few weeks. S’a miracle we’ve got someone like him around here.”
Joel glances down at his plate, twiddling his fork between his thumb and his index finger. He would have been a goddamn dirty liar if he’d said that finding out you were a married woman didn’t bother him.
And to a fucking hero doctor nonetheless.
That only makes it sting a little harder.
Tommy immediately picks up on his brother’s disappointment in hearing the news about you being taken and softly kicks his shin with the toe of his boot underneath the table. “Y’know Joel, there’s plenty of other single women around here. Pretty ones, and real nice, too,” he informs him with a small smile. He pauses and then offers, “If you’re interested, I could introduce you around. Maria has this friend, her name is Esther and she’s a real cute blonde—”
“That’s the last thing on my fuckin’ mind,” Joel grumbles out in reply. He tightly shakes his head. “I just fuckin’ got here, Tommy. Besides, I’ve got Ellie that I need to take care of. We’re both tryin’ to get used to this place after bein’ out there on the road for so long. We’re still in the middle of gettin’ ourselves settled. The kid’s my priority right now—my only fuckin’ priority. Not meetin’ someone.”
Not wanting to push him too far, Tommy goes along with the subject change. “Speakin’ of Ellie, how’s she been doin’ by the way? Haven’t really seen much of her since you two got back.”
Joel hesitates, momentarily unable to meet Tommy’s eyes.
It’d been a couple of weeks now since the events that took place back in Salt Lake City.
Since the hospital.
Since the Fireflies.
Joel had certainly thought once or twice about confiding in Tommy about what he had done. How he had ruthlessly and without a single ounce of mercy killed all of those people in the hospital, how he had shot Marlene dead at point blank range—how he had violently and single handedly stopped what had most likely been humanity’s only chance at potentially finding a cure for the cordyceps infection by preventing the Fireflies from operating on Ellie and performing a brain surgery that would have killed her.
Joel doesn’t regret it, nor does he regret the choice he’d made on Ellie’s behalf.
He would do it all over again in a fucking heartbeat if it came down to it.
He doesn’t carry guilt over having done what he’d done, but he does carry the guilt of having lied to her about it after it was all said and done. He felt awful for looking her in the eye and swearing to her that everything he’d said about the Fireflies was true when it wasn’t. Ellie claimed to believe him, but he knew better than that. She was smart, too fucking smart for her own good. She might not have known the extent of it all, but she knew for certain that Joel wasn’t being entirely forthright about what had gone down in Salt Lake City while she’d been unconscious.
From that moment on the mountain, things had been quite tense between them. That conversation instantly caused a rift in their relationship, but Joel could tell she was doing her very best to force herself to fully believe that he was still a person she could trust, a person she could put her faith in. He took an odd sense of comfort in knowing that her forced efforts to keep believing in him had to have meant something good.
She didn’t want to give up on him or on their relationship.
Joel exhales a heavy sigh, finally answering the question. “Not too great,” he admits, quietly. “I’m real worried ‘bout her, Tommy. It’s been a couple weeks now since we’ve been back and she still hasn’t made one single goddamn friend around here. She doesn’t fuckin’ talk to anyone, barely even talks to Maria.” He sighs again, tiredly rubbing the side of his face with his free hand. “She spends most of her time hidin’ out in the stables with the horses. She would rather be around them than other people. She can’t live the rest of her life like that. I try to tell her she needs to put in more effort on her part, but she won’t fuckin’ listen to me.”
“Just give her some more time, Joel. After everythin’ that poor kid’s been through in her life, it ain’t a big surprise that she’s strugglin’ a bit to fit in around here, y’know?” Tommy notices the way his older brother’s jaw clenches and he offers him a look of sympathy. “Look, I know Ellie means a whole lot to you and if I were you, I would be real worried ’bout her too. But just give her a little more time to adjust. She’ll get there, I know she fuckin’ will. She’s a real strong kid, big brother.”
“Yeah, I know she is,” Joel murmurs in agreement. “Hell of a lot stronger than someone her age should have to be.”
“She’ll be just fine,” Tommy reassures him. “She’ll find her place here, Joel. Just wait. You’ll see.”
“I sure as hell fuckin’ hope you’re right.”
You relish the feeling of warm sunlight hitting your face.
Summer’s just beginning in Wyoming, and after a particularly long, cold and cruel winter that swept the western state this last year, you couldn’t have been more thrilled to see that warmer weather is well on its way.
At least, for now you’re thrilled.
Winters in Jackson were god awful, but summers could be just as brutal, if not worse.
Clutching the strap of your old, but sturdy brown leather satchel bag securely over your shoulder, you hurriedly make your way across the settlement from the mess hall and back towards the horse stables, the place you commonly referred to as your second home—it wasn’t all that much of a joke, seeing as you often spent more time there than you didn’t. It’s now after lunch hour, and there’s still plenty of work to be done before the end of the day rolls around, most of it which would undoubtedly trickle into the next day.
Being the only veterinarian in the community, there was always more than plenty of work to be done every day. Too much work to be done by one single person alone. Often, you find yourself feeling quite overwhelmed by it all. You feel like you’re completely in over your head, and it leaves you wondering if you’d made the right decision by taking such an enormous responsibility into your hands.
Then again, it’s not like you’d been given much of a choice. In a way, it had been expected of you.
Prior to passing away from illness two summers ago, your father had been the veterinarian who looked after the animals. Even though you hadn’t been trained professionally like he had, your father decided to spend the final years of his life teaching you to the best of his ability and with what little resources he had available. After all, Jackson was going to need someone to step up and take care of the animals when he was gone—particularly the hoses. Even as his physical health worsened, he used every last ounce of strength he had left in him to prepare you to take over for him when he died. Thanks to him and all he’d done for you, you certainly knew a thing or two, but the job was still daunting, even after all this time of being in practice on your own without him there to guide you like before.
Keeping the horses healthy to begin with made your job a hell of a lot easier, but when a horse became sick or injured, that was when your knowledge and your skills were truly put to the test. Horses were how everyone traveled when in search of needed supplies, how patrolmen and women moved around while they were out and about on watch keeping the community safe against the infected and against raiders. Horses were one of the most important, most precious resources the commune possessed. They kept everything going, everyone moving, and you’d be fucking lying if you said that being the sole person in charge of caring for them didn’t put a tremendous amount of pressure on your shoulders.
Sensing your doubt, Maria Miller often assured you that you were the best person for the role—the only person for the role. “The apple really doesn’t fall far from the tree,” she had complimented you over coffee at her place the morning after you had successfully removed a bullet lodged into the shoulder of one of the horses that had been injured while Tommy and his group were out on overnight patrol. They’d stumbled across violent and armed raiders, and luckily everyone had made it out unscathed with the exception of Tommy’s beloved black horse, Ranger. You recalled being pulled out of your bed in the middle of the night to tend to him, the first serious case you had to take care of without your father’s guidance. Thankfully, the stallion’s injury hadn’t been life threatening, and you were able to patch him up within the hour. After just a few weeks of working with Ranger and putting him through physical therapy, the horse made a full recovery and both Maria and Tommy couldn’t have been more thrilled with your work.
Still, you still continued questioning your own abilities, but it didn’t really matter in the end. Both Maria and Tommy decided to assign you as Jackson’s equine veterinarian, pulling you from your previous job, which had been helping Seth make sandwiches at The Tipsy Bison.
You rush into the stables, making a mental list with the names of all the horses that you still need to check over for the day, including the group of horses that had just arrived back from that morning’s patrol. You make your way down to the very last stall which is serving as home to a stunning, chestnut-brown pregnant mare.
“Hi there, Stella,” you coo sweetly, beaming at the beauty. “Hi, my gorgeous girl. How are you doing today, sweetie pie?”
“I would be doing a hell of a lot better if I could have one of those apples in your bag,” a voice answers, startling you slightly.
Peering around Stella’s body, you catch sight of Ellie laying down on a small bed of hay in the furthest corner of the stall. She’d made something of a pillow out of her backpack, kicking back as she flips through her favorite superhero comic book for what had to be the hundredth time. She offers you a silly, lopsided grin the minute she takes a glimpse at the baffled look on your face. “Howdy.”
“Ellie,” you sigh her name softly. “What in the world are you doing in here?”
“Living my best life,” she deadpans. “What else does it look like I’m doing?”
You try but mostly fail, in hiding your laughter at her quick witted sense of humor. “Ellie,” you say her name again. “You can’t just hide out in here with the horses every single day, you know,” you point out, dropping your heavy satchel bag onto the ground. Stella lowers her head and gives it a sniff, no doubt smelling those apples you always carried around with you.
“Wanna bet?” The teenager quips with a small joking smirk as she sits up, tossing her comic book to the side. Bits of hay stick out of her brown hair, which she always keeps tied back in a messy ponytail.
“Aren’t you supposed to be in school with the other kids?”
She rolls her eyes. “I already went to school. Back in the Boston QZ. FEDRA’s finest, dude.”
You don’t know all that much about Ellie Williams—nor about the brooding older man that she’s here with, Joel Miller. The only thing you do know is that Joel happened to be Tommy Miller’s older brother and he acted as Ellie’s guardian. Initially, you’d thought he was her father, but Maria had told you that he had no familial relation to the girl, a fact that took you by complete surprise.
Their arrival in Jackson back during the winter season had the entire town talking—but by the following morning, the pair were gone, not to be seen again for several months until their return towards the end of spring just a couple of weeks ago. Rumors flew once the word of their return had gone around, but in reality, no one had the slightest clue about where they had gone or why they had left the safety of the commune’s walls in the first place. Not even Maria, who had failed in getting her husband to talk. She swore up and down Tommy knew something she didn’t, but he refused to spill his brother’s secrets, even to his own wife.
Like everyone else in the tight knit community, you were curious about Ellie, and you were especially curious about Joel. You’d seen him around a couple of times before, but hadn’t had the chance to meet him yet. Still, even without having spoken a single word to him, you already knew he wasn’t anything like Tommy, or anyone else you’ve ever encountered, really. A man of very few words, he kept to himself, just like Ellie did. Still, Joel knew he needed to find his place and pull his weight in Jackson just like everyone else, and once he began working patrol alongside Tommy, he finally began engaging with other members of the town.
Reluctantly so, but at the very least, he was trying.
Ellie, on the other hand, avoided everybody at all costs. Everybody, that is, except for you.
Since their arrival, Ellie chose to spend her days in the stables. She’d hang out with the horses while reading her comic books or listening to tapes on some old Walkman she had permanently borrowed from Tommy. Despite a hectic schedule that kept you busy, you eventually started taking the time out of your day to talk to her. It had started off with light chatter about the most trivial of things—how the day was going, whether or not the weather was nice outside, what had been served for lunch in the mess hall that afternoon. Ellie seemed almost annoyed with you at first, but after a couple of days, she’d quickly started warming up to you and by the end of the first week, she had started following you around the stables, joining you wherever you needed to be. The girl had taken a liking to you, but she was still quite guarded and careful, as if she were still testing the waters, figuring out whether or not you could be trusted.
You don’t mind that, though.
Little by little, simply by being kind to her and making the genuine effort to get to know her, you’re slowly beginning to chip away at her layers. There was still quite a long way to go if you ever wanted the teenager to completely open up to you, but you didn’t mind that either.
You’d be as patient with her as you needed to be.
You walk over to her. “Listen Ellie, as much as I really enjoy having you around me all the time, you really do need to make friends, you know.”
She blinks. “But you’re my friend.”
Even as you rephrase yourself, you can’t help but smile. “Friends your own age,” you remark, tucking the loose lock of your hair that had fallen loose from your dutch braid behind your ear. “You know, my husband, he has a niece named Dina. She’s about your age. I could introduce you to each other if you'd like?”
Ellie furiously shakes her head. “No.”
“Ellie—”
“Everyone around here looks at me like I’ve got two fucking heads or something. She probably fucking will too,” she mumbles. She pulls her knees up to her chest and wraps her arms around them. “I’d have an easier time fitting in around here if I was a fucking clicker.”
Chuckling, you gently shake your head at her.
By now, you’d pretty much gotten used to her rich and colorful vocabulary.
You crouch down in front of her. “Look Ellie, I know how hard it is not to fit in with others.”
“You?” Ellie blows a loud raspberry in complete disbelief. “No fucking way. I don’t believe that for one fucking second, sweet cheeks.”
“Hey, in case you didn’t know this, I haven’t always been this age,” you remind her, lightly swatting at the side of her knee with your hand. “I was fifteen once too.”
“Yeah, and you were probably little miss fucking perfect, just like you are now.” She rolls her brown eyes at you in a teasing manner. “I bet everyone just loved you.”
You swat at her knee again. “Oh, stop that. That couldn’t be any further from the truth,” you reply, wondering where this child had come up with the idea that you are, or had ever been perfect. “I was still living in one of the quarantine zones with my family when I was your age, Ellie. We were living in the Alburquerque QZ for quite a while before it got overrun by the infected. They had schools and everything, just like in Boston. My mother was a nurse, so she had the privilege of enrolling me in one of their better schools, a preparatory school—she had the hope that I’d become an officer so I could have a chance at a decent life.” You pause, noticing a strange glimmer flash in the girl’s eyes, but when she says nothing, you continue on, “So I got the absolute pleasure of going to school with a bunch of kids whose parents were officers and important higher ups in the zone. And let me tell you something, the world may have gone to complete shit, but teenagers can still be fucking assholes.”
Ellie throws her head back and laughs loudly. “Whoa! I never thought I’d hear you curse. I thought you were too fucking prim and proper for that.”
“I’m not all that prim and proper,” you counter, grinning at the way she continues to cackle. “Besides, spending all this time with you might just have me cursing like a fucking sailor by the end of the week.”
“Fuck yeah it will,” she agrees with a nod.
You grin again, but when your eyes meet Ellie’s, it falters slightly.
Ellie hadn’t told you much of anything about her past, but one thing was for certain—the young girl had been through hell and back. You could see it written all over her face, even when she smiled and even when she laughed. The traces of terror, pain, and trauma were quite subtle, but they were very much present and in recent nights, you’d find yourself lying in bed, wide awake and wondering what all this poor child had gone through in her life. Thoughts about what Ellie had seen, what and who she had lost in this world haunted you.
She’s different.
What she’d been through made her different.
It set her apart from the other children, especially those who don’t know what it’s like to live a life outside these four walls.
It pained you to know that she felt ostracized when you were willing to bet your life that whatever had happened to her, it hadn’t been her fault.
Ellie Williams wasn’t your responsibility—you hardly know her. But you already care about her. An inexplicable soft spot for her had found its way into your heart from your very first interaction with her. If there’s anything you can do to help her ease into this new way of life, you’ll gladly do so without hesitation.
“So then,” Ellie finally says after a minute, looking up at you. “Is it, uh, is it alright if I keep coming to the stables to spend time with you and the horses?”
“Of course.” You rise to your feet and glance at Stella. “But only on one condition. You have to help me out with the grooming. I’ve been really short handed lately and could use the extra help. Deal?”
She jumps up to her feet, eagerly nodding her head. “Deal.”
Joel dumps his plastic tray and used dishware into the designated dirty dish bin before shoving his way through the doors of the mess hall. The air outside is still relatively cool, it’s crisp and fresh—but the temperatures are sure to get a hell of a lot warmer now that summer has officially arrived. Not that he minded.
He keeps his sights set straight ahead of him, doing his best to avoid eye contact with anyone who so much as even throws a glimpse in his direction.
People seem to be getting to him, but oftentimes, he still feels like a pariah. It’s almost like he’s some fucking feral stray cat that Jackson had adopted and taken into it’s home, willing to tame him, but still afraid that he could start tearing shit up at any given moment if they didn’t keep a close enough eye on him. He could handle that, though. It’s his Ellie he’s worried about. Between the survivor’s guilt she’d been dealing with on a daily basis and the way she was looked at in the community by everyone, Joel feared for her well being. He could only hope that Tommy was right about her just needing time and that eventually, she’ll find her place and he’ll have the chance to give her the most normal life possible under the circumstances.
It’s the very least Joel could do for her after all she’d been through in the last year—after what he’d done, how he had lied straight to her face. He fucking owed her that much.
Ellie deserved happiness, and he would do just about anything in his power to give it to her.
Joel arrives at the horse stables and makes his way inside. “Ellie?” He calls out her name. “Ellie? You in here?”
That’s when he hears her voice.
“Wait, what? Stella’s pregnant? I didn’t fucking know that!”
Rounding the corner into the very last stall, Joel sees Ellie standing there, her tiny little hand on the muzzle of a brown horse. In her opposite hand, she’s holding a mane brush. She isn’t alone.
He’s surprised to see you standing there beside her, your hands planted on your hips. You’re wearing a pair of well worn light wash blue jeans, the legs tucked into a pair of weathered black riding boots whose soles are completely caked with muck. Joel remembers you wearing an oversized, long sleeved red flannel shirt back in the mess hall, but it’s now off and tied around your waist, leaving you in a thin, cotton white tank top—the material fits snug on your frame, and Joel tries his hardest not to stare at the patch of bare skin that peeks between the hem of your shirt and the waistband of your jeans.
Christ.
You’re even more beautiful up close.
Fuckin’ get a grip, Miller, he thinks silently to himself.
“She sure is,” you reply to her question with a wide grin. “We just found out about a week ago and believe she’s about a few weeks along. We’ll have a sweet new baby in a year.”
“What? No fucking way!” Ellie exclaims, looking thoroughly excited, but bewildered by the fact. “Horses are pregnant for a whole year? Holy shit man, that’s fucking nuts!”
“Well, for eleven months,” you clarify for her, giving Stella a gentle, but firm pat on her muscular neck. “This is Stella’s first one. We’re hoping for a smooth pregnancy that reaches full term, but sometimes babies decide to come a bit sooner than expected.”
Curiously, Joel’s lips part and his eyes widen slightly.
He can’t fucking believe it.
Ellie hadn’t spoken a single word to anyone in two weeks and yet here she is, engaging with you so easily and so effortlessly, cracking the first genuine smile he’d seen since they had fed that giraffe back in Salt Lake City. More than that, Ellie is being herself, cursing up a storm and all, and you don’t seem the slightest bit bothered by it, not like the other adults whose jaws would drop in utter horror at her use of such foul language.
Joel wills himself to move and steps inside of the stall. He lightly clears his throat. “Ellie.”
You and Ellie both turn around, glancing in his direction.
“Joel? What are you doing here?” she asks, her smile fading slightly.
“Lookin’ for you. It’s lunchtime. Y’need to go eat somethin’ kiddo.”
She holds up the brush in her hand. “But we were just about to—”
He stops her with a stern glare. “Lunch. Now. Go.”
“Fine,” Ellie huffs and rolls her eyes at him. Picking up her red and tan backpack from the ground, she hands you the mane brush and stomps out of the stall, roughly shoving into Joel’s shoulder as she pushes past him without another word.
Joel glances at you, a sudden wave of awkwardness washing over him. Just as he’s about to politely excuse himself and leave, you speak.
“You’re Tommy’s older brother, right? Joel?”
He nods. “Yeah. I am.”
Stepping away from Stella, you walk over to Joel and introduce yourself, extending a hand for him to shake.
Your name is as beautiful as you are and it sounds heavenly when he repeats it, rolling smoothly off his tongue. He takes your hand in his own and the contrast between the two is stark. Your hand is soft against his rough, small compared to his large, but somehow still an all too perfect fit.
“It’s nice to finally meet you, Joel.” Your eyes find his, meeting them in a way that makes something inside of him that had been sleeping for decades now stir itself awake—it’s a feeling that’s too foreign for him to pinpoint.
Realizing he’s been holding onto your hand longer than necessary, he drops it and takes a step back, lightly bumping his back against the stall door. “I’m—uh, I’m real sorry ‘bout Ellie,” Joel apologizes to you after a minute. “I know she’s been spendin’ a lot of time in here. I hope she hasn’t been botherin’ you or gettin’ in the way of things. If she is, I’ll have a talk with her.”
“No, no. Of course not. She hasn’t been bothering me at all,” you quickly assure him without missing a beat. “I’m usually in here alone, so it’s actually been really nice having her around. I enjoy her company a lot.”
“You do?”
You toss him a puzzled, but amused look. “Is that so strange?”
Joel places his hands on his hips and leans back against the stall door. “Ellie’s been havin’ a little trouble,” he confesses. “Adjustin’ to life here and meetin’ people. She, uh—she ain’t like all the other kids around here, y’know?”
“I know.”
His eyebrows raise to his hairline—exactly how well had you and Ellie gotten to know each other already? What all had she told you? What did you know about her?
What did you know about him?
Joel tries to mask the concern on his face.
“I was just talking to her a little while ago. I told her I know how hard it is being a teenager and trying to fit it in with the crowd, even in a world like this one.” You let out a humorless laugh and shake your head, the ridiculousness of what you’d just said sounding sillier out loud than it had in your mind. “It’s even harder when you’re just so different.” You detect the way that your statement triggers something of a negative response from Joel—the way his eyes darken in a flash of anger and his nostrils flare slightly tell you he doesn’t take all too kindly to anyone talking negatively about his kid. Ellie being different is something that he already knows, of course, but hearing it from someone else isn’t easy for him, and it certainly isn’t welcome. It puts him right into protective mode and you don’t blame him, not in the slightest. You hold your hands up and reassure him, “There’s nothing wrong with being different, by the way.”
Joel sees the sincerity in your eyes that go hand in hand with your words and his defenses switch off almost as quickly as they’d switched on. “There isn’t,” he agrees with a careful nod of his head. “Nothin’ wrong with it at all.” He clears his throat. “M’sorry, I didn’t mean to—it’s just that I don’t really like it when people start runnin’ their mouths ‘bout my kid, that’s all.”
Waving a hand, you assure him, “No need to apologize at all, Joel.”
Little by little, he starts relaxing. Taut and tense muscles that have been wound up for years and years are suddenly beginning to loosen. All it’s taking is being in your presence and talking to you. Joel suddenly understands why Ellie’s taken such a quick liking to you.
You’re unlike anyone that either of them had ever met before. You’re bright and you bring about this warmth—a different kind of warmth Joel hadn’t felt in so fucking long. It feels like seeing the sun for the very first time after spending years and years trapped in a cold, cold darkness.
He glances around the stall. “So, uh—what’s the deal? You one of the stable hands around here or somethin’ like that?”
“Something like that,” you repeat after him, a tiny grin tugging at the corners of your mouth at the way he speaks with a heavy, but still incredibly charming Southern drawl. “I’m the veterinarian here in Jackson.”
He chuckles. “Y’mean, those still exist?”
“Sort of. My father used to be the veterinarian here,” you explain to him. “That was what he did for a living before the outbreak happened. We lived in New Mexico on a horse ranch when I was growing up—he started off as a stable hand and then he went back to school to become an equine veterinarian. When we got here a few years ago from one of the quarantine zones, he told Maria what he had done for a living before this and he was asked to care for the horses in exchange for our place here.”
“And you?” Joel can’t help but wonder out loud. You seem quite young, can’t be older than your late twenties or early thirties at most, which would still have made you a child when the outbreak happened. “No offense darlin’ but you seem a little bit too young to have gone to vet school before shit hit the fan.”
Darlin’.
He doesn’t mean to call you that. But it’s too late—and you don’t appear bothered by it.
Instead, you laugh, and the sound is like a gorgeous melody he could listen to on repeat for the rest of his life if given the chance. “No, I definitely did not go to veterinary school. Actually, my dad taught me everything I know.” You speak fondly of him as you continue to say, “He educated me. Well, as best as he could considering the circumstances and all. He gave me a ton of books that I could read and study from, but most of it was hands-on training. He tried to teach me all that he could before he died a couple of years ago.”
Joel frowns. “Oh. Sorry to hear ‘bout your dad.”
“It’s alright. You don’t have to be sorry.”
He peers at you, wondering what had happened to him.
“He died of illness,” you tell him, as if having read his mind. “Cancer, we think it was, but we obviously can’t know for sure without proper testing. And before you say it again, you don’t have to be sorry.” You cross your arms over your chest, tilting your head at him as you change the subject and ask, “So, how are you settling in?”
“S’been alright, I reckon. Real different from what I’m used to—from what we’re both used to,” Joel answers, referring to Ellie.
“I can imagine it is. It took me a while to get used to this place when I first got here too. It’s such a different way of life, especially when you lived under FEDRA control for so long,” you empathize with him, sighing as you drop your arms back down at your sides. “You stay just a couple of houses down from Tommy and Maria, right?”
“Yeah, we’re two doors down in the brown and greenish lookin’ unit.”
“I’m in the light blue and white cottage right across from them,” you inform him, your pretty eyes twinkling as you give him a smile. “I guess that kind of makes us neighbors, doesn’t it?”
Joel’s stomach somersaults.
If you didn’t stop smiling at him like that, there was going to be a problem.
“It does,” he manages to say. Remembering Tommy’s warning from earlier, he decides it would be best for him to leave—and the quicker, the better because he’s beginning to notice how fucking easy it is to fall under your spell. He pushes himself away from the stall door. “I should probably get goin’ now. Got evenin’ patrol,” he says. “Listen, uh, I really appreciate you spendin’ time with Ellie and bein’ so kind to her. Thank you for that.” He gives you a small grateful nod and turns on the heel of his boot to leave the stall.
“Joel?”
He stops dead in his tracks, his back stiffening slightly.
The sound of your soft voice saying his name is sweet like pure, raw honey.
If he isn’t careful, he’ll become addicted to it—he fears he already is.
Swallowing harshly, Joel turns back around to face you. “Yeah?”
“We’re having this big get together tomorrow night in the barn that’s right across the way,” you say, jabbing a thumb over your shoulder. Through the small round window in the stall, he can see the very barn you’re talking about. “We do it every single year on the first day of summer. We do it for the kids more than anything, but everyone comes out.” There’s a subtle hint of shyness to your tone. “I’m not sure if Tommy or Maria have mentioned it to you yet, but there’s going to be a big barbecue, drinks, and even dancing. The whole nine yards.”
Joel has to bite back a small scoff of disbelief. “You serious?”
“Hey, the world might have ended, but people still know how to get down and party,” you joke. You observe the genuinely perplexed look that crosses his face and giggle. “I know it must sound really bizarre. But it’s a lot of fun and it’s a great way to really get to know the folks around here. I think it would be great if you and Ellie both came.”
“Ain’t too sure if it’d be Ellie’s thing. Or mine,” he admits, raking a hand nervously through his hair at the thought.
“You won’t know unless you give it a shot, Joel.” You gift him with another brilliant smile that just about makes his heart stop inside his chest. “Please?”
Joel hardly knows you.
Hell, up until five minutes ago, he hadn’t even known your fucking name—how is it possible that he can’t say no to you? A complete fucking stranger?
He thinks about it. He doesn’t like the idea of having to interact with anyone outside of his patrol duties, but if going to the damn thing means seeing you again, then he’s willing to at the very least give it a shot.
“Maybe we’ll both stop by for a bit and check it out,” he finally replies, exhaling a sigh of defeat.
“Great!” You beam happily. “I’ll see you tomorrow night, then!”
“I’ll see you tomorrow night,” Joel repeats, giving you one last nod before turning and leaving the stall.
As he leaves the stables and heads home, he can’t help the way the corners of his mouth threaten to turn upwards at the mere thought of seeing you tomorrow night.
Shit.
Yeah, he’s in fucking trouble.
#joel miller fanfiction#joel miller series#joel miller x reader#joel miller x female reader#joel miller x f!reader#joel miller x y/n#joel miller x you#joel miller x original character#joel miller x oc#joel miller pedro pascal#joel miller fic#pedro pascal characters#joel miller hbo#fic: a safe haven#fic: ash
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The Law Student (Rewritten)
Part One: Starting Out
Pairing: Cillian Murphy (20) & Reader (30)
Note: This plays in 1996, just before Cillian drops out of law school.
Today was your first day as a lecturer at the University of Cork, and you felt a mix of excitement and nervousness.
After completing your law and teaching degrees, you started working at a local law firm. You had a successful career, but your soul craved teaching and interacting with young minds.
As such, when the university at which you had studied yourself reached out to you with an irresistible offer, you couldn't turn it down.
Even though you had never lectured at a university before, you were still confident in your abilities. You knew that this where you wanted to be right now in your life and the only issue was that your ex, James, was employed there as well.
You had been married to James for several years , but eventually, things went south and you both mutually decided to part ways. It was an unpleasant breakup that left you both drained.
James had never really forgiven you for leaving him for bigger and better things, and he constantly reminded you of the time you both spent together. You were thirty now and rented a nice apartment in the center of Cork.
You had no children with James and, luckily for you, he was a science professor rather than a professor at law, so you knew that you wouldn't see each other often. His faculty was far away from yours and, keeping that in mind, you accepted the position the university had offered you.
*** The First Lecture ***
Your first day at the faculty finally arrived and you stopped by to check your lecture schedule. You noticed a lecture hall number for which you had to find your way.
Arriving at the given classroom number, you glanced around the area. You felt intimidated as you entered the ancient gray lecturing hall with its high ceiling, tall windows, wooden benches and old, but friendly-looking, portraits mounted above.
A wave of anxiety came over you. The room was almost filled to capacity. Students sat scattered throughout the hall, laughing, chatting, and seemingly relaxed.
They reminded you of a wave of colors, with some sporting all black, while others wore bright, vibrant pinks and oranges.
Their expressions reflected excitement, mixed with anxiety, and you could sense the tension due to the first day of the school year.
For every person in the room, there was a unique set of circumstances that had led them to attend this lecture. This reignited your dedication towards mentoring and teaching these young minds, which eased your nerves.
Retaking a deep breath, you flashed a charming, confident smile and walked over to the lectern.
"Hello Everyone, my name is [Your Name], and I will be your Law Professor this semester," you announced, projecting your voice while placing your notes calmly down.
A sudden eruption of chatter and movement ensued as the students received this information. You took a moment to soak it all in, making sure to scan the room for any familiar faces and, of course, there were none.
During the first year, you knew that the students would mainly be under your supervision as you taught the introductory law course, Law 101 and Law 100. You were well aware that around thirty percent of your students would not continue into the second year and you also realized that not everyone was cut out for studying law, so you made an effort to make the subject interesting for your students.
"Unfortunately for you, you will be stuck with me this year as I will be covering off all of the introductory law subjects and, whilst some of the coursework may be dry, I promise that I will make your learning experience here as enriching as I can," you continued. "What I need from you is dedication, passion, and an open mind."
You paused for a moment, drinking in the environment, and stared into the eyes of the sea of attentive young faces.
"As part of this journey, I would also like to get to know you a little better, so I have prepared some questionnaires for you all to fill out. This will help me gauge your understanding levels and any unique, personal interests or experiences you might have."
You then pulled out some sheets from your briefcase.
"Now, if you would take these out and pass them forward to the nearest person to you, and once filled in, pass them back, we can proceed to understanding who you are better."
A collective scribbling of pens ensued as students started filling out the questionnaires.
It was amazing to see the diversity that lay here before you. Each entry was a life, a story, a legacy that had individual values, fears and expectations and, after all of the students handed back their papers, you dove straight into the lecture content for which students were required to read thirty pages from their textbook.
As you were speaking about the material covered, you noticed that a group of young men in the second row were not paying much attention to what you had to say. Instead, they were actually looking at a magazine while happily discussing its content .
You recognized their behavior as being disengaged from the lecture and, just as you were about to lower your rating for their participation, you noticed that the young man on the far left of them was pushing the magazine away.
He was staring at you now as if he was a deer caught in headlights. He knew that he had been caught for not paying attention and as you followed his line of sight, you noticed how adorably flustered he was, all pink cheeks and disheveled hair.
"Now that I have your attention, can you tell me why the judge 's rulings in this scenario would establish the doctrine of foreseeability?" you asked, addressing him directly, causing even his fellow students to put the magazine aside.
He looked bewildered, slowly gathering his thoughts and in that moment.
Fumbling his way around the answer, his vulnerably and clearly unpracticed nature showed as his hands gripped onto a textbook placed upon his lap. The vulnerable energy exuded by this raw and real response captivated you.
"Uhm ... Mhm. Yes, well, I suppose the judge's ruling," he stammered , followed by a deafening pause while you waited for the continuation of his answer. He glanced around nervously at the other students as if seeking validation for what his answer might be. "What case was this, Miss Y/LN?" he then asked, raising his right eyebrow in genuine confusion and you couldn't help but feel even more captivated by this young man, who still seemed to be embarrassed from being caught.
He had a subtle accent that hinted at coming from the country.
"It was Hart v Hart," you explained with a smile.
"Right, sorry. It was Hart v. Hart," he repeated as he furrowed his brows and continued to examine the pages spread before him. "In Hart v. Hart, the judge ruled that if a person engages in an inherently dangerous activity, such as driving under the influence of alcohol, then that person can be held partially liable for any harm that results from their actions even if the other driver was actually at fault," the student then explained nervously, making you realize that he had, indeed, read the prescribed reading.
"Yes, that's correct, uhm...I am sorry, I need to really memorize all of your names. I promise, I will try," you replied, not recalling his name.
"Cillian," he answered, holding your gaze firmly while pushing his hair back with his free hand.
The moment our eyes met, you noticed that his were the most captivating deep blue eyes you had ever seen. He flashed you an enchanting smile, and you couldn't help but become conscious of your own smile as your cheeks turned a light shade of pink.
You recovered quickly, clearing your throat and stating, "Thank you Cillian," as you darted your gaze back to the students before you, trying to easily move on from this moment.
As soon as you were finished with the lecture, he approached you while his friends walked out of the lecture hall, giggling and whispering to each other as they watched their friend 's interaction with you.
Cillian now stood before you, looking a tad bit intimidated as he ran his hand through his hair nervously.
"Cillian, right?" you asked to confirm, nodding in acknowledgment.
"Yes," he replied with a smile, his cheeks turning a soft shade of pink.
"How can I help you?" you asked, your curiosity welling up due to his lingering presence, as you noticed the intense look in his eyes.
"Well, I just," he stammered. "I am sorry about earlier Miss Y/LN ," he said sincerely, averting his gaze, manifesting in a newfound confidence that, surprisingly, didn't intimidate you at all.
"It's alright. It happens," you admitted with a chuckle.
"So we are good?" he asked, lifting his gaze back to yours.
"Yes, we're grand," you confirmed with a smile, finding his nerves endearing.
The way he was fidgeting before you reminded you of a curious young boy rather than a young university student.
"Okay. Good," Cillian murmured, the relief washing over him. He smiled again, exposing his dimples. "Then, have a good day, Miss Y/LN," Cillian stammered, glancing at you one more time before walking away to follow his friends.
*** Cillian's POV ****
"Someone has a thing for our new professor," his friend Ben teased as Cillian walked over to them, and they left the building together.
"Don't be an eejit ," Cillian replied, playfully shoving his best friend as his cheeks burned up. "I was just trying to be polite ," he muttered, feeling flustered at being put on the spot.
Ben and the others laughed, enjoying the spectacle of their now clearly flustered friend.
Ben shook his head amused. "Suuuure!" he drawled, skepticism oozing from his tone. "You could have fooled us, because you sure looked like you could hardly take your eyes off her," he continued, teasing him relentlessly.
"She's our teacher for fuck sake," he retorted and it was rare for Cillian to get flustered like that, but there was something about you that drew him in.
"And she is one good looking MILF," Ben quipped and they all burst into laughter at his comment, but Cillian couldn't help the feeling of annoyance bubbling inside of him. He couldn't exactly say why, but the thought of his friends objectifying you made him angry.
You were smart and confident, and Cillian had to admit that your intellect intrigued him, but it was more than that. He couldn't explain it and tried to simply ignore his attraction towards you, hoping it would go away. Cillian knew that he had to focus on his studies and his future career prospects even though his passions were laying elsewhere. Law was not for him but, even at twenty years of age, he had yet to realize what his real calling was.
His father had always been proud of Cillian and supported his education, but at the same time, he, like many fathers of his generation, believed in the importance of material success. Law was a well-paid profession and, at least in his father's eyes, Cillian not having chosen a suitable career path yet was a source of concern.
His mother, on the other hand, had recognized the fire in his eyes at a young age.
She sensed his innate desire to create and to perform. Even at fifteen, he would spend hours, almost obsessively, learning musical pieces and theatre scripts. He found beauty in unfolding stories told through music and film and, by sixteen, he was performing with a band - an unstable career path, one that wavered with uncertainty.
His heart and soul belonged to art and performance, but the fear of letting his father down haunted him a little so he went to law school instead.
*** Your POV ***
The fact that law wasn't his calling also became evident to you when you began to read the questionnaire Cillian had submitted. It contained answers that demonstrated genuine interest in the subject, but at the same time, you noticed that he had written entire paragraphs about his passion for theater and music.
You smiled at this realization.
You chose to believe that some people simply haven't yet found the courage to pursue what they truly loved and you pondered about how often this happened when it came to students choosing courses and careers in college.
Most of them were at an age where they were experimenting and discovering who they were, what they liked, and what they weren't particularly fond of.
It was during this period of self-discovery that many of them realized that their passions lay elsewhere - that their more practical choices were not aligned with their true callings.
As you continued to read through Cillian's questionnaire, you realized that his passion for acting became apparent in his answers. The cases he chose to delve into on the questionnaire were cases that were made more interesting due to their underlying personal and emotional aspects rather than just the black tops and white bottoms of legal principles.
He related these cases to his own experiences in story telling. For instance, in answering a question about an interesting case of tort law, he wrote about "The Deer Hunter" movie and the emotional turmoil the character had to go through due to his experiences in the war. He then compared this scenario to what happened in the case and his answer grabbed your attention not only due to the co-relation between the movie and the case, but also because it pulled at your heartstrings and made you feel something profound and unforgettable.
Cillian had a way with words, and you found yourself reading through Cillian's answers multiple times, simply because they were so much more than just the mere facts.
He weaved stories within stories, connecting the dots between fiction and reality, between law and life. You recognized a young, fresh, and overflowing talent in him, although clearly, this talent was not going to be one in law.
*** The following two weeks ***
Over the next two weeks , you spent a considerable amount of time crafting the perfect lecture content for your students, ensuring it catered for their different learning styles.
You designed a series of hands-on workshops for your students and introduced practical lessons to illustrate the concepts learned in your lectures. It was important to you to teach them in an engaging and interactive manner so that they would have greater retention and overall understanding of the concepts.
For each workshop, you created different scenarios where students would have to analyze, argue, and debate the legal issues presented before them.
This allowed them to think critically, discuss differing viewpoints, and most importantly, experience firsthand what it was truly like to be a lawyer.
In doing this, you incorporated your own past experiences as well. This allowed you to connect with your students on a personal level while teaching them valuable communication skills that they could use for their future careers.
Cillian, for instance, showed remarkable passion for this type of activity, demonstrating an ability to argue thoughtfully and eloquently, while always remaining respectful when disagreeing with his classmates and you couldn't help but praise him for his particpation.
"Dude, you are trying way too hard," Ben teased Cillian after the workshop which was a comment you overheard but chose to ignore.
Instead, you observed Cillian share a look of irritation with his friend. "I am not even trying, seriously," he replied flatly with an eye roll that made you stifle a giggle.
"Yes you are. You are trying hard to impress our professor, whom you still have a massive crush on. You are nowhere near as engaged in Torts and Contracts," Ben retorted, poking fun at his best friend, causing him to blush with embarrassment.
"Shut up man. I am not having a crush on her," Cillian muttered, trying to downplay it while you found this exchange rather amusing, overhearing it while still grading student assignments.
You had heard some rumors amongst your peers that a couple of your students may be having a crush on you and you heard from others that this wasn't really unusual. Many students had innocent crushes on their teachers and, while you could understand how that might happen, you had to remind yourself to always maintain a professional distance.
Keeping your distance from Cillian, however, soon proved much harder than you anticipated when he started to struggle with some of the course content in another subject for which it was recommended that you tutor him.
By the fourth week, you already tutored three other students for subjects you did not, yourself, teach to them and singling Cillian out from tutoring because of his little crush didn't strike you the right way. Thus, when he asked you for help during the break in your next lecture, you did not hesitate.
*** The Beginning of Tutoring ***
"I've been having some trouble with contracts and torts," Cillian said, running a hand through his hair, looking nervous and uncertain. "And my lecturer in those subjects recommended that I seek additional help."
"Of course," you said, giving him a reassuring smile. "I'd be happy to set up some tutoring sessions for you. I think it's great that you're taking the initiative to seek help in areas where you're struggling," you said, maintaining a professional tone.
Cillian nodded, looking relieved. "Thank you, I really appreciate it. I want to do well in this program, you know," he stammered , his eyes flickering nervously around the still-bustling lecture hall. "I can't afford to fail any subjects," he added, biting his bottom lip.
His vulnerability struck a chord within you, and you couldn't help but feel a sense of empathy towards him. You understood the pressure that students faced when it came to academic performance, and you admired Cillian's determination to succeed.
"Of course, I completely understand. How about we start on Thursday?" you suggested, favoring an informal approach. "I'm available from four until six-thirty, so we should have plenty of time to go over any areas you're struggling with without feeling rushed."
Cillian nodded, grimacing slightly. "Yeah, that'll be grand," he replied, managing a weak smile. "I'll see you then, Miss Y/LN," he added, before gathering his belongings and rushing off to his next class.
You couldn't help but watch him leave, taking in the sight of him as he walked confidently through the crowd of students. The way his hair fell onto his forehead and the determined look in his eyes stayed with you even after he had left.
You let out a long sigh, trying to shake off the odd sense of familiarity that washed over you. The idea of tutoring Cillian ignited a spark of excitement in you, mixed with a pinch of anxiety.
You were nervous at the prospect of spending two extra hours alone with him every week, given what you had picked up from the rumor mill about his crush, and, to make matters even worse, no matter how much you tried to deny it or push it away, the truth was that you, yourself, had started recognizing a certain level of fascination towards Cillian. It was a fascination you knew you shouldn't have. Not only were you ten years older than him, but he was also your student.
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#cillian murphy imagine#cillian murphy x y/n#cillian murphy x you#cillian murphy x reader#cillian murphy smut#cillian murphy
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My experiences with autistic burnout as an LSN autistic person
For context, I was diagnosed with ASD nearly a year ago and I wasn't given a level as I was diagnosed according to the ICD-11. I don't use the term 'level 1' because it is a diagnostic term I was not assigned, so I use the term low support needs (LSN) for myself.
In school, I was very burnt out. The constant onslaught of sensory input for 10 hours a day (8 hours at school plus 2 hours of commute), constantly having to deal with uncertainty, having to mask at full capacity constantly, and dealing with my peers making me feel extremely unwelcome took a very heavy toll on me. Especially since I was undiagnosed until I was 17, I received no support for my autistic needs which led to me having severe mental health difficulties in my formative years.
I didn't realise that I was in burnout for years, including in the school year that I got diagnosed with ASD, because I was so used to it. I used to go home and be completely unable to do anything at all, I would just be able to sit under my weighted blanket listening to brown noise on my headphones, which made it a lot harder to stay on top of homework and studying. I was honestly just going through the motions of life without actually being present. It was exhausting, and I didn't feel like I was really a person.
The way my burnout ended was through me graduating high school, and having months of very few responsibilities before I moved out and started university. Additionally, my required hours on campus at university are much lower currently than they were in high school, my commute to campus is much shorter now, and the people are much nicer to me. This has (so far, a month into uni) prevented me from going into burnout.
My burnout was so bad and so prolonged that for a while I began to question if I could be on the lower end of MSN because I was struggling so much. It turns out I am definitely LSN (I currently live alone and don't need much outside support to do so), I was just not having those support needs met. LSN does not mean no support needs, it means low support needs compared to other autistic people, many of whom have very high support needs.
Hopefully sharing my experiences with burnout will make someone else feel less alone or help someone make sense of their experiences.
#autism#autistic#actuallyautistic#actually autistic#asd#autism spectrum disorder#low support needs#autistic burnout#burnout
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hii could i request a mao x fem reader where reader is getting behind on their work for school, and the concepts are all just too hard for her! :( so mao offers to tutor her to the best of his ability~ but soon enough, that tutoring session turns into a hopeless one as reader gets more and more lazy.. so then mao decides to let her sit on his cock while studying!! get the answer right, he lets her move a little bit for both of their pleasure. get the answer wrong, he makes her sit absolutely still. but who is he kidding, he can’t control himself and ends up making love to her anyway!
“I can’t help myself, you look so pretty…”
synopsis — he sees you struggling with your schoolwork, so he tries to help. of course, things don't go as intended and soon you're bent over... [mao isara x fem! reader]
content warnings — nsfw, mdni. semi-exhibitionism, penetration, cockwarming, edging, praise, sexual frusturation, breeding (mentioned), slightly obsessive behavior
author's note — I LOVE MAO I LOVE HIM HES MY KIN MY EVERYTHING GOD SEND ME A MAN LIKE HIM *says this while scrolling through mao cgs ahem*
word count — 1591
"[NAME]... YOU'RE FAILING."
You were in the Student Council office of Yumenosaki Academy after school hours, accompanied by the president himself, Mao Isara. His gaze stern yet sympathetic, he glanced at your careless figure slouched against the chair.
"[name]," He repeated, more firmly. "You have to change something soon, or you're going to be thrown out of the school."
...Even though that would be more of a fuss than having her fail nearly all of her classes. Not only would they lose a precious student in the Producer course, but he wouldn't have a chance...
"I don't have time to study, so therefore I don't pass," You shrugged, eye twitching. "And I don't have the patience nor the brain capacity for this shit-"
"Language. Please," Mao interjected, sighing. "Look, I know it's hard for somebody like you, but there are so many other students here in Yumenosaki and they persevere through it. You're a great student, I think you'll be able to succeed if you had your mind on it."
Crossing your arms, you broke off your eye contact with him, trying to hide your hurt gaze. He was right- you could have done so much better if you set yourself a goal, but with everything else going on in your life you didn't think you wanted to spare the energy for this... all you wanted to do was to just graduate and run off. What's so bad about that?
"How-" He cleared his throat. "How about I see your work? I think I may be able to help you."
Staring at him, brushing off his almost flustered look, you hummed and dragged your bag over, digging through it and bringing out your stuffed folder. Mao grimaced at the sheer number of packets, sheets, and overall papers that seem to be spilling out from every corner. Sliding it over to his side of the desk and opening it, he skimmed through the pile. Fortunately you did try to start most of the pages, but nearly all of them were unfinished.
"Here," He pulled out a blank worksheet. "Why don't you bring your chair over here and we can start on this one? This seems fairly easy."
"To you," You muttered under your breath, but you followed his directions and sat next to his Council chair, resting your arm on one of the rests.
Much to Mao's relief you didn't seem to argue about every little thing he listed off... but you didn't even try to answer them yourself. It got even worse when they barely made it through half of the first page, him having to constantly remind you to pay attention or reiterate several of his questions. It was like the more he got frustrated, the more you grew tired and lazy.
But he didn't want to give up on you. A part of his brain was almost... fantasizing. If he somehow solved your studying problem, would you like him? His heart jumped at the thought of you being thankful towards him, expressing your joy. Could this really be his chance?
He first had to just figure out how to make you focused on studying.
A loud whine shook him out of his thoughts. "It's not working, Isara," You complained. "Can I just leave? Please-"
"Ah, no!" He said, almost too quickly. You raised an eyebrow at his antics, and he brushed them off with a slightly embarrassed look. "I-I actually have a method of helping you..."
"If it's me getting dick then I'm up for it, but-" Faltering at your sudden joke, you stared at the red blossoming on Mao's face, almost matching his maroon hair. "Uh, Isara? I was joking..."
The President coughed into his fist, still extremely flustered. "I mean- if you think that would work we could definitely try..."
You stared at him. Did you really joke about sex that much that he took it seriously? You didn't even mention it once until now! What on earth...
The awkward tension arose and became almost suffocating until you finally opened your mouth. "I guess we could give it a go...? If you're alright with it, of course."
Mao swallowed, nodding quickly as he gestured to his lap. You stood up, but kept your eyes glued onto the desk, feeling your cheeks heating up as you heard him fuss with his belt and pants.
"You can sit down now..." He said quietly, and lifting your skirt up you lowered yourself on him, feeling his hands resting on your hips to guide you.
Suddenly glad that he couldn't see your expression, your eyes flew wide open and you bit your lip quickly.
He- oh god, how big is he?!
"A-alright then," Mao stuttered, looking over your shoulder and snaking his arms under yours to reach his desk. "Here, you get a question right and then you can- move. Get it wrong and sit still."
You already were struggling not to grind against him. Already a few seconds in and you were crying mentally. And the fact you couldn't see Mao's own expression...
Sighing, you tried to focus on the worksheet in front of you, your grip on the pen tightening. Thank the gods it was an easy question you couldn't mess up. Quickly scrawling out your answer, you tapped on Mao for him to check it, anxious energy radiating from the both of you.
"Yes," He breathed out, sounding relieved. "That's correct. Nice jobmm-" A stuttered groan left him as you immediately started to move, your head dipping as you pleased yourself. But as soon as you started Mao's hands grabbed your hips, slowing you down. "Start- on the next question now."
Looking through blurred eyes you glanced at the next question, and your throat parched.
Welp, this was it.
---
Your face was scrunched up in frustration and helplessness as you sat completely still on Mao's cock, your hands clenching and releasing as you used basically all of your willpower not to snap and just move. If you looked behind you, the President's eyes were half-lidded, biting his lip as he tried to push down his rising neediness. He really didn't expect it to be this bad when he tried this idea. Of course he was tempted to just accept your wrong answer, but he still had a shred of dignity left, and forced you to keep trying until you got the right answer.
How long were you in this? Thirty, forty minutes? You couldn't really think because your mind was in shambles. When you either had personal sessions or with somebody else (which was rare) you were quick to give you the pleasure you wanted, you needed. So to say the least, because you were basically being edged the only thing you could think about right now was how much you needed that orgasm.
"Here," You said shortly, almost slapping Mao as you showed him your paper, pleading that you were finally correct after so many failed tries.
Hazy green eyes looked at the paper, also wishing that the right answer was in front of him, but life was basically sucked out of him as his gaze fell on one, just one incorrect factor.
Fuck.
"It's wrong isn't it..." You whined, collapsing your torso on the desk and tossing your pen away. "I can't get it right! It's too hard!"
Panicked, Mao reached over to you to try to comfort you, but he had accidentally flipped your skirt over and revealed the scene under it. As soon as he saw it, he combusted.
Slick had started to pool out and decorate his pelvis, glinting brightly back at him. He saw your thighs twitching constantly, dotted with sweat.
That was his breaking point.
"Isara- ugh!" A shocked moan left you as you felt the male stand up behind you and suddenly thrust into you, causing you to grip the desk tightly. After all this time of staying still, you weren't the one to break, he was. He started fucking you erratically, small, whiny grunts leaving him. Soon enough noises of your own started to spill, but one of his hands went up to your mouth and shoved his fingers in there, muffling you.
"I'm sorry, sorry..." he mumbled against your back, his eyes scrunched up. "I can't help myself, you look so pretty..."
Due to the sensitivity before you came immediately, then was shoved harshly into overstimulation as Mao didn't seem to slow down at all. Your eyes fluttered close, drooling all over the male's fingers as your knees buckled, your only support now being the arm wrapped around your hips.
This was like a dream come true to him... well, sexualized of course. The way you tightened around him was almost like a verbal acceptance of his love to you. This was it, wasn't it? You were basically his now.
An unhinged moan left him as he orgasmed, green eyes dilating as he watched his seed fill you up and spill out, carelessly running down your shaking thighs.
You still laid over his desk, breathing heavily as he reached over and kissed you on the lips, smiling to himself as you immediately accepted it.
"How 'bout this..." He grabbed the worksheet and crumpled it into a ball, tossing it into his wastebasket. "A new game. The longer you stay quiet, the more we can keep going~ I’d be able to fill up you up, fill you up so well…”
"Fuckin' hell-" You sighed loudly. "Yes. Please, please—
"Atta girl... I knew I chose the right one.”
#enstars#ensemble stars#enstars smut#ensemble stars smut#mao isara#mao isara x reader#mao isara smut
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[Interruption] SNSB 2022: Rounds 3 & 4 Words Round-Up
I initially would like to write this up after Round 3 and before Round 4, but apparently, the Semifinals (Round 5) are going to start in less than 30 minutes as I speak. I have half a day time zone difference ahead of the United States, and when I was supposed to rest, I could not. So here came the Rounds 3 & 4 words round-up.
By words round-up, I mean in terms of how the word list is organized. The difficulty balance, how each word is "approached" if we were the speller, what to weigh in if we curate as well, and more. While for internet anonymity reasons I do not want to reveal further (for now), spending more than a decade in this field in various roles (including as a speller myself and judging) hopefully gave you enough understanding of "under what capacity am I writing in."
Rounds 3 & 4 from last night (and earlier today) were a rollercoaster of their own. While after Round 3 we had attained 88 quarterfinalists, the number dwindled down to 48 exactly after Round 4. These two rounds then gave me an impression of the "contrasting expectations" if I position myself as someone behind the word list (at least, those who arranged the difficulty level).
Then, how was that possible?
Wait, how would you say it as "contrasting expectations?"
I am trying to analyze this from how I expected Rounds 3 and 4 to be, and I managed my expectations from there, at least from different perspectives. In Round 3, since it was supposed to be "the first off-list (non-study guide) round," it could have served as a warm-up before the fourth round. If the first and second round was from the study guide (which difficulty could vary), at least give the third "a conceptual (sometimes root and pattern, sometimes 'words close to daily but we need to improvise a bit in how we are going to solve it') warm-up," considering how possibly extreme the fourth round could be.
Round 3
Throughout the history of this round, Round 3 had been major attention within the spelling community inner circle (especially the communities I interact with best) because of the difficulty rollercoaster. I am taking these words as some "turning point" (and samples) before I move on to the fourth round.
apiculture
mononucleosis
suffrutescent
Crimea
cinephile
audiencia
Wembley
apostasy
pacificism
agglutination
fauxhawk
noctambulant
Quite a sample, eh? Among those examples, I could categorize them into two big groups, which were:
Looks simple in length, but mathematical (a term I used for roots and pattern-based words that are actually decipherable, regardless of the length) and maybe often heard: audiencia, cinephile, apostasy, pacificism, agglutination. Some words might deserve to stay, but some should have been out earlier.
Long in length, a little bit more specific (in usage context), mathematical: apiculture, mononucleosis, suffrutescent, noctambulant. I expected the words at this length if the difficulty were toned a little bit down, to appear in early Round 4 or just stay here (if escalation were a little bit more extreme), with better organization, especially with even harder words within this category.
Then, where would I locate Crimea and Wembley? I noticed Crimea because of my real-life background (also, the current situation), but I noticed Wembley mainly because of sports (Wembley Stadium in London, everyone!).
If we look at the round reports really deeply, we could see that Round 3 words felt like the words drawn out of a pot (there were finals of a competition like this where I live, where spellers drew the words they would receive from a pot). Completely contrasts with the fourth round.
Round 4
While I am unsure about the third round, I saw a pattern recurring in the only round of the quarterfinals: "the basic roots improvisation" intention that I caught from the third round started to show its shape. This is where, when we know the basic roots or patterns, we can improvise in several words (that even if the form is different from the one we have discovered, we could still solve it either way). Differing from the third round's difficulty setting that was all over the place, the fourth round was more organized.
There were several tricky words, I must admit, like "Turbit" or those we might have been familiar with like "favicon" in-between words like argillaceous (Akeelah and the Bee reference!), florilegium, cholecystitis, or even uveoparotitis and matsutake, but generally, I saw this as a prelude to a possibly more extreme (and brutal?) words at the end, maybe to the point that I might have missed those parts when diving the dictionary, but the words look interesting. That is, because we never know what the dictionary would throw at us, they could just throw everything.
Subsequent Rounds
This writing might have been finished in the middle of the semifinals, but I actually expected the subsequent rounds to be a little bit similar but higher in terms of difficulty to the fourth round. I am not sure how should it be toned down or keeping it similarly, but as soon as the rounds go–I could still expect "the spams" at worst: full of geographical entries, and lots of phrases (I mostly found either Latin or French), or genus/species. However, if things go south, where I thought of "the spams" as a word-meaning or vocabulary question, my overthinking side would think "is this a spelling bee or trivia crack" moment, since I remember making those questions for my fake competition round results (as my study aid).
Generally, I might have been bamboozled at the "detailed" balance, but the general balance of the fourth round, at least, is more tolerable "and guessable" to some extent than the third.
Until next coverage, everyone in the word games world!
#spelling bee#bee week#bee week 2022#scripps national spelling bee#scripps national spelling bee 2022#word games
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I think it’s hilarious how so many characters that I loved growing up are now being headcanoned as having adhd or autism, like this brain certainly knew who to relate to
#my actual personal life tag#also neurodivergent ppl in general#like i absolutely loved bones and shes almost canonly autistic#i genuinely get angry when booth gets annoyed with her or diminishes her thoughts#i could listen to her for hours#and he’s out there mocking her? for what being smarter? actually having something interesting to say?#but i digress#urg i just love fiction and im starting to get really confident in myself with adhd#i thought i didnt struggle that much#but like now im on meds its awefully clear i struggle way more than my peers#even than my brother who thinks he has it too#he said ‘yeah but i think you have it more severely#while like i thought i didnt struggle that much#cus i did get a bachalor’s degree already and graduated with honors#but turns out it’s just a study that’s severely under my capacities#cus studying for something the evening for an exam that others take weeks to study isnt#normal#anyway i got inattentive adhd and ngl im proud of how im different#it sucks definitely and if i had gotten an earlier diagnosis i wouldve done better in life#but it makes me who i am and ngl i think it makes me interesting
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Spilled Pearls
- Chapter 28 - ao3 -
The answer, it turned out, was paint.
It wasn’t an answer that Lan Qiren would have anticipated in any way, shape, or form. He had been under the impression, as had Lao Nie, that Wen Ruohan had stopped painting long ago. After some teasing by Lao Nie, the man had even off-handedly confirmed it at a private dinner they’d shared at a discussion conference – there had been more than usual planned in this past year, accounting for the fact that all of the Great Sect sect leaders (except Wen Ruohan) were unusually young, and therefore active. And although no one acknowledged it as a reason, everyone knew that it was also meant to help calm the concerns of the smaller sects regarding the chaos in their Great Sect leaders’ personal lives, between Jiang Fengmian losing his servant to his beloved or possibly the other way around, Lao Nie’s extremely bizarre marriage situation, and Lan Qiren stepping up unexpectedly to the position of sect leader on account of his brother’s retreat from the world.
According to Wen Ruohan, it hadn’t been anything in particular that had made him stop painting, only a lack of time and then of interest; there had been a severe crisis some time ago, long before either of them were born, and he had been obligated to devote himself exclusively to those affairs for an extended period of time. When he had finally resurfaced, years later, he had returned and found an old painting sitting there half-finished, and staring at it, realized that he was no longer the same man who had begun it.
He had never painted again.
Lan Qiren was unsure if this was a real story or not – Wen Ruohan, he had learned, seemed to consider the truth about his past to be little more than a gentleman’s agreement between friends – as it seemed to be an especially pointed reminder aimed at Lan Qiren’s situation in particular.
Lao Nie had certainly taken it as such, throwing in his own concerns about Lan Qiren’s work schedule, and when even Cangse Sanren had joined the growing mob of all the rest of his friends, Lan Qiren had finally, if reluctantly, agreed to defer to their concern. He’d finally taken a step back and reorganized his duties as sect leader, standing his ground against the elders and insisting on having more time to devote to his own interests, including those outside of his work as a teacher – music, study, quiet contemplation, even maintaining his training with the sword, despite the fact that he would never match his brother as a sword cultivator.
It had, in fact, made him a better sect leader, less prone to working until he burned out, and he was grateful to his friends for their wisdom and steadfastness in the face of his stubborn grief.
At any rate, though, Wen Ruohan was no longer the painter he had been in his youth, and the hints of burning that marked all such paintings that Lan Qiren had seen suggested that the transition had been an unpleasant one for him. It was a surprise, therefore, to receive, as a gift from the Nightless City, a painting in that immediately recognizable hand which was so freshly made that Lan Qiren imagined he could still smell the grinding ink.
The painting depicted a dragon amidst a misty bamboo forest, its massive coils interwoven throughout the bamboo until it appeared almost part of the earth from which they sprung, or alternatively that speared through from above by a rain of spears; in its claw it held a beauteous dragon pearl, shining bright against the dark haze that surrounded the rest of the painting, and its eyes were fixed upon it as if it had forgotten all else.
The pearl, Lan Qiren presumed, was himself, given Wen Ruohan’s fondness for comparing him to one, which Lan Qiren still did not entirely understand – while he knew it was a sign of Wen Ruohan’s appreciation for him, and an indication that he treasured him, he thought that the particular choice in the type of precious stone was likely to be due to the fact Lan Qiren largely preferred white and grey and silver for his clothing.
(Privately, he had determined that one day, out of sheer spite, he would wear an outfit primarily composed of blue for no other reason than to give the other man a shock; he just hadn’t found a reason yet to justify the expense of having such clothing made when he would only use it the once.)
Similarly, the dragon was the symbol of imperial might, of overweening power and influence and even arrogance; naturally that would be Wen Ruohan himself. But as for the rest of it – the lonely but beautiful bamboo forest, often associated with moral integrity and loyalty, yet juxtaposed in this painting as piercing spears, penetrating the dragon’s hide as if attacking him – the dark mist that seemed to envelop the dragon, held at abeyance only through the light of its pearl –
Lan Qiren did not understand.
There were too many meanings possible, and he did not know how to differentiate between those that were there and those he only wanted to read into it. There was nothing for it, but that he would need to ask the artist himself what was meant.
When, as expected, an invitation came a few days later, requesting that Lan Qiren visit the Nightless City in his capacity as Wen Ruohan’s sworn brother, Lan Qiren accepted.
There were all the necessary pleasantries when he arrived, of course. No longer could he just slip in through the back door, a younger brother come to leech off some resources from an elder; he was the Lan sect leader, and that came with certain obligations even on a casual visit. There were a few formal procedures, and then dinner with Wen Ruohan and his wives, with whom his dynamics had completely reversed – Madame Wen had thawed towards Lan Qiren on account of his new position as sect leader, which guaranteed that he would never be able to move to the Nightless City and thereby obstruct her personal power, while the new concubine, former maid, seemed to think that his involvement in her ascension to the position she now held was a matter of embarrassment, resulting in her wanting to snub him whenever possible.
Wen Ruohan largely ignored their antics, his eyes fixed on Lan Qiren throughout their meal, and afterwards, he had finally dismissed them all and taken Lan Qiren back to the small study he preferred to use for their time together.
“The painting you sent was lovely,” Lan Qiren said, playing a little with the cup of tea that was warm and aromatic in his hands. “You have lost none of your skill.”
“I rebuilt it,” Wen Ruohan corrected, looking amused. “You ought to have seen the first few efforts; I think I wasted enough paper to feed a small family for a year.”
Lan Qiren smiled at the thought. He could scarcely imagine Wen Ruohan struggling the way he described, making an effort and finding his ability wanting; still less could he have once imagined Wen Ruohan having admitted to that fact in front of another.
It was a little like what Lao Nie had said, that between the two of them they were excavating the residual humanity left in Wen Ruohan, slowly and methodically moving aside stone and dirt in order to find the treasures lurking beneath.
“I like it even more, then,” he said, and decided to be a little bit bold. “I like knowing that you thought of me for as long as it took you to make it.”
Wen Ruohan’s eyes curved in delight. “You need not be concerned on that score,” he said, his voice still calm and unhurried as always. “You are not so easily expelled from my thoughts, now that you have entered them…ah, little Lan, little Lan, you make me impatient! I had made plans on how to broach the subject with you, and yet now that you are here, I find myself rushing forward, intent to get to the point like some savage Nie.”
A savage Nie of whom he was exceedingly fond, he did not say, and Lan Qiren managed not to roll his eyes at him.
Instead, Lan Qiren put down his cup and folded his hands in his lap. “Don’t hesitate on my behalf,” he said, then added, a little dryly, “I’ve had enough indirect statements to last a lifetime.”
“Welcome to politics,” Wen Ruohan responded, just as dry, but his smile faded and his expression grew more intense; he stood and came closer to Lan Qiren, looking down at him for a long moment before taking a seat beside him. “Qiren, why are you here?”
Lan Qiren blinked, a little confused by the question, but before he could put together an answer, Wen Ruohan continued. “You are sincere and true to yourself; you follow your sect’s rules because you believe in them whole-heartedly and wish to live up to their strictures. Yet do they not say Do not associate with evil?”
“I don’t think you’re evil,” Lan Qiren said. “I think we disagree on what actions constitute evil, on what divides good from evil, and that you are more comfortable walking closely along that line than I. I think that there will be many times in the future where we disagree once again on what is or is not the straight path, and what is the crooked, but – fundamentally, I don’t think you’re evil.”
He considered the question for another moment longer, then added: “And if you were, what is there to do about it? You’re still my sworn brother, bound by oath and blood, and that makes you my responsibility whether I like it or not. Even if you were evil, the only thing that would be left for me to do would be to try my best to lead you out of the dark and back to the light.”
Wen Ruohan was watching him again. His red eyes were narrowed a little, his gaze as intense as it had been when Lan Qiren had been little more than a child, although experience had made it a little less overwhelming.
“You know that I see you as a pearl in the palm of my hand,” Wen Ruohan finally said. His voice was low and intimate, and Lan Qiren shivered to hear it. “A treasure I never expected to find, a gem of such surpassing purity that I fear it will burn me to dare profane it with my touch. Time is eternal; the pearl flows, the jade turns, and yet I remain, walking my crooked path and you your straight broad bridge, shining with righteousness. I see you and yearn for you both day and night, and even in my dreams…”
He reached out and put his hand on Lan Qiren’s. “I would have you be mine, if you would have the same.”
No hollowed-out puppets soon to be discarded here, Lan Qiren thought nonsensically, and swallowed.
“I am yours,” he said carefully, pronouncing each syllable at a time. He had to get this right, he thought, and he would only ever have this one singular chance to do so, or else he’d lose something as bright and shining as the pearl Wen Ruohan was always comparing him to. “I am your sworn brother, as you are mine; I will always be yours.”
“I know,” Wen Ruohan said, and it seemed for once that Lan Qiren had expressed himself clearly rather than muddling it up: he hadn’t misunderstood him into thinking that what Lan Qiren had said was a rejection. “If I were not one of those evil men that your rules warn you against, I would find it in myself to be content with that. But I am, and I am not.”
Lan Qiren wet his lips with his tongue. “You know what I told you,” he reminded him. “About how I – I could compromise myself if I had to, if it made you happy, but I don’t want to have to. That is not who I am, what I am. I don’t want to have to bend and yield. I don’t want to break under the weight of love the way my brother did.”
Wen Ruohan was watching him, patient and waiting.
“I’m not comfortable with that type of intimacy, the type shared between lovers since the start of time,” Lan Qiren finally said. “I don’t want it intrinsically, and I don’t think I want it logically, either. More than that, I don’t think, having never wanted it before and not wanting it now, that I will ever want it. My brother once compared me to a block of ice or a mountain lake frozen over in winter, frigid, and there was something true to what he said. There is no heat that will make me melt as others do…and yet.”
“And yet?”
“And yet you are not the only one who wishes to possess.” He met Wen Ruohan’s eyes. “I, too, would have you be mine.”
His stupid Lan sect heart, burning a hole in his chest; it should have been enough to make him forget his own wishes and be willing to give in, to want to give everything to his beloved no matter the cost to himself, but it wasn’t – he wasn’t. And yet, at the same time, he judged his own affections to be no less than his brother’s for all that they were quieter and less flamboyant, understated rather than loudly proclaimed
Wen Ruohan leaned forward, bringing their faces closer together. “Then why don’t you claim me?”
“Because I cannot offer you what I should,” Lan Qiren said truthfully. “What you would expect –”
“And when,” Wen Ruohan cut him off, “have I ever cared for the expectations set out by the rest of the world? Would I have done half the things I did if I cared for the world’s conventions and determined my aims through their lens?”
Lan Qiren had to admit that he had a point.
“I know what you are,” Wen Ruohan said. “To taint you would be to ruin my own pleasure, to force you would be to deny myself – and I never deny myself. I am greedy, little Lan; I am not content with what the world would have me want, not when I can have what I really want.”
“And what is it that you want?”
“Lao Nie told me that he told you about his wife,” Wen Ruohan said. “How he stayed and she went, and they were still happy…I want that, with you.”
Lan Qiren frowned, not understanding.
“I want you,” Wen Ruohan told him, and his long-fingered hand traced over Lan Qiren’s cheekbone. “I want to have you, to own you, to keep you. I want to possess you down to the marrow of your bones; I want every inch of you in every way that I can have you. I want you to be mine – and I don’t need to fuck you to have it.”
Lan Qiren stared at him.
Wen Ruohan smile was like his smirk, triumphant and arrogant, certain of his impending victory. “If I want sex, I have my wives or Lao Nie for that, don’t I? To my wives I have only promised power, which I have given them. As for Lao Nie, I know now that he cannot promise me his heart: he is too facile, too free, too easy with others – he is compelled to share not only his body, which I wouldn’t mind, but also his heart, and I find that I am as unwilling to share in matters of the heart as you are to share your body.”
He shifted closer yet again, until their eyes were level with each other and their breath intermingled in the air between them.
“You will not be like him,” he said, voice dark and certain. “You’re barely willing to divide your attention to things you consider less important than your particular interests. Your heart is your clan’s curse and its treasure, taking you to the heavens and casting you down to the hells – if you give me your heart, full and entire, it will be as if you have removed it from your chest and put it in my hand. No one else will have any part of it, not like this, not in this way. It will only be me.”
“That is true,” Lan Qiren said. “I love no less deeply than my brother. My heart is a placid lake with a surface as clear as glass – you can see everything therein. Within it, there are only my interests, my nephew, my few friends, and you.”
Wen Ruohan’s smile widened.
“What exactly are you thinking?” Lan Qiren asked. His heart was beating in his chest so fast that it hurt. “If you want the assurance, you have it already: I am yours, and you are mine, and it would shatter me to let you go now. Is that what you want?”
“It is.” Wen Ruohan laughed, and it was full of pleasure. “Ah, little Lan! It is, it is.”
“What does it change?” Lan Qiren asked. “How is it different from what we have already?”
“It changes everything,” Wen Ruohan said simply, and Lan Qiren thought about and felt that he was right. “Knowing that you are mine makes it easier to release you into the world, to watch you shine and others see it; let them all look and know that it will never be theirs. All good things in the world are mine, and you are the best among them.”
“Pretty words,” Lan Qiren said, aiming for dry but probably just coming off as short of breath. “I’m a little more interested in the practical.”
“I would have you share my pillow while you are here,” Wen Ruohan said. “I do not need you to share your body with me, but I would have your company as a husband has his wife’s…and there are things that can be done without involving your body, depending on your tolerance.”
“Oh? Like what?”
Wen Ruohan grinned. “As it happens, that’s a matter I’ve given some considerable thought to…”
Lan Qiren rolled his eyes, and felt the heat in his ears fade a little; he appreciated the small reprieve from the emotional intensity, the humor breaking the tenseness of the moment.
“You know I find you beautiful,” Wen Ruohan said, and this time his hand came to rest on Lan Qiren’s cheek, his thumb brushing over his lips, and as quickly as that the reprieve was gone. “Perhaps you would permit me to find my own pleasure beside you, gazing upon you, or even invite another to share the bed while you busy yourself with your work – you are never as beautiful as when you are focused, your soul and mind wholly absorbed in your passion for the subject. Perhaps I would invite you to read a spring book for me, spilling out dirty words in that cool tone of yours that you use regardless of the circumstance, so that I might torment myself with hearing you at any time and think of that…I have a thousand and one ideas, little Lan, and I would try them all to see which ones you like and which ones you don’t, to yield to your preference and glory in so yielding.”
None of that sounded like something Lan Qiren would dislike, he thought to himself; it really was only his own personal involvement in the act that he truly objected to. And if Wen Ruohan had Lan Qiren’s heart and Lao Nie’s body, and both their friendship besides, perhaps even he in his ceaseless ambition could find a way to be satisfied with what he had for a time.
“I would like that,” he said honestly.
“Then having gained a cun, I will take a chi,” Wen Ruohan said. “I would like to kiss you.”
Lan Qiren swallowed.
“…all right,” he said. “You may.”
And he did.
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The Soul Truth
Day 2, Story #1 is by @honouraryweasley12
Title: The Soul Truth
Author: honouraryweasley12
Pairing: Ron x Hermione
Prompt: Soulmates
Rating: K+
TW: none
The ornate doors slid open and Hermione stepped out of the lift, her shoes clacking on the stone floor as she walked forward, head held high but movements stiff. She quickly found that it was best to give off a strong, confident air as she met with various ministries in her new capacity.
She hadn't been in this part of the Ministry often and it was quite unfamiliar to her. All the more reason to keep her guard up.
"Greetings, Minister Granger-Weasley. Congratulations on your victory."
A wizened old man in heavy, dark robes welcomed her, limping forward and holding out a shaky gnarled hand. She took it and met his eyes, which were still sharp—despite his advanced age. A playful twinkle shone out from them, reminding her immediately of Dumbledore.
"Thank you."
He gave her a smile. "Welcome to Archive floor of the Department of Mysteries."
She looked around the cavernous space, taking everything in. She could practically feel the hum of ancient magic reverberating around the walls.
"And you are?"
"I am the Archivist."
"Oh, I meant your name."
He chuckled. "We don't use our given names in this department, just our titles. There is great power in names, as you no doubt know, and we don't want that to interfere with the work we are doing here."
"What should I call you?"
He thought for a moment, before looking up at her. "For today, you can call me… Dave."
She immediately relaxed and shook her head, her face incredulous. "Why Dave?"
"Ah, you see, the power of names. By picking something so simple and informal, your posture and tone changed completely. Had I picked something more formal, you would have responded in kind."
She smiled, immediately taking a liking to the mysterious old man. "Lead the way, Dave. I was told I would be receiving the grand tour."
The two walked slowly through the vast archives, the various rooms and chambers full of different experiments, mystical objects, and parchments.
"Where is everyone?" Hermione stopped to ask, noticing that they hadn't seen a single person, Unspeakable or otherwise, as she was shown around.
"Some of our greatest breakthroughs happen in the early morning or late evening. We encourage our members to work when it best suits them." He squinted at a battered gold watch that seemed to weigh heavily on his wrist. "Yes, 3:00 PM is usually the quietest time of the day down here."
"I see. I do some of my best work at odd times as well."
He nodded sagely. "The quiet mind is often the clearest."
They continued touring through, until they came to a small door tucked behind several suits of armour. It was so old and dark that Hermione wouldn't have even noticed it, had Dave not mentioned it.
"Most Ministers of Magic I've worked with seem to be worried about other objects down here that might help them, but I have something interesting which I think you'll appreciate."
He fished out a small key from within the folds in his robes and turned it in the lock. The heavy door creaked open to reveal a closet-sized space with a single pedestal. On top of it sat a thin, aged book.
"It's my understanding that you are an avid reader, Minister."
"Yes, how did you know?"
"It's my job to know," he added gravely, watching her eyes narrow. He waved his hand dismissively, grinning again. "No, no, I'm only joking. I happened to share a lift with Auror Weasley one Monday morning, and while I didn't mean to eavesdrop, he was complaining quite loudly to Auror Potter that he missed you, because you had your nose stuck in a book all weekend. I mean no offense, of course."
She blushed and rolled her eyes affectionately. "That sounds like Ron alright."
"That's why I thought this might be of interest to you," he continued, gesturing to the pedestal.
She couldn't help but be intrigued as she stared down at the frail old book, her voice dipping down to a whisper of reverence. "What is it?"
"It's called The Book of Souls—though it's just a single parchment. Yet, it's the most dangerous object down here."
Hermione stared at it, her face a mask of awe. "How so?"
"Legend has it that the parchment was created by a powerful young witch, who was being courted by a prince. She wasn't sure if he was her soulmate, for she sensed a darkness in him, so she invoked some very ancient magic to help reveal the truth."
"It worked?"
"Indeed, it did. The parchment was charmed to reveal a small note, riddle, and sometimes even a name to the reader, one that would help them understand who their soulmate was. Unfortunately for that witch, her soulmate was most decidedly not the prince. She rejected his proposal, and as was the case back then, disappeared under mysterious circumstances soon after."
"That's terrible. Then what happened?"
"As the story goes, rumour spread about the witch's parchment, and as with most powerful objects, the lure of it drew out many seekers. Though the object was made with good intentions, it soon led to a trail of darkness and bloodshed. Broken families, obsessions, blackmail, jealousy, and even death. Knowing that kind of unshakeable truth proved to be a valuable commodity, or a lifetime of heartbreak for those unable to meet their soulmate."
Hermione nodded. It sounded very much like the Elder Wand, but more subtle and insidious. One thing was puzzling her though. "I've never heard of this before, and I've studied many books about souls, both ancient and dark."
"Once the Ministry recovered it, they deemed it was too dangerous for this information to be out there, so they've removed all known references to it. Those who had known of it died off, and it was forgotten from memory."
"When was this?"
"Centuries ago. However, as Minister, you are privileged to learn certain pieces of information that the general population is not privy to."
"Fascinating," Hermione replied. She watched as he slowly reached a hand toward the weathered book. "Wait! What are you doing?"
"Every so often I check to make sure it's still under the cover, and since we're already in here, I hope you don't mind."
"Not at all. Does… does that mean you've looked at it?"
"Oh no, never. I always look away, as should you."
He lifted the corner for a second, and try as she might, Hermione couldn't help but open her eyes to see a word of blazing red ink, before he shut the cover again. Hermione felt the blood drain from her face, unable to comprehend the word she saw so very briefly.
"No, it couldn't be."
"What was that Minister? Did you say something?"
Hermione shook her head.
"Everything seems to be in order here. Shall we continue?"
Hermione nodded mutely, the word still burned in her thoughts.
~*~
She cancelled the rest of her meetings and went straight home after finishing with Dave, or whatever his real name was, needing time to collect her thoughts. How could she tell Ron, the love of her life, what she had seen?
She sat at their dining table, absentmindedly stirring a soothing cup of tea when he walked in.
"Hermione, I'm home."
He came bounding into the kitchen, a piece of parchment in each hand and a wide smile on his face. "Look, the kids wrote. Hugo promises he's already started studying for O.W.L.s, and Rosie is nervous, but excited, to captain her first match against Ravenclaw next week."
"That's great," she replied, her voice a dull monotone.
"They even said their classmates think it's cool that you were elected as the youngest Minister of Magic in history."
"Hmm."
Ron looked at her and frowned. "What's wrong? Tough day?"
Hermione pulled out the chair next to her and patted it. "Come sit down."
Ron scrutinized her again. "The last time you did that, it was to tell me you were pregnant with Hugo. Are you pregnant?"
She sighed. "No, please just come here, I need to tell you something, and I don't think you're going to like it."
He sat down, unsure of what was coming. She quickly told him about the Archivist, the tour, and the Book of Souls, before swearing him to secrecy.
"You saw something when he lifted the cover, didn't you?"
She nodded sadly. "I saw a word."
"What did it say?"
"I-I don't want to tell you."
"Why not?"
"Because it's not true. Whatever it says, it's not true."
"C'mon Hermione, please tell me."
"It said… Krum."
Ron let out a laugh. "Oh, is that all?"
"What do you mean? Viktor Krum is my soulmate, and that's all you have to say!?"
"What do you want me to say?"
"That you're upset, that you care that I was destined to be with Viktor."
"Destined? We have two beautiful kids, an amazing family, and great careers. I don't care what some ruddy old book says, the charms are probably wonky anyway." He pointed to his chest. "I know that I love you with all of my heart, and you feel the same."
She slid into his lap and threw her arms around his neck. "I do, you know I do… but…but…"
"What?"
She suddenly burst into tears, burying her head in his neck as she sobbed. "I-I always had this idea in my head that we were real soulmates, if such a thing existed. We met when we were so young, and I've only truly ever loved you. I know it's silly, but I hate that it's not true. I didn't even like Viktor that much."
Ron ran his fingers through her hair and rubbed her back comfortingly. "Maybe it was a mistake or something. You said yourself you only saw one word."
Her breathing started calming down. "I-I suppose that's true."
"We know what happens when a charm or prophecy is misinterpreted."
She sniffled. "It would be nice to know."
Ron gave her a squeeze. "Maybe we should sneak in there tomorrow and take a look."
"We can't just sneak in there! I'm the Minister of Magic! Besides, there was a key to get into the room. I don't know how we're going to get it from the Archivist."
"You're the Minister of Magic. I'm sure you could come up with some reason to be there."
She gave him a dirty look. "I'm not abusing my position like that."
"I don't mind abusing my position, as you put it. Maybe I can say I'm researching something for a case."
"No, Ron. What if you get in trouble?"
"Who am I going to get in trouble with? Harry? You?"
"That's not the point. We swore we'd never take advantage of our roles for our own gain."
He sighed. "Fine, you're right. Sneaking in it is, then. It'll be like the good old days! A secret mission, breaking into places we have no business being in. An ill-formed plan. It'll be fun."
She smacked him on the arm. "Those days were terrible."
"Aren't you curious though, to find out the truth?"
"Of course I want to know the truth! I don't want to go through the rest of my life thinking Viktor was my soulmate, when it's clearly you."
"As sweet as that is, we clearly only have one choice."
Hermione shook her head. "Fine."
"Good, things like this are much easier when you're agreeable to them," he smirked, nudging her playfully. "You said 3:00 PM was when it was empty, right? Meet me in my office tomorrow at 2:55 PM, and we'll head down there. I'll just tell Harry we're going to a broom closet or something."
"Ron!" Hermione screeched. "You'll do no such thing."
"It's perfectly plausible. It's not like we haven't done that before."
She blushed, unable to count the number of times they'd had fun at the Ministry. "Alright, fine. 2:55PM at your office."
"Good. Now, I'm starving. I'll whip up one of your favourites. I bet I'm a better cook than ol' Vicky. What do Bulgarians even eat?"
"Not funny, Ron."
~*~
The next afternoon, Hermione was found pacing in front of Ron and Harry's office, much to the fear of the recruits who were stationed outside the door. It wasn't often the Minister of Magic would show up unannounced, muttering under their breath.
The door swung open and Ron sauntered out, his lips upturned in a smug smile. Harry's face had gone a shade of green from what he'd just heard from his best mate.
"Hi, er, Hermione," Harry greeted her awkwardly. "You two… um… have fun."
Mortified, Hermione could only return a quick wave before grabbing Ron's arm, hauling him toward the lifts before she was forced into any further interactions with Harry.
"I honestly can't believe you told him we were going to go shag."
"I literally told you I was going to say that."
"I didn't think you actually meant it." She let out an exasperated snort and pinched the bridge of her nose as they entered the lift. "What's the plan?"
"Plan?"
"You are the Head Strategist of the Auror department. Surely you must have thought of something!"
Ron shrugged his shoulders and grinned. "We'll make it up as we go. Seems to work best for us."
"I don't like this one bit."
The ding of the bell signalled they had arrived.
Ron clasped her hand, their fingers entwining. "Let's do this."
The doors opened and they were greeted with utter silence. It was as if the entire floor was abandoned, which it likely was.
They crept forward, trying to make as little noise as possible before finally reaching the same spot she had been the previous day.
Hermione turned the handle of the door, and to her surprise, it was unlocked.
"Hey, look at that!" Ron exclaimed loudly.
"Ron," she hissed. "Keep on the lookout."
He nodded and stood in front of the armour blocking the door, ensuring that Hermione couldn't be seen, in case they were interrupted.
Hermione took a deep breath, her heart pounding. Whatever it said under the cover wouldn't change anything between herself and Ron, but she needed to know for sure.
Her fingers paused for a second, lightly gripping the frail corner, her body tense. She delicately opened the book, the bright red ink bursting into view, almost glowing in the small, dark chamber.
Her greedy eyes flew over the words that were revealed.
"I knew it," she whispered.
Ron suddenly poked his head in. "Everything alright?"
"Perfect. Everything's perfect and wonderful!" Her giddiness couldn't be contained as she closed the ancient text.
"I guess this means you aren't going to chuck me?"
"Never."
"What's it say?"
Her pink cheeks were starting to hurt from her wide grin. "Your soulmate will first love, then hate, a Mr. Viktor Krum."
"That confirms it. See, nothing to worry about."
"Oh Ron, I'm so relieved. I knew it couldn't be true. This whole thing is ridiculous, but I'm still glad to know it's always been you."
Ron nodded. "Me too."
"We should leave before we get caught."
"Not so fast, it's my turn now."
"What?" Hermione asked sharply. "What do you mean?"
He shrugged. "Might as well take a look while I'm here."
Hermione stepped back, biting at her bottom lip—a sure sign of anxiety. "But… but… what if—"
Ron cupped her cheeks in his large hands and gently kissed her. "It doesn't matter what it says, I love you and only you. Trust me."
She nodded, before resuming his place as the lookout.
After a moment, she heard him chuckle and close the door behind him.
Hermione whispered urgently. "What did it say?"
"It said my soulmate will be a nightmare."
Hermione let out the breath she didn't realize she'd been holding. "Thank goodness. I don't think I would've been able to handle it if it wasn't me."
"It's always been you. I thought you'd have learned by now."
"I know, I never should have doubted it."
"Can you imagine if we'd learned this information when we were younger? We might have been able to get together much sooner," Ron remarked.
"Or we'd have made an even bigger mess of things."
"True. It doesn't matter in the end though, does it? We figured it out and we've done pretty damn well for ourselves."
"We have, Ron. I love you."
"Love you, too. We'd better get out of here before someone sees us."
The two quickly retreated to the lift, having successfully completed their mission. A minute after the doors had shut on the snogging couple, an old man slowly made his way toward the chamber and pulled a small key out of his robes, locking the heavy door.
As it's appointed guardian, he had vowed to never look in the book, and he had kept that oath. That didn't mean he couldn't use it's power in other ways. Past Ministers, those inquisitive few who had the intelligence to understand the book's worth, often revealed something in that moment when he checked the parchment, for good or ill. Usually it mattered little to him, but not in this case.
He paused for a moment, before extracting a small glass sphere from the same pocket as the key. A sphere he'd kept with him for many years, since he was a young man working with prophecies in the Department of Mysteries. Knowing Minister Granger-Weasley was coming to take a tour was the perfect opportunity to solve a mystery he'd been researching for the better part of seven decades.
He held it up to the light, the familiar swirls of mist dancing in the globe. He had long since memorized the prophecy, which had been made by a seer almost a hundred years earlier. His colleagues at the time had dismissed it, because like many visions, it was almost impossible to determine what the seer was referring to.
He had kept this one, for it always gave him hope. He never thought he'd actually solve it. Yet here he was, still alive and able to record this last surviving prophecy in the annals of history.
He turned it over in his hands, the glass still unblemished.
"Magic," he whispered, "such a wonderful tool."
He stared at it again, reciting for the last time the fates encompassed within.
"Two soulmates, brown and orange, will form a triangle with black to defeat evil. Through many trials the two will forge a love so strong it will be unbreakable, and their strength will reshape the world."
He let out a final chuckle, his long-held desire now confirmed by the soulmates themselves. He lifted the glass to his lips, his breath fogging up the shiny surface.
"Prophecy fulfilled."
The sphere melted away into nothing, the outcome recorded somewhere else in the archives. He shuffled away back to his office, his eyes sparkling, and his heart lifted with hope.
#chudley canon fest#chudleycanonficfest#hp canon pairings#hp canon pairings romantic#romione#ron x hermione
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Cute + Awkward Headcanons (SFW/NSFW)
Trying to turn a bad day around, so I thought of these
Lucifer
Sometimes you can’t tell if he’s giving you bedroom eyes or if he’s actually angry. Lucifer has spent THOUSANDS of years glaring at his brothers and doesn’t know if he’s just staring or glaring
I think he’s super out of practice with romance so he’s hella awkward but when he gets that first positive sign that you’re into him, the charm and pride wakes up and suddenly he’s smooth AF
Flirts so formally he misses his shot 8/10 times
Has a habit of trying to police you like one of his brothers and it’s a knee-jerk, 1000+ year reaction to looking after 6 man-children of various difficulties. Always owns up and apologizes
Has accidentally almost made you pass out from kissing too long. Forgets you don’t have the same lung capacity
BRUISES YOU TO HELL! FORGETS SO MUCH! FEELS SO BAD!
That’s why he has the gloves, to soften his grip because he was one of the strongest in the Celestial Realm and that translates to power in the Devildom
Only complains to you about his back pain from long nights burning the candle at both ends. You find it cute and sad at the same time
Is probably physically very heavy given his stature and the weight of his wings, so if he falls asleep on you, you’re trapped
Rare midnight snack dates when he MUST finish papers by the deadline.
You may or may not have had a Demonus date in his study when a particularly bad batch of paperwork was finally done
You’ve probably cracked at least one (1) antique wood chair
Quickly learned he CANNOT spank you because that shit seriously bruised your ass. You either need a strengthening charm or he has to re-learn how to use his strength around people
That caused one awkward visit to the infirmary because you didn’t know if you were just sore, pinched, dislocated, or cracked. Turns out you were fine. There was no mistaking that hand print, though
It was the second time he’d apologized so profusely in his life. There was no pride left in this man.
You had a special cushion to ease the pain and it looked top of the line (hella fancy. Could probably resell it as fake Gucci in the human world.)
Lucifer gives me big dom vibes and orgasm denial/over-stimulation kink because of his pride basically demanding you beg for him. You passed out at least once from over-stimulation.
When you first start dating he wouldn’t want to own up to any awkward boners so if you sit in his lap while he’s taking a paper break, he’ll make every excuse under the sun (”That’s my belt,”, etc.)
Mammon
This boy is nothing but awkward moments, are you kidding me?
It’s a lot of ‘open mouth, insert foot’ because he can’t be upfront with his feelings. It’s partly not wanting to lose any ‘cred’ he has with people, but also because he’s embarrassed and can’t be honest
There’s lots of tracking you down to sort out things you might have overheard (that he didn’t honestly mean if they sounded bad)
Super sentimental about anything to do with you. You once kissed a piece of Grimm as a good luck charm for his exam and he’d kill someone over it. Always has it on him.
This lovable doofus just assumes you’re dating because you’re always together and you’re perfect and he’s your best man so who’s better?!
When you actually ask him out (with something silly, like ‘I think us dating would be pretty cash money’), he’s so confused. (”But we’ve been dating for, like, a month! Right, human?!”)
He talks big but he’s weak. You’ll always be able to fluster him
Wanted to make love to you on some Grimm and quickly realized that it’s uncomfortable. Porn lied to him and the idea’s ruined. You guys cut the session short to find every piece of Grimm so you can actually lay in the bed
Tends to plunk his head down on your chest and demand scratches/cuddles and has bruised you several times.
Accidentally fought you once or twice for his glasses while half asleep. Levi, Asmo, and Satan used to take them and hide from him
You learned he’s actually hella blind (contacts with non-prescription sunglasses or prescription yellow glasses) and have walked him around the House of Lamentation several times when his glasses went missing
He’ll complain about his brothers having it out for him and getting back at him, but it turns out they just wanted to make an excuse for you guys to hold hands. It’s like a date!
Made you hit your head on the headboard once when he was doing missionary style. Had to stop and check on you, then it got awkward. He cuddled and kissed you the whole time, though. Even got you an ice pack!
The type to flirt with you, try to lean on something, and take himself out on the way down
You’ve had a few of those cliche ‘trip and fell on each other’ moments
Has accidentally swung you into doors and walls trying to scoop you up and run/march out of a room
Levi
This boy is also super awkward
When you’re alone, he’s an absolute sucker for any kind of affection you can give. This boy will literally slither across the floor to make himself comfortable in your lap so he can game.
Pet his hair. He loves that.
Will also have to re-train himself on how to be with you in public. With him, it’s not making fun of a ‘normie’ as much.
Not big on PDA but will definitely hold your hand. How ELSE are people going to know you’re together?!
You get cute matching shirts or jewelry with the ‘Player 1, Player 2′ theme
Does a lot more snake-like things with his tongue. Especially when frustrated. Rub his jaw and chin to see it come out a little bit. It’s like a happy floppy dog tongue, just not as long or wide.
Craves a soft, warm thing to sleep on. You will be his new bed.
The first time you had sex, he broke out his demon form because he looked at you and loved you. He knew he’d get jealous if anyone ever saw you.
Was a little clumsy but determined. Sank in and started going at it, but wanted to look down and watch. He got his horns stuck in your hair and had to stop.
Is #1 fan when you’re naked. (”Ugh. Smother me.”) Boy can’t stand it. He needs it.
Tries to dress a little nicer (even if it’s casual) when you guys go out on dates.
You pack little snack bags when he stands in line for midnight releases and GODDAMN he’s gonna marry you?!
If you’re napping together and someone comes to wake him up or needs you, he just glares at them from underneath you, tail swishing threateningly. No one takes his human, okay?!
He has over-the-ear headphones but I bet he carries earbuds and has probably done that ‘share an earbud’ thing to hold you close and listen to music
Do you need to get up while he’s still sleeping? Untangle yourself and tuck your pillow in his arms. He’ll be fine. Bonus: you get to see the snuggling in action.
Between all the anime and centuries in the Devildom, he’s gotten used to using tails as another way of expression. They act subconsciously based on what the demon’s thinking. He’s surprised both of you several times by accidentally wrapping you up in his tail because he doesn’t want you to leave.
When he gets visibly uncomfortable in social situations, slip him something with your scent on it. It’s comforting. If you make up an excuse to get him out of there (he’s your escort and all), he’s over the moon.
Satan
Had more awkward moments than he’s willing to admit, but he’s more open about them than Lucifer. Basically, if someone guesses it happened, he won’t deny it.
BOY HAS A BOWTIE KINK. PLAY WITH HIS. STEAL ONE AND WEAR IT!
Has probably tripped over books walking you through his room or rushing to answer the door (not that you’d know how happy it makes him).
There’s a 50-50 chance that he’ll steal a glance and act like he didn’t, hiding behind an upside down book or something
Has definitely dropped books on his head after charming them down from the shelf. Your voice just sucks all his concentration up. You get bonus points for checking on him because some of those books are HELLA HEAVY
Say the right thing during a quiet tea session and you might hear him choke
Has probably been outed by one of his friends. Satan always seems to make friends without trying and gets invited to tons of stuff. What didn’t seem like a date turns out to DEFINITELY be a date (according to the friend).
Plan some silly treasure hunt/detective date and this guy is yours for life (especially if you’re the prize at the end).
Isn’t the most upfront about the disdain for his demon form, or how he feels weird about not being a true angel (just an extension of Lucifer), so expect a lot of raw, near-tears conversations in his demon form.
Hold him, run your fingers along the inside of his wings and the tips of his horns and Satan hugs you like there’s no tomorrow. He’ll cry, but he doesn’t regret these tears because they’re healing.
Weak for hand kisses. Smooch them hands.
Not super into PDA, but he’ll do other things to show he cares like carry your books and make sure you know what the weather’s like before you leave
Satan still hasn’t lived down the time Lucifer and the others broke down his door because they smelled blood and thought he’d hurt you. Turns out you guys were having sex and he just bit too hard.
Wouldn’t talk to any of them for a week. He swept you up on an impromptu hotel vacation and you continued to avoid everyone by shopping and eating at cafes.
The type to hold your panties hostage or like a trophy. Gives them back eventually, and enjoys watching Mammon almost have an aneurysm as he tries to figure out why his room smells so strongly of you.
Tea dates, cat cafe dates, and plenty of couple pictures with cat filters. Satan’s Devilgram activity goes up substantially when he’s dating.
You’re not his lock screen, but you’re his background.
Asmo
When you two start dating Asmo is literally the happiest demon in all of Devildom. Yeah he’s smug and cute like ‘how could they NOT fall for beautiful me?’ but boy is literally so stoked. All of that babble’s just a cover for how sickeningly happy he is
Thinks the world of you.
Wants to spend all his free time with you, be it napping and cuddling, shopping, getting pampered, or just doing your nails.
Now that he has that real, true love he doesn’t want to be without you.
You trend on Devilgram at least once
SO MANY PICTURES
Took you shopping for perfumes and has the tester strip you used to pick your perfume taped to his vanity. Then he can smell it whenever he likes!
Gives you a small thing of his cologne for when you get lonely or want to smell like him
Boy is super, super extra. Probably has matching shirts that say he’s yours and you’re his.
The type to get couple’s pillows, cups, and pajamas. You also get couple’s massages.
If you wear lipstick, he’s definitely made you a custom one at some exclusive-invite Devilgram event. He put your initials on the base of the tube and thinks it’s the cutest damn thing. His pride and joy--it’s basically a child.
There’s no shame in the bedroom with this one. I really doubt he’d have awkward moments because he has a lot of experience and has run into a lot of things that he’s handled one way or another. It’s gentle coaching and some sweet teasing.
The most embarrassing thing he’s ever done is probably moaned/whined at the wrong time. Or said something semi-naughty at a bad time. He’s not easily shamed so that doesn’t really matter, either.
He melts at the gentlest touches and will be SO dramatic about it, like half fainted into his bed.
Is easily hypnotized by jewelry. He’ll massage your ears if you have earrings in, cooing over them and wanting to look at them. If he’s laying on you and you’re wearing a necklace, he plays with it the whole time.
Beel
Smart but distractable. Beel’s love language revolves around protection and food so pack him a lunch for practice or bring him something from a town date with one of the bros and he’s super excited
He means well but forgets his own strength so there’s a lot that can go wrong in the bedroom
Has probably broken his bed several times
Had sex on the kitchen counter and the bros only found out because one of them was setting up dinner prep and one of the legs just gave out
Big, snuggly bear. Best hugs.
Hardest to wake up because he tends to sleep well and easily. It’s a side effect of being connected to Belphie. Will hug you to him and keep snoring. You have to get someone else to wake him up because he’ll just snuggle you the more you move around and talk
I headcanon that Beel does a tongue thing like Levi, mostly because his cardinal sin is gluttony and that helps get the food in his mouth faster. It’s not as slender or serpentine as Levi’s, but it definitely moves.
Has licked you in his sleep as an affectionate thing.
Loves to snuggle into your hair when he sleeps.
Bite mark king. He’s so affectionate and earnest when he makes love that he just ends up leaving all kinds of signs on you--mostly bite marks but when he’s conscious of leaving too many, they turn into hand prints.
Makes the purr sound when he’s inside of you. Purrs very easily.
Most of his awkward moments come from being oblivious. He’s the kind of guy you have to out-and-out tell you’re flirting with him, that you like him and want to date him.
Beel’s also very shy with flirting. He thinks you’ll just understand that he’s flirting when he shares food or wants to hug, or just anything. It can be missed because he’s generally chill and friendly.
Was royally embarrassed by Asmo (on accident) when he didn’t eat as much at dinner one night and you were ‘too tired’ to come down. Beel went to carry your food up and Asmo somehow found out he’d eaten you out right before. He was filled up on the human energy and you couldn’t walk to come down.
If you ride his face, grab his horns to hold on. It does something for him and his hands go crazy and he really eats.
Scratch his back and he’ll be your forever heater.
His PDA is carrying you because why not? It’s a workout AND you’re close. It makes him give that big, nice smile.
Belphie
The biggest issue is that he falls asleep on you all the time. He doesn’t mean to but he’s TIRED, okay?
Has a name for the cow pillow. Calls it ‘my moo.’ You are one of seven people that know that. Apparently it’s been a thing since he was little.
Has accidentally called you ‘my moo’ when he’s sleep delirious. It means you’re highly thought of. Beel used to be his moo, too, and now he’s been replaced.
This sloth will smother you. He’s like a koala that demands total contact to sleep
Gives you back rubs and massages. Sometimes he stays awake through them, sometimes you get sleepy and that makes him sleepy so he ends up falling asleep on your back.
Not big on PDA, but his version of caring for you is making sure you’re not bothered by annoying people. Wants you to sit with him at lunch though, and he’ll sulk if you don’t.
His favorite kind of dates are where you stockpile food and drink in the room and just feed each other while lounging in cozy blankets
If you make him any kind of pillow or blanket for a birthday, it’s at the top of his collection. Everyone will see it when they walk into his room.
You’ll plan dates in the star room where he just holds you and points out constellations until you fall asleep. Knows a lot of the mythology/stories behind them and shares that.
No matter the size, Belphie likes to cuddle between your boobs. He says it’s for your heartbeat and that they’re comfy like pillows. His tail wags like crazy when he does this.
Also big on physical contact due to his time in the attic. You just have to be alone.
Brush and play with his hair. That’s what he likes most.
Just hold this boy, okay? He needs it.
If you guys are trying to nap and the other brothers are being noisy, he’ll do the demon scream thing to tell them to shut the hell up. He’s an absolute angel to you though. You’re tired too, he knows.
If you get a little purple streak or something in your hair, he’s smitten.
Get him a kanigiri and the boy is super stoked. He’ll wear it all around the House of Lamentation. Bonus points if it has a hoodie or something he can throw up to annoy Lucifer.
Might get you a little stuffed cow toy so you have something to hug if you have to go away or can’t be with him.
The type to be restless if he can’t sleep with you. Will come to your room in the dead of night and ask to snuggle. It’s the only time he’s nice about it (and vulnerable), so say yes.
You get to be a human body pillow. He loves it very much.
#Obey me!#Obey me x reader#Lucifer x Reader#Mammon x Reader#Leviathan x Reader#Levi x Reader#Satan x Reader#Asmodeus x reader#asmo x reader#beelzebub x reader#Beel x Reader#Belphegor x Reader
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I Take Flight but You Hold Me
Wilhemina Venable x Reader
Word Count: 7k
Summary: You hate her. You hate the way she makes you feel, you hate the way you can’t get her out of your mind, you hate the way she makes you burn. You hate her, but you think maybe you could love her too.
Warnings: Brief mentions of past toxic relationships. Slight NSFW. Angst? Yes. Yearning? Haha, no of course not….. 👀 Also, yes.
A/N: I’m supposed to be working on a fluffy Ally piece, but I love this song so much and all it does is make me think of Mina. So this happened instead. 🤷♀️ Writing her and trying to capture that snarkiness with the underlying insecurity was very difficult. But I think it came out okay.
Song: To Be Loved by Askjell (ft. AURORA)
You’d seen Wilhemina Venable before: walking through the hallways of Kineros Robotics, her cane tapping rhythmically against the ground in a way that insured others kept a wide berth; sitting outside on a picnic table during her lunch hour, always at the same table, the same space, facing the sidewalk, always, always; once, even, as you stepped out of the elevator to the parking garage at the end of the day.
She’d stood ramrod straight next to her car, one hand gripping the head of her cane and the other fidgeting with her keys. Something inside you had tugged insistently and you had slowed to a stop, your gaze drawn to the fingerless gloves she wore. They were made of a dark purple leather that covered her slender hands all the way to the first knuckle. Her nails were short and unpainted and for some reason, you couldn’t stop staring.
Someone cleared their throat, breaking your trance and causing you to jerk back as if suddenly woken from a daydream. You looked up and met dark eyes. They were deep and brown and furious. She wore a scowl on her face, one you recognized easily as you’d seen it often enough when you passed her in the corridor. “Don’t you have somewhere to be instead of staring at me with that idiotic look on your face?” she snapped and you realized, in all your time working there, you had never heard her speak.
Your face growing uncomfortably warm, you had muttered a vague apology under your breath as you darted past her and into the direction of your car. Her voice had been nice. Low and husky with a slight rasp that gave you goosebumps. You tried not to think about how you could feel her eyes on your back.
You went home that night and lay in your bed and tried to ignore the heat coiled low in your belly. But your thoughts ran rampant in your mind, pulling and twisting into versions of her you had yet to see. You wondered, if when she touched you, whether she would take those gloves off or keep them on so that all you could feel were her fingertips. You wondered if she would speak to you, low and husky and warm. You wondered if her bite would sting.
The thought burned you from the inside out.
--
The next week, your boss retired and you were granted a promotion. You were excited at first. A better job meant better pay, but now, as you stand in front of Wilhemina Venable’s desk, you think maybe it’s not all that worth it after all.
“I don’t have time to sit here and indulge in your little exercise. Unlike some people in this establishment, I have actual work to do,” she says, tapping at her computer and not bothering to spare you a glance. Like you are less interesting than a fly she has to swat away. The notion churns in your gut, twisting your insides unpleasantly. You resist the urge to shift on your feet, knowing that she will catch the motion in the corner of her eye and latch onto it like a dog with a bone. She is an apex predator always looking for weaknesses she can exploit. You refuse to show her any.
“This ‘little exercise’ comes down from Jeff and Mutt. Spending time with you isn’t exactly on my list of priorities,” you snap and you blink and you wonder where it came from.
Her motions cease, fingertips hovering over her keyboard. You try to ignore the way your gaze lingers on her hands. “Is that so?” She looks up then, suddenly meeting your eyes. You want to look away, to move, but you feel frozen in place. They are so brown. Her words are sharp when she speaks. “Do you not recall the gaping fish impression you showed me in the parking garage last week?”
“I wasn’t gaping,” you retort, neck warming. You hope she can’t see. The flick of her eyes to your ears tells you she can.
Venable gives you a blank look. “Of course not. Because that would imply that the space between your ears is filled with more than just hot air.” The words get under your skin. They rake across the sensitivity of your nerves and coil around your very being and sink into your bones and you hate it. A part of you thinks you could hate her.
Your spine feels like it might snap as you stand up straight, tension lining the squared edge of your shoulders. “Ms. Venable, we really need to discuss these layoffs,” you say, hoping that professionalism will get through to her so you can go on about your day pretending that she doesn’t set your soul on fire.
She arches a single dark brow, pursing her lips. “What layoffs?”
“I’ve been looking at the account ledgers. We’re overstaffed.”
Venable tilts her head, studying your face. “And what is someone with the brain capacity of a park squirrel doing looking at our accounts?”
Your jaw flexes as you grit your teeth. “That’s my job.”
“Since when?”
“Since three days ago when the head of finance retired.”
“Oh really? And they chose you to replace him?” She clicks her tongue, lips pursing once more. They’re a plum color. You silently reprimand yourself for noticing. “I can’t imagine why. It’s clear you have no capacity for intelligence, no work ethic, and not enough brain cells to do it yourself.”
Heat washes through you like an ocean’s surf. “You’re HR,” you retort.
Her fist clenches around the top end of her cane, those damned leather gloves creaking beneath the force of it. “And you’re finance. As far as I’m concerned, if it weren’t for your department, we wouldn’t be in this mess to begin with.” She locks eyes with you for one long moment that makes your breath catch. You force yourself to remain still and curse the fight or flight instinct inside you that’s telling you to run, that she is a danger, that if you look directly at her, you will be turned to stone. “Figure it out,” she demands, voice clipped. Then she drops her eyes and returns her gaze to the screen of her computer.
You resist the overwhelming urge to shove everything off her desk and demand her attention, her time, her respect. Your body burns with anger and humiliation and the need to know what her gloves would feel like against your bare skin, but you smother it down and squash it beneath your foot like a lit cigarette into the pavement of a sidewalk. You turn and walk away and listen as the same rhythmic tapping from before resumes as if you had never been there at all.
You feel her eyes on you as you leave, but when you turn to look, all you can see is the top of her head. It was just your imagination, you tell yourself. The piece of you that spent a better part of a year being aware of any and all movement tells you that isn’t true. This isn’t the first time you’ve been in the sights of a predator.
However, it is the first time you find yourself hoping that you are.
--
Later that night, you still sit hunched over your desk, finalizing the changes you made to the account ledgers. You don’t know what time it is. All you know is that the sun had gone down long ago, that your back will probably hurt in the morning, that you’re exhausted and your brain is running on fumes, but also that you need to finish. Just a little more time, and you can save these people and their jobs. Maybe a part of you wants to show Venable that you can do it too. She doesn’t believe you can. So you will.
You hear her coming before you see her. The building is completely void of life except for the janitor who came by to greet you a few minutes or an hour ago, you’re not sure. The steady tapping of her cane against the pristine flooring echoes in the empty space around you. You look at your computer, save your progress, and wait.
She appears in your doorway like a ghost draped in lavender. Her pale skin and bright red hair stand out from the shadows like the highlights in an oil painting. You will yourself to look away, but find that you can’t. She raises her eyebrows at the sight of you. “You’re still here.” It’s not a question.
You bristle at the tone of her voice and sit up in your chair. You want to cross your arms, but don't; you don’t want her to think you’re being defensive. She will only see it as an act of war and you are too tired to battle with her tonight. Maybe tomorrow you will adorn your sword and shield and finish what you started, but tonight... Tonight, you just want to look at the stars in her eyes. “I had some things to finish up,” you say once you finally find your voice.
Venable hums, her eyes raking over your form in a way that is not comforting at all. Her path raises goosebumps along your skin. You tell yourself not to blush, and bite back a curse when you do. You search her form for a reason to break the tense silence between you when you notice the folder she holds between her fingers. “What is that?” You nod to the item in question.
She glances down at it as if she forgot she was holding it in the first place before extending it out for you to take. “It’s a list of low level employees.”
You rifle through the papers and recognize several of the names. People you know, people who work under you, people who trust you. There’s the janitor who always checks on you when you work late and the security guard at the front desk who greets you every morning by name and the young woman who used to work in the cubicle next to yours before you were promoted. Her name is Maria and she has a daughter. You know because there’s a picture on her desk of a little girl with a gap-toothed smile. Your stomach churns unpleasantly. “So those you deem expendable.” You can’t help the bitter tone to your voice.
Venable catches on if the slight raise of her eyebrow is anything to go by. “They’re replaceable,” she says simply.
You shake your head and with a flick of your wrist, toss the file back onto your desk. It slides to a stop back in front of her. “I don’t need it.”
She blinks once, twice. “What?” She watches as you stand and begin to gather your belongings. “What do you mean you ‘don’t need it’? Unless you simply tossed them from the window, someone still needs to be fired. Don’t tell me you’re that incompetent,” she scoffs.
You grab your bag by the strap and throw it over your shoulder. “I figured it out,” you respond, voice bitter and words sharp like knives. You refuse to be prey, to roll over until your belly is exposed and your weaknesses are aired out for the whole world to see. Not again. Especially not for her.
Just as you’re about to march out the door, she grabs your arm. You freeze in place. You think you both do. The tips of her bare fingers brush the inside of your wrist and you wonder why your skin burns when her hands are so cold. You can’t think, you can’t breathe, you can only stand there and wonder if she can feel the rhythm of your heartbeat beneath her fingertips. Does it speak to her? Does she understand? Does she want to?
You lock eyes. One long, impenetrable moment passes between you and you hate that you can’t tell what she’s thinking, you hate that she has your heart in her grip, you hate her, you hate her, you hate her. She blinks and the sharp glint in her gaze returns. You snatch your wrist back before she can say something that poisons your soul. You flee your office like it’s on fire. But it’s not your office that’s on fire. It’s you.
--
When you’re alone, you think about her. You chastise yourself, force the thoughts away, but eventually, like the tide rolling in, they always, always come back. It is infuriating. You don’t really know this woman, and the things you do know are nothing good. She is selfish and entitled, cruel and hateful, and worst of all, she makes you burn without ever having touched you a single time.
The sound of the bell jingling above the door yanks you abruptly from your thoughts and you resist the urge to sigh out loud as you realize, once again, where your mind has gone. You tighten your grip on your book, forcing yourself to concentrate on the words but only managing to repeat them several times as they don’t sink in like they should. You’re vaguely aware of a familiar thumping sound growing steadily closer and it’s not until it stops at your side that you realize what it is. Or rather, who it is. You look up to see dark brown eyes already staring down at you.
“You’re in my chair,” she says before you can even work up the courage to speak.
You blink. “Excuse me?” For a moment, you’re reminded of the picnic table she sits at during her lunch hour. The same table, the same space, facing the sidewalk, always, always.
“I know it’s hard for you to comprehend the English language, but if you could summon all of your brain cells to at least try, I’m sure society would thank you.” Venable looks at you disdainfully, her eyes flicking to the open collar of your shirt and then down to the book clasped in your hands. “Lord knows I won’t,” she mutters.
You bristle at her tone, at her words, at her everything. “This is a public space, Wilhemina.” She blinks owlishly at your use of her first name and taps her cane against the ground, just once, before settling both of her hands on top of it. It is a warning you ignore. “You don’t own this chair or this table or this cafe. I’m sure you can find another seat.” With that said, you turn back to your book, intending to ignore her further.
It works… until you hear the scraping of a chair against the floor and you glance up just in time to see her easing into the space across from you. She pulls a book out of her bag and sets it on the table, but does not open it. She looks at you instead, her eyes cold and calculating as she tries to size you up. You could imagine the gears in her head turning but you decide you don’t want to see inside her mind. If you did, you don’t think you’d make it out alive. “I don’t recall asking you to take a seat,” you comment pointedly. Your body hums at her close proximity and it drives you mad.
“I don’t recall asking for permission,” she snaps back. You huff, but concede her point and avert your gaze, anything to keep yourself from looking into her eyes. “I’ve never seen you here before,” she says.
“That’s because I’ve never been here before,” you retort under your breath, looking at the words on the page but not reading them.
“Then why?”
“Why what?”
“Why are you here? In my chair?”
You sigh and close your book. “How exactly is it your chair?”
“It’s my table.” Her response is spoken with the conviction of someone who thinks they are always right. Your nostrils flare in annoyance. Venable’s eyes are intense and endless as she studies you like you are a science marvel she can’t figure out and it makes you uncomfortable, like you’re nothing more than an experiment under a microscope. She tilts her head, the motion causing her bright red ponytail to fall over one shoulder.
Your eyes travel the length of it and you’re suddenly gripped with the urge to free it from it’s restraint. You want to see it draped over her bare shoulders or formed into a halo around her head. You want to know what it would look like in the morning, in the earliest rays of sunlight, if it would hurt your eyes to see. You swallow the ball in your throat. “What?”
She rolls her eyes. “You didn’t answer my question. Why are you here?”
You raise your eyebrows and fold your hands around your coffee cup, allowing the warmth to seep into your skin, your bones, eager to feel anything other than the burn inside you. “I just moved down the street from here,” you answer absentmindedly, watching as a man pulls out a chair for the woman in his company. She smiles up at him, warm and real. She’s in love with him, you think. You can see it in her eyes.
“Why?”
You sigh. "Why do you care?”
She laughs and it startles you so much that you turn to watch it leave her lips. It lights up her face but it is not right. It is cold and harsh and cruel. You wonder if this is what the gods hear before they are smote and sentenced to a mortal life on Earth. “Care?” She laughs again, and shakes her head as if the thought alone is one she wishes to physically knock from her head. “Don’t be ridiculous. I merely wish to know if this will be a common occurrence.”
Frustration bubbles up in your chest and you hate, hate, hate how she can get under your skin. You will not give her the satisfaction of watching you break. You shrug indifferently. “Considering this is the closest coffee place to my apartment, probably.” She looks peeved and you preen a bit like a proud peacock for finally making her feel something other than indifference. You stand up to leave.
“Wait,” she stops you. She doesn’t move; she doesn’t have to when your body ceases all movement as soon as she speaks. That fact alone fills you with dread. You watch in amazement as she shifts uncomfortably in her seat. She flicks her ponytail back over her shoulder and lifts her chin. “You don’t have to leave.”
For the second time in less than an hour, you feel yourself become speechless. “What?”
She rolls her eyes, runs the tip of her index finger absentmindedly along the spine of her worn, hardback novel. “Stay,” she says. She sniffs then, as if allergic to kindness. “If you’d like.”
You meet her eyes, briefly, intensely, too long and not long enough. It feels like a trap. Your brain throws mental hazard signs all around for you to see, bright flashing lights and neon letters that read ‘DANGER, DANGER! DEAD END; TURN AROUND BEFORE IT’S TOO LATE.’ You don’t. “Okay,” you find yourself saying. You sit back down in your seat, pull your book closer to your chest and resume where you left off. Your eyes dart back to her figure and you watch from across the table as Venable does the same.
Silence settles between you like a blanket. It is warm and comforting and still, you burn.
--
The next week, Venable comes into the coffee shop on her usual day at her usual time, and just as she expected, she finds her chair empty. What she didn’t expect to find was you, sitting on the other side.
No words are spoken. She takes her seat, you stay in yours. You drink your coffee, you read, you people watch, you take comfort in another person’s presence. You don’t know why, but you feel safe.
You hate it. Truly, you do. It doesn’t make any sense. How can you be safe in the presence of the one who belittles you? Who makes you feel small? Who has only shown you cruelty and whose words are always laced with razor blades?
And then you realize, this makes perfect sense. For the woman you used to love hid her cruelty behind pretty words and even prettier lies. She had torn you down and disguised the knife in your heart as a beautiful red rose. She had put your hand around the hilt and convinced you that it was you who had done the hurting, the breaking, the stabbing. She had said, with conviction and earnestness in her words, that you were the cause of everything that was wrong with you and her and the both of you together. You had believed her.
Venable is not like that. She does not lie. She does not hide. If you want to find her, all you have to do is look- and she is a painting. It’s pretty at first glance, but the longer you look, the more you see. The beautiful and the ugly, the deepest darkness and the hidden light, all the things she tries to hide and fails to be rid of. You see her.
Sometimes, you wonder if she can see you too.
--
The days bleed into weeks and you wonder if you will ever be free of this hold she has on you. It’s like the seed she’s buried in your head has finally taken root and no matter how hard you try to fight it, you can’t get her out. That’s days, weeks, it feels like years, that you spend thinking about Venable, burning and scorching until you’re sure all that’s left inside is ash. You hate it. You think you might hate her. No, you don’t, a part of you whispers, but you ignore it like you always do.
You butt heads at work. Often and with force, but she will never fire you, because despite her best efforts to prove otherwise, you are competent and you get things done. She thinks you are a menace; you think she is a mad goddess high on a pedestal of her own making. You want to knock her off. You refuse to be another sheep cowering at her feet. When you pass her in the corridors, when you see her on her lunch hour (the same table, the same space), even during the late evenings when you catch her in the parking garage, you don’t cower. You don’t flinch. You look her in the eyes and dare her to smite you.
Every Saturday at 7:50 in the morning, you go to the coffee shop down the street from your apartment. You sit at the table in the back right corner with a coffee and a book and you wait. At 8 o’clock on the hour, Venable will join you. She will sit in the chair facing the room, pull out her novel, and read while you do the same.
The thoughts that plague your mind don’t stop until you are in her presence. When she sits down, your mind goes quiet. Finally, finally. So you sit and you read and sometimes, only sometimes, do you wish you could reach across the table and stroke her hand.
You rarely speak. When you do, it’s a discussion about literature, about the authors you find redundant and the works you think are derivative. Sometimes, she will comment on something that has happened at work. It is always sarcastic, a jab at some hapless employee or something inane like she is just trying to fill the silence, like she wants to talk to you.
You know this can’t be true. Venable likes no one, takes pleasure from no one’s company, but sometimes you think maybe she doesn’t mind yours.
--
You and Venable eventually settle into a new rhythm, one that ebbs and flows with the days and the flux of your emotions but it is one that is constant and real. Most of your arguments have progressed from barely concealed insults to clever banter and a back-and-forth repertoire that make smiles come unwittingly to your mouth. She smiles sometimes too when she thinks you aren’t looking. A little lift at the corner of her mouth, barely there, but noticeable all the same. Only because she never smiles and it looks so out of place there on the curve of her lips. If you blink, it will disappear, but you see it. You always do. You think it is beautiful; you also think you are losing your mind, being so attracted to a person you dislike. But you don’t hate her, a little voice in the back of your head reminds you.
You can live with that though. The attraction, the thoughts running on a never ending cycle in your mind, the burn. And you do, for many weeks that turn into months that turn into long hours working together in overtime, that turn into you sometimes joining her on her picnic table during lunch, the same table, the same space, always, always. It isn’t lost on you that she’s let you intrude on her safe spaces, not once, but twice. You don’t know what it means so you don’t think about it. You don’t want to give water to a plant you aren’t sure you want to grow. And you are fine with that. You live with it.
Until one day, you fuck up.
--
It’s one of those Saturday mornings in which you speak. These mornings are not so rare anymore, but when they happen, you cherish them, turn them into memories in your mind. You don’t even know why, but you bottle them up like four leaf clovers and put them in your pocket for safe keeping. The sun is out, shining through the window over Venable’s shoulder. It sets her hair aflame. It hurts your eyes to see, but you can’t look away.
You don’t even remember what you’d said and doesn’t that just eat you up inside? That a woman you can’t stand has the ability to completely turn your brain to mush? You’d said something and it had just come bubbling out of her: a laugh. A real one, warm and low and husky. The sound of it makes it seem like she laughs all the time, like those laugh lines around her beautiful mouth are genuine. You have never seen her look happy before. You wonder if you make her happy. You wonder if you could, if she would let you.
As you look at her, as you watch the smile on her face grow, as her hand comes up to settle on her collarbone like the motion will keep her heart from leaping out of her chest, you feel your own heart drop unpleasantly into your stomach. And you freeze.
Oh.
Oh, no.
You don’t know when it happened. When the Venable who made you feel small became the Venable who laughs at your jokes and smiles where you can see her. When the Venable who tore you down became the Venable who presses her hand into the small of your back when she passes by you at the office. When the Venable you detested and who detested you became the Wilhemina who makes you feel safe.
You don’t know, you don’t know, you don’t know.
She is the deep blue underbelly of the ocean and she is pulling you under. You don’t want to drown. You want to burn and burn and burn. But she looks at you and douses your fire. She is the chain around your ankle, the anchor weighing you down, pulling and pulling and you wonder at what point you stopped fighting and let yourself sink.
Stomach churning, you lurch from your seat and make for the door.
No, no, no.
You don’t notice her following you until you’ve made it down the sidewalk and feel her hand clasp around your wrist. Just like old times. Her fingers are gentle and soothing and this time, they trace the veins under your skin, timid and softly and barely there but you can feel her. You want to weep. You wonder if she’d been wanting to do that, if she had wanted to do that last time. Can she feel how your heart beats for her?
You watch her fingers for a moment, too scared to look in her eyes, fearful of what might be there. What if she wants you too? What if she doesn’t?
“Wilhemina-” you start, and that single word has her dropping your wrist as if it were on fire. Maybe it is. Maybe you are.
Her eyes darken and she turns without saying a word. Your heart in your throat, you watch her back as she walks away, determination in every step she takes. The picture is enough to hurt you more than the idea of falling in love with her scares you.
You’ve been hurt before. Mistreated, gas lighted, bruised, and broken. But you are not broken anymore. You remade yourself. You became a new you that you rebuilt from the ground up, piece by piece, until you were a wall of solid brick. You are not soft, you are not naive or gullible or innocent, not any longer. You know the damage she could do, the danger she poses to your heart and your soul and your brand new walls. How did she knock them down without you realizing? The only conclusion that you come to is that she was supposed to.
You realize, suddenly, with an ache in your heart, that the walls weren’t meant to protect you. They were not even made of bricks. They were the walls of a home and inside was your heart and painted on the front door was a sign. A sign addressed to Wilhemina Venable that simply read: Come on in.
You’d taken too long. She’s almost at the end of the block now. Your heart thunders in your chest as you break into a jog, rushing to catch up with her. “Mina!” The nickname tumbles from your lips before you can stop it.
Wilhemina jerks to a halt, shoulders angry and bunched up around her ears, reminiscent of a disgruntled cat. She locks her fingers around the head of her cane. It seems like she might turn around, like she might let you in. Look at me, please look at me, please, please, please. For a moment, you think she might. Her head turns to the side, just barely, just enough for you to admire the way the sun glints off the sharpness of her cheekbones. But you blink and she’s walking away from you still.
You dodge pedestrians and cyclists and dogs on leashes and in your mind, you beg and plead for her to stop, to turn around, to do anything but walk away from you. You would rather her yell at you and belittle you and call you names. You would rather feel her thorns against your skin, or feel the ire build up in your bones until you know nothing but anger, anything, anything, but this intense helplessness. You can’t do anything but run.
By the time you catch up with her, she is ascending the steps to a townhouse. You reach the mailbox, watching as she pulls her keys from her pocket and fiddles with them like she doesn’t actually want to use them, but feels like she must. “Please don’t run away,” you plead, your voice quiet from exhaustion, from pain, from the feeling of your love for her overwhelming you completely as it fills your body and inflates your soul. You wonder how you hadn’t felt it before.
Wilhemina stops and you could sob with relief when she finally, finally looks at you. Her eyes are so very dark, but they are not stone. They are weary, cautious and guarded, but not impenetrable. “Excuse me?”
“You heard what I said,” you retort, and it’s just like old times. The sparring games that never really ceased. It’s time to pick up your sword and shield and fight for the love of your life. “Please, Mina.”
Her jaw flexes and you can see her knuckles whiten from where her fingers grip the head of her cane. “I’m not running from anything. I am simply going home.”
“Really?” You move down the sidewalk, closer to her and further away from the real world. You want to live inside her bubble if she will let you. As she has before. As she will again. If you cannot quit her, she cannot quit you. Please, please, please. “Because I think you love me and that scares the hell out of you. Well, guess what, it scares the hell out of me too.” It hurts to say, and a part of you is afraid that voicing it out loud may make it disappear, but your heart still yearns and your chest still burns. The realization that it’s real, that it’s not all in your head, has you ascending her front porch steps. You need to be closer. You need to look in her eyes and feel the weight of the world lift from your shoulders. You need to see the stars.
“Funny, I recall you fleeing the coffee shop like I had a disease. Clearly, you don’t want to be seen with-'' You kiss her, smother the words against her lips and press her back into the townhouse door, holding her firmly but gently against you. If love is a person, you can feel her right now beneath your hands. Warm and soft and whole.
She hesitates, only for a second, before you hear the clatter of keys and her cane falling to the steps. Her hands reach up, bare of her gloves, and wrap around the collar of your shirt, simultaneously pulling you in and pressing against you. She bites your lip, harsh and unforgiving, and it stings but it hurts so good. You whimper when she soothes it with her tongue. “Foolish girl,” she hisses against your mouth.
“Am I?” You ask breathlessly, running your fingers up her spine. She’s trembling, but she leans into your touch all the same. “I think you like that about me,” you murmur against her lips.
You look into her eyes. They are still guarded, still cautious and they search your face like she is waiting for the punchline. You realize, with a great overwhelming sadness, that she is expecting you to laugh at her, to betray her and say it’s all a joke. She is afraid of you. You reach up with your other hand to sooth the furrow between her brows. You follow the elegant line of her nose, trace the small groove above her top lip, brush your fingertips along the curves of her mouth. “I won’t hurt you,” you whisper. Like it is a secret, and maybe it is, but it’s a secret just for her.
You watch in wonder as Venable disappears, as chocolate brown eyes turn glossy and vulnerable, as her lips tremble, and Wilhemina appears before you. Your gazes lock, and if two souls can speak to one another, you know that yours are speaking right now. They’ve been waiting for each other all this time.
You take one of her hands in yours and press it against your chest, to the erratic beating heart beneath your shirt. She may be the ocean, surrounding you, pulling you under, and holding you down, but you realize that you were the anchor all along. You will not falter, you will not move. She is a force to be reckoned with and you- you are the stone that will not break. “Feel that?” you ask. She nods, bites her lip, searches your eyes for the answers to questions you don’t yet know. You don’t need to know the questions. You vow to find the answers anyway. “That’s yours,” you say. “That’s for you. No one else. Not now, not ever, not even before. It’s always been yours.”
“That’s very poetic,” she murmurs huskily, trying to sound sarcastic, but her voice wavers and loses the sharpness to her tone. Her eyes are wet. You realize yours are too.
“I’ve seen what you read,” you respond. You feel her hand curl into a fist above your heart. “You like my poetry.”
She snorts, leans up, brushes her nose down the length of yours. You kiss her once, just to feel her beneath your lips. “Possibly,” she admits under her breath when you pull away. You smile, kiss her again and again and again. She leans into you like she wants to crawl inside of you and become one person, one soul, one being. You think you already are.
Her tongue slides into your mouth, hot and insistent, overwhelming your senses and causing your brain to stutter. The burn that settled in your being when you saw her that moment in the parking garage flares like a fire that’s been coaxed to life with kerosene. You’re familiar with this burn, with the nature of it. It has been a piece of you for months now. The very first moment you met her, she crawled into your heart and built a fire inside you. As she sucks your tongue into her mouth and bites at the tip and her nails scratch down the length of your neck, you realize that this fire was never meant to go out. It was meant to be a bonfire that could rival the stars.
You don’t know when you picked up her keys and her cane, or when she unlocked the door to her townhouse, or when you followed her up the stairs. You don’t know when you lost your clothes or she lost hers or when you traced her spine with kisses. You don’t know how you got here, with her underneath you, her long red hair splayed across her pillow like a halo around her head, but you are here. And you are in love.
You watch her throat bob when she swallows. She’s staring at the ceiling as if it holds the answers to the universe. Her eyes are not guarded, or weary, but cautious. Look at me, please look at me, please, please, please. And she does. Your heart somersaults in your chest. She is right. You are a fool.
The cautious look is gone, replaced with a determination that is both strange and familiar. She cups your face in her hands and tugs you down until your faces are so close, you can feel her lips brush yours with every breath she takes. “I might hurt you,” she admits, voice trembling as she looks into your eyes and you wonder if you look as scared as she does. “But I will try. What I hurt, I will soothe.” Her thumb traces the spot she bit not moments ago.
“I know,” you whisper, before you lean down and press your lips together once more. You gently bring your body down to rest on top of her so that all you can feel is your naked skin against hers. It is warm and soft and unbearable and you know you are crying but they are happy tears. As your kiss deepens, and her tongue comes home to meet yours, you feel a saltiness fall into your mouth and you realize that she is crying too. You kiss her and worship her and love her, love her, love her.
You fall like an anchor into her ocean where you will sit unmovable, impenetrable, always and forever. Her waves can lash at you, the tides can rise and fall, but you will not break. For her, you will be everything.
You breathe her in and feel her body move beneath your bare skin. You trace her spine with your fingertips, press kisses to her collarbone, hold her in the palm of your hands like she is the whole entire world. And to you, she is. You show her the night sky when she closes her eyes, and you teach her to reach up and take the stars for herself. You tell her you love her and you make promises you know you will keep. She doesn’t have to say it back. You can see it in her eyes, feel it in the way she kisses you, in the tender way she traces your face and looks at you like you are the sun. You wonder if she can feel your heartbeat against her chest.
You make love and you burn and burn and burn until you are a supernova ready to come crashing down into her ocean.
#wilhemina venable x reader#wilhemina venable#sarah paulson x reader#sarah paulson imagine#wilhemina venable imagine#american horror story fic#american horror story apocalypse#ahs fic#ahs imagine#wilhemina venable x you#wlw imagine#wlw fic#wilhemina x reader#venable x reader#angst fic#romance fic
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hi !!!! i’m in my last year of high school and i’m about to apply to several fashion schools to study fashion design next year. i still have a lot of things to do, for example a portfolio >< so i have to make some projects that i can show in that portfolio and for that i’d like to make my own fabrics :) so i absolutely need a handloom, and that’s where i need your help ^^
do you think a rigid heddle loom is adequate to make fabrics for fashion ? for example denim or a sort of knitted fabric ? (i know knitted ≠ woven, but if i use fine yarns and not big ones i’m afraid knitting won’t be easy), what do you think ? love xx
hi!! so there's a few things to address - here's an article explaining the basics of woven structures in fabrics. I think understanding this is fundamental when even considering learning how to weave as well as necessary information for anyone who wants to study fashion or textiles in any capacity. denim, for instance, is not a plain woven fabric (one thread over, one thread under, repeat) it is usually a 3x1 twill (three threads over, one thread under, repeat) which means it's woven structure requires a bit more manipulation. for fabric production, typically twills are woven on looms with at least 4 shafts.
i think a rigid heddle loom is a great starter loom for people who want to get into weaving and learn the basics especially when it comes to learning how to warp a loom and the basic math involved in it (just very simple multiplication you can do using a calculator) and there's a lot you can do with a rigid heddle. there are endless tutorials and patterns for weaving with rigid heddle looms as they are by far the most accessible form of loom that uses heddles/shafts to create the woven structure. there's so much you can do with just a rigid heddle and never get bored of it.
however, it's good to keep in mind that if you want to weave any woven structure more complex than plain weave on a rigid heddle loom you will have to either hand manipulate the warp using pick up sticks, learn how to make heddle rods (you cut strings and wrap them around the warp threads and attach them to dowels, and lift these dowels to act as extra heddles), or buy extra rigid heddles of the same size. the first option is cheapest and most time consuming while the last is most expensive but least time consuming, and the other falls somewhere in the middle. regardless, a rigid heddle even with extra rigid heddles will likely still be cheaper than buying a 4 shaft loom. these are just things to be aware of and keep in mind.
something to keep in mind when considering buying/using extra rigid heddles is that it doesn't work in the same way as a 4 shaft loom. what i mean by this is that a single rigid heddle functions like having 2 shafts on a loom, but having a second rigid heddle only adds one more shaft, it doesn't turn the loom into a 4 shaft loom. this is because half the threads that go through each rigid heddle will be threaded through the open slot and not the eye. if you aren't familiar with how rigid heddle looms work this article explains how adding rigid heddles changes your weaving and i recommend checking out any rigid heddle articles on that website (handwoven.com) because it's an excellent resource when learning.
btw i would definitely consider your idea to knit using fine yarns. if you know how to cast on, knit and purl and cast off then using thin yarns is absolutely doable. to make things easier as well, something that can be really stunning is using fine yarns and larger needles to create really thin, open fabrics almost like lace or mesh. i love knitting with very thin mohair/brushed wool yarns and fat needles, they 'bloom' in a beautiful way and create a cool effect. experimentation with these things and seeing where you can take techniques and concepts and pushing these boundaries is important and textile profs/programs really like it when students get creative with these things, at least in my experience.
best of luck with applications and your portfolio!! it can be nerve-wracking but it's helpful to remember that you're applying for an undergraduate program/diploma/certificate/whatever fresh out of high school and your professors are not expecting you to know everything. the point of attending your program is to teach you these things :-) with these kinds of portfolios they care most about seeing your potential, that you have a willingness to learn and creativity, and with more knowledge and time and practice to develop that potential you can be capable of great work. you don't have to capable of making incredible masterpieces right now and they don't expect that of you, so be kind to yourself during this time and try to keep that mind <3 take care
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Twelve Months - Good Omens fanfic
Happy 31st Anniversary of Good Omens! :D
To celebrate this momentous occasion, I have posted a slightly-sad, slightly-sweet Wake the Snake fic on AO3, because our demon has been napping for a whole Twelve Months, and sometimes Angel gets a little lonely!
Thank you all for another fantastic year in this fandom!
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Twelve months.
Aziraphale pushed open the door to Crowley’s flat, a simple shopping bag tucked under his arm.
The lights were still off, the curtains drawn in the awful empty room he called a study. Nothing had changed.
He passed through the enormous, rotating section of wall and into the solarium. This was still bright—many of the plants flourishing despite being unattended so long, despite clearly not having enough water. A few had started flowering. They waved their branches at him as he entered, perking up eagerly.
The angel waved back, but first he peeked into Crowley’s bedroom.
He was still where Aziraphale had left him, on his last visit a month before. Bright red hair spilled across black pillows, grown into a stringy mop. Duvet pulled up to his messily-bearded chin. One hand curled up beside him on the bed.
Still asleep.
With a sigh, Aziraphale crossed over to the plants, who greeted him excitedly, unfurling their newest leaves, a few vines hanging down to brush his face.
“Hello, my lovelies. How are you all doing? Look at you, grown at least a foot since I saw you, I’m sure. And you! What beautiful pink buds. Very impressive.”
He didn’t think Crowley would approve of how he spoke to the plants, but the poor things had been so distraught on his first visit, straining to keep upright, trying to hide their yellowing leaves. So much healthier now, much happier for just a bit of attention. He picked up the watering can and gave them all a quick splash. He didn’t know how much water each needed, but it didn’t seem to matter.
“You keep it up, dears. I’ll be back before you know it.”
Picking up his shopping bag again, Aziraphale headed down the hall to the kitchen. The kettle sat on the island where he’d left it, and he quickly refilled it and set it to boil. While he waited, he pulled his latest creations from the bag: a small pumpkin spice cake from a recipe he’d been perfecting since fall, a lemon coconut cake, and a few apple cinnamon muffins.
Two plates—a muffin for each, a slice of the coconut cake for himself and the pumpkin spice for Crowley.[1] The rest went into the refrigerator, where they would never go bad or stale.
Aziraphale put the plates onto a tray, along with forks and napkins. Next he found two mugs and pulled the little tin of his second-favorite tea out of the bag just as the kettle boiled.
For himself, a teaspoon of the expertly blended leaves, steeped for exactly three minutes, resulting in a pale brown tea with a slightly spicy aroma. For Crowley, he dropped a tea bag into boiling water and let it sit until it was almost black.[2]
He carried the tray back to the solarium and selected a bright red-and-gold tulip that was nearly vibrating in its eagerness to be noticed. A moment to assure the other plants that they were still doing fabulously—particularly a self-conscious little succulent that had rather drooped over the winter but was making a fine recovery—and he once more headed into Crowley’s bedroom.
Crowley had rolled over, and now sprawled on his back, sleeping soundly. He’d apparently kicked a bit, too, as the blanket had slid down past his stomach. Aziraphale smiled as he set the tray on the chair he’d brought in some months ago and got to work.
“It’s wonderful to see you again, dear,” he started cheerfully, carefully rearranging the objects on the little bedside table. “I have a few things for you again, I hope you don’t mind.” Just enough space to slide the mug and the little plate. Perfect.
“I received a package from Tadfield again. Everyone wrote a note and then gathered them all together, really quite clever. They’re all doing well, if a bit bored.” The table was nearly overflowing with little items now, brought in by Aziraphale to cheer the place up. Framed pictures of their human friends, quarantining with their families, clustered in one corner so tightly you could hardly see them anymore.
He pulled the latest out of the shopping bag. “Anathema has started a garden,” he explained, pausing to show the photograph to Crowley’s sleeping form. It showed the witch, kneeling outside her little cottage, working on growing several rows of herbs. “I got the impression she was off to a rough start, but she hopes to send us some mint in the next package. Although Newt warned me not to expect too much, as they’d already forgotten which patch is mint and which is oregano.” He set the picture with the others, and slid the potted tulip alongside it. “I’m sure she could use some advice from you, when you’re ready to share.”
“Nnnnh.” Aziraphale spun eagerly, but no, just Crowley shifting in his sleep again, rolling onto his side.
The angel paused to pull the duvet back up to Crowley’s chin, tugging it straight and smoothing a hand down his back. In a way, his friend was nearly unrecognizable, with that hair and ridiculous beard, but in another way looked the same as ever. That was always Crowley’s way, of course, constantly changing yet somehow always the same.
He lingered, taking in the shape of that face, leaning close, lips hovering above his cheekbone—
Aziraphale pulled back, quickly digging into his bag again. “Oh! Ah, the, um, the children have been making projects for their art class. This past month was sculpture, and they sent us some. Look!” He pulled out four little figures of oven-baked clay. “Ah, young Wensleydale has made a very clever model of a train car. Brian’s is…abstract.” He turned the next a few different ways. “And Pepper’s is, ah, either a very complex symbolic representation of the Patriarchy, or…a troll, I think.” They just fit on the edge of the table, all in a line, a very mismatched tableau. The fourth, on the end, was the best, in Aziraphale’s opinion. “Adam made a little Dog, and it’s very well done, don’t you think?” The canine figure posed with one leg raised and head cocked, ready to play, but the shadow it cast was just a little too large, too ominous, for such a small creature.
With a sigh, Aziraphale shifted the row this way and that. “I sent a letter to Warlock, over in America, but haven’t heard back since Christmas. I believe they’re very busy with something. Politics. You know how it is.” When the Dowlings had left England, they’d planned to return for a visit the following summer. A global pandemic had had other ideas.
“In any case, that just leaves Tracy and Shadwell. I understand he’s decided to hate the concept of literacy this month, so no word on how his war with the squirrels is going. And Tracy has declared she will spend the summer making a fairy garden. I thought her sketches looked very promising, and she promised to send us an update in June. I’m sure you’ll find it charming.”
“Hrrrrm.” Crowley sank under the duvet, nestling down a little deeper. Aziraphale smiled, settling into the chair with his plate and mug.
“Things are loosening up again,” he explained, taking a bite of cake. Delicious, if he said so himself. Sharp and not too sweet. “People are getting vaccinated, shops opening up. It’s really a lovely breath of fresh air, at least when you’re not wearing a mask.” A long sip from his mug, then he held it, fingers tapping. “It’s been nice walking through the park again, just in time for the baby ducks. And that record shop at the corner, they’ve had some wonderful new additions. Which reminds me.”
Putting aside his mug, Aziraphale dug through the bag again and pulled out a handful of square plastic cases. “They had a whole shipment of those little records the Bentley likes. Modern music. I picked out the ones with the rudest names. I’m sure you’ll enjoy them.” He pulled out the first disc and placed it atop Crowley’s phone. The device blinked in confusion a few times, then obediently copied all the music.
“Of course, it’s not all good news.” He stacked the rest of the discs atop the phone and returned to his tea. “Reopening means the customers are coming back. Yesterday, this one individual spent almost an hour browsing the same three shelves. And then he tried to make off with one of my books.” Another long sip. “Granted, he offered to pay, but still. What sort of establishment does he think I’m running?”
Aziraphale paused, waiting for Crowley to respond, not that he ever did. The demon’s eyelids moved a little, but no more.
Sighing, Aziraphale turned to his muffin. “You know, many times in the last year, I’ve wished you were there. Particularly during reopening phases. You could have posed as a customer, and then I’d be able to tell people I was at the capacity limit. Oh, and the people who would call to try and buy my rarest books. Collectors, or so they claimed, but then they just turn around and sell to anyone for twice the price! I’m sure you’d have some biting things to say about such people.” He smiled at Crowley’s sleeping face. “I’ve missed that, and your jokes. Rather more than I expected to.”
When his plate and tea were finished, Aziraphale set them on the floor and reached again into the bag. “Now, I have been attempting to teach my computer how to use the internet. I think it’s going quite well. Adam and his friends gave me a ‘homework assignment’ to find articles on recent news events, and I made the most wonderful discovery. Did you know that humans now share their news through humorous pictures? I printed out my favorites to show you.”[3]
He flicked through a few. “Ah, to start with, a few months ago there was this American politician with amusing mittens who showed up everywhere for a few days. It was extremely droll.” He leaned closer, holding them up for Crowley to see. “Ah, a few more from America. The murder hornets arrived, though by that point everyone had forgotten them. The election became increasingly confusing, and it all ended in a parking lot. For a little while everything was ‘This-or-That Total Landscaping,’ and before that everything was cake.” He showed a few extremely clever illusions. “I did try to make my own, but couldn’t manage it without miracles, which I felt was cheating.”
Really, leaning like this was starting to strain his back. Aziraphale shifted to sit on the edge of the bed, the better to share his pictures. “Ahhh. Also for a time everyone’s calendars were stuck on ‘March.’ And then earlier this year, a group of people learned how the stock market works, but sadly not how to spell it. The whole situation seemed very much like the sort of thing you’d be involved in. And…Oh, this angel from a television show was sent to Hell for…reasons.” He glanced at the shape beside him. Crowley had curled in slightly, pressing against Aziraphale’s back. “Yes. Various reasons. And then this musician, I suppose, went on his own. Both had many people extraordinarily upset.”
The next few images would really tickle Crowley, if he could actually see them. “The biggest news is that a large ship got stuck sideways in that canal in Egypt. Stopped half the world’s shipping for a few days while they dug it out! I’m sure you would have liked that very much. Exactly your sort of trouble. The humans were all very excited.”
The final photo was another of the ship, an image Aziraphale had made himself, printing out a blank version and writing on it in felt-tip pen. The hull of the enormous ship was labeled, “An eternity putting up with the tedious bureaucracy and frequently conflicting commands of my superiors until I begin to doubt my own judgement and sanity,”[4] while the small digger working steadily beside it was “Crowley.”
Aziraphale watched the demon beside him, not really expecting a reaction, certainly not getting one. He reached over, brushing brilliant hair back from Crowley’s forehead. “I think you’d have had rather a lot of fun last year. Or perhaps you’d have been upset you could only watch from a distance. Or…”
He’d leaned much closer than he’d intended, hovering just above Crowley’s forehead.
“Well!” Aziraphale stumbled to his feet. “I suppose that’s just about everything.” He picked up the tray from where he’d rested it on the floor, starting to re-load it with everything he’d brought in. Crowley’s cake and tea sat untouched, as always, but Aziraphale wouldn’t dream of skipping them. “We’re all very optimistic for the summer. Two months and everything should be just…just tickety-boo. Perhaps we can go for that picnic soon, if…yes…”
They’d made such plans for 2020. All the things they would do now they were free. Plans, and other thoughts carried in their minds, possibilities that would play out in their own time. Not too fast, just a slow, steady exploration of everything they could be…
“Well. Pleasant as that idea is, best not to—to plan too much, as the previous year made fools of us all. I just…” He turned away from the tray and watched Crowley sleep, hands clasped before him. “I miss you terribly. And I wish…very much…”
He picked up his shopping bag. One item still inside. The same one he’d been carrying for months, trying to find the courage to bring it out.
With a shaking hand, he reached in and drew forth a soft hand-made doll. He’d spent much of the winter on it. Simple white cotton for the head and body, wooly curls for the hair, and stiff white lace for the wings. Dressed in waistcoat and bowtie made from Aziraphale’s favorite tartan.
He still wasn’t sure why he brought it. He’d stitched several little toys, particularly a lovely black-and-red serpent with gold button eyes that had watched him from the sofa since November. But this, for reasons he couldn’t articulate, this one was for Crowley.
“I, ah…” He shuffled closer, doll clutched in both hands. “I made, um…” Back to the edge of the bed, one hand fumbling across the duvet. “…thought you might like…”
Crowley’s face stood out in stark contrast to the pillow, pale skin and bright hair. Aziraphale wanted to drink it in, memorize every detail, to hold him over until next month. The curve of his nose, the sharp angle of his cheekbones. His lashes flickering as his eyes moved. His lips, pursed ever so slightly…
“Bless it, Angel, are you going to kiss me or not?”
Aziraphale gasped, pulling back from the bright gaze of slit-pupil eyes. “You—you’re awake!”
“Nnnh. Half.” Crowley shifted, head moving across the pillow, eyes threatening to shut again. “Wouldn’t miss your visit.” One hand reached out, plucked the doll from Aziraphale’s unresisting fingers. “For me?”
The angel nodded. “If…if…you like it…or I could—I could just…”
Without a word, Crowley pulled the doll under the duvet and curled up, tucking it under his chin, a faint smile on his lips.
“If you were awake you—you should have said something! I’ve been going—going off like a fool all this—oh!” Aziraphale could feel his face turning hot as he recalled a few times his tongue had been a bit too loose for propriety.
“Mmmmmh.” The golden eyes were shut again.
“Crowley?” No response. “Crowley!” Aziraphale scowled. “Anthony J. Crowley, if you’ve fallen asleep again, I swear, I’ll—”
He’d do what? The angel fumed, but what could he really threaten? To stay away? Never.
“Alright then, I suppose I’ll see you in June. I’ve had several new requests for extremely rare manuscripts and I need to go pen some responses reprimanding these vultures for their cheek. I can—”
“You can stay.”
He spun around. Crowley had one eye barely cracked open. Gently, he pulled back the duvet, showing there was just enough space for Aziraphale beside him.
“I…I couldn’t.” But he stepped forward, not back. “I have business tomorrow, things to—”
“Just tonight then.”
His fingers brushed the mattress and pulled back as if burned. “You—you don’t really mean this, you’re just talking in your sleep.”
“Nah.” Crowley settled the doll by his pillow, making space. “Why else would I give you my key?”
“I…to…water the plants?”
“They take care of themselves.” Crowley held open his arms, eyes shut once more. “I missed you, too.”
Well. What could he say to that?
Aziraphale took off his shoes and slid into bed, into Crowley's arms. They wrapped around him gently as Crowley wriggled closer. “Mmmm. Y’r softer than the doll.”
“Oh.” He’d been called soft many times, generally as a way to imply he was a failure as an angel. But just this once, it made him feel rather pleased. “Soft is good?”
“Verrrry good.” Crowley twisted a bit, trying to find a comfortable way to rest his long limbs, and finally settled curled up against Aziraphale’s chest, tucked below the angel’s chin with a leg hooked over his knees.
The angel smiled. “And you’re…you’re noodlier than a stuffed snake. Err…”
A chuckle, just a stirring of breath across his throat. “Can’t wait to hear the story behind that.” Crowley nuzzled against his shoulder with a sigh. “Good night, Angel.”
Aziraphale swept the brilliant hair back again and bent down, pressing his lips to Crowley’s forehead. A soft, gentle kiss that made his friend smile a little more broadly. “Good night, my dear.”
Crowley drifted off again, burrowing close, as the angel continued to gently tease the back of his hair. Perhaps, he thought, perhaps tomorrow's work wasn't so very urgent. Perhaps a bit of rest would do him good. And perhaps...
Well. Don't plan too much. But for the first time, Aziraphale felt a bit of optimism about the coming summer and its possibilities.
“Sleep well, Crowley.”
[1] Crowley had invented pumpkin spice, and Aziraphale assumed he must like it. In truth, Crowley despised it, and regretted every autumn how it took over the entire world. He missed apple cider season.
[2] Aziraphale had suspected since the early 1950s that Crowley secretly took his tea with several lumps of sugar, but would continue to pretend he didn’t know until Crowley confessed. Considering current circumstances, that was unlikely to be any time soon.
[3] Aziraphale’s fax machine, revived after over three decades of disuse, had been somewhat confused to be asked to perform any task at all, much less to print memes onto photo paper with perfectly balanced color; but like the plants and Crowley’s phone, it couldn’t stand to disappoint the angel.
[4] It was possible he hadn’t quite mastered this new form of communication.
#good omens prime#good omens lockdown#good omens fanfiction#aziraphale and crowley#wake the snake#aziraphale/crowley#sleeping crowley#aziraphale#pov aziraphale#crowley's flat#crowley's plants#sleepy cuddles#2020 was a year#aziraphale loves crowley#crowley loves his angel#asexual good omens#pointy demon wants soft angel cuddles#good omens anniversary#my writing#ao3 fic#ao3 link
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*SFW* Babysitting (Bakugou)
Rarely did he ever take a Saturday off from either training or studying, he was determined to stay better than everyone else.
But, it had been raining since yesterday and he felt like he deserved a break anyways.
From morning to afternoon, he enjoyed doing absolutely nothing, scrolling his social media and avoiding liking any of his friends posts on principle.
Shitty hair still won’t shut up about the selfie he liked so now nobody gets any.
His planned day of nothing is interrupted by a knock at his door, and he’s been pacified by memes to a degree where he doesn’t react violently to the intrusion.
Instead he shoves his phone into his pocket as gets up and opens the door, plain faced until he sees it’s you and that you’re holding something.
Well, someone.
“Hey!”, you greet with an unusual level of enthusiasm, “I need you to do a favor for me.”
“A favor?”, he asks while he takes in the fact that you’re holding a baby, dressed in a striped onesie.
“Yeah, I’m kinda busy with stuff and I need someone to keep an eye on this little cutie for a bit!”
To emphasize the importance or maybe sway him, you turn the baby around so he can see the chubby face.
“... If you’re asking me to babysit it, then no.”
You click your tongue against your teeth, rolling your eyes.
“Well don’t call her by ‘it’, and I really need you to do this for me!”
He puts a hand on the door to signal that he’s about to close it, “Nah. Ask shitty hair or Deku, I think they’d love to drool over your kid.”
“It’s my aunts baby!”, you say as you put your foot over the threshold, jostling the baby somewhat, which excitedly babbles as it meets his eyes, “They’re busy too, I tried asking! Believe me, you weren’t my first choice.”
“What do you mean by that?”
He speaks with annoyance, opening the door fully as his competitive nature rises.
Internally you give a sigh of relief, externally you place the baby on your hip.
“Bakugou, I think we both know that you’re awful with children. But you’re my last option and I have nowhere else to turn.”
“I should’ve been your first choice! I’m a fuckin’ wiz at keeping brats well behaved! Gimme!”
“Ah!”, you step out of range of his attempted grab and put out your pointer finger, “Don’t yell at the baby, don’t be aggressive with the baby, and most of all, don’t yell at the baby.”
In spite of your words you know full well he’ll do nothing of the sort, just wanting to give the appearance so he’ll be on his best behavior.
He doesn’t have to know he was actually the only one you wanted to watch her.
After all his surface level bullying you can tell he’s soft on the inside, knowing he’s the least likely to give into a baby's whims while also being gentle enough to avoid making her cry.
“Yeah yeah.”, he grumbles, taking her from you when you extend her towards him, “When are you gonna collect the brat?”
You give a 50/50 gesture, shrugging, “Ah an half hour to two hours, but I’ll be back before three hours for sure! She’s been fed and changed recently but just in case,”
A bag is revealed when you pull it from behind your back, taking it off by the strap and setting it inside.
“Diapers and toys, if she’s hungry there’s something for her in there too. Just, be careful about that, she’s sorta young for it.”
He nods at your words, watching her grapple at his shirt, having not once taken his eyes off her.
“Thank you!”, you chirp and give him a kiss on the cheek, knowing that he can’t do anything about it while holding her.
That makes him glance up at you with some minor malice, which is reduced severely by the dusting of pink across his nose.
With that you take your leave, confident he’ll do fine.
He shuts the door and sits at the edge of his bed, cradling her in his arms.
After a moment he takes a look over to the bag you left, thinking it’d probably be best to fish something out of there for her to do.
While he wasn’t experienced in caring for a baby in any capacity that felt like common sense.
Plus, it’d allow him to continue wasting time on his phone.
“You,” he gently places her on the middle of the bed as he stands, “are not taking my Saturday from me with your tiny incapable hands.”
With one hand he grabs the bag off the floor and sets it on the bed beside her, opening it and digging through its contents.
You were right, the thing is loaded with diapers and many different plastic objects.
Keys, babies love keys.
That toy seems the best choice, taking that and a blanket out before putting the bag on the floor nearby, holding the baby like a barrel under his arm while he flattens the blanket, then placing her on her belly.
He dangles the keys in front of her, watching as her eyes widen as she takes a horribly aimed swipe towards them.
With a laugh tinged snort he lets her have them, sitting with his back against the bed and taking his phone out, resuming his leisure hobby.
A minute passes before he peeks over at her to make sure she’s still there, idly chewing on an orange key.
It reminds him of something a puppy would do, up until she shoves it in way too far.
He drops his phone and yanks the keys away with concern she’ll vomit, not expecting her to look so upset over it.
Briefly she contentedly waits for them to be returned, but when it becomes apparent they aren’t, she scowls.
“No,” he preemptively says, putting the keys down at his other side to keep them away, “you did something fucking stupid, so now they’re off limits. Don’t get all upset over it.”
She huffs and slams a hand down a few times, making a ‘gah’ with very demanding intent.
“I said no. Let me find something else then, calm down.”, he says as he reaches over to grab something random out of the bag, finding a plush red dinosaur.
“See? Fun. Chew on this.”
He sets it down in front of her, and she immediately pushes it over, repeating herself.
If nothing he gives her credit for having a strange amount of object permanence.
“I. Said. No. The fuck do you want me to do? You’re the one who can’t handle having the damn thing!”
With a curt ‘no’ as a final statement, he leans over her to shove the keys back into the bag.
This turns out to be a huge mistake.
In a universally understood way, her face screws up as she starts taking in heavy breaths, which makes his eyebrows raise.
“Don’t. No crying.” his tone is as assertive as he can get it, shaking his head as if to cement it.
Her tiny face turns red, sniffling once before fat tears begin to roll down her cheeks.
With no idea what to do in this situation, he starts rummaging through the bag for a solution, diapers spilling out as he digs for a similar toy if there even is one.
He cringes as she really starts crying, caving and getting the keys back out, giving them to her.
“See? See??”
She either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, bawling in the way only babies do, arms giving out as she lays down.
His instincts on consoling anyone are terrible and usually not to be followed but he acts without thinking, picking her up and setting her in his lap, bouncing his leg as he pets her back, softly shushing her, ignoring the part of him that does in fact wish to yell at the baby.
Her tiny body trembles, pawing at his shirt as she rubs her tear stained face into it.
Continuing to follow his instincts he lifts her up, both arms cradling her as her head rests against his shoulder.
She does eventually calm, relaxing as quiet hiccuping replaces her sobs, breathing regulating.
She's effectively soothed, he on the other hand is completely shaken up.
Jesus, why did that scare him so much?
He’d heard babies cry before and always was irritated by it, but this time there was something so different about it.
Even now his heart is still racing, mouth dry as he stares forward into the wall with a mixture of worry and gratefulness.
Once she’s relaxed, he picks up the previously discarded dinosaur, placing it in his lap next to her.
Thankfully, she seems to have forgotten about the keys, happy to latch onto the plushy.
He takes his phone back out with the intent to resume his earlier scrolling, but he can’t entirely take his eyes off her.
He’s more interested in watching her reactions than he’d ever admit.
In some ways she reminds him of you, mainly the eye color and the way her cheeks pinch up when she smiles.
You seem the motherly type to him so he assumes you’re leagues better at this than he is, but you’ve never mentioned having to babysit her before.
In fact you’ve never mentioned her before at all.
Maybe you enjoyed doing it but kept quiet so you didn’t have anyone intruding or asking to see her, babies can feel stranger danger so that made sense, it’d probably be overwhelming.
She doesn’t hate him though, maybe you knew that she wouldn’t?
Despite the panic she’s sent him through he really wouldn’t mind watching after her again.
It'll probably be easier with you here, though he isn’t sure what he’d do if you were, he’d just be sitting around while you did everything.
God, she is really goddamned adorable.
He smirks as he takes a second to allow himself to outwardly express something positive, watching her slap her tiny hand against the toy.
Usually the idea of having a baby is the worst one anyone can have, but right now he isn’t all that opposed to it.
Not that it looks simple, more that it looks to be worth it.
He knows he’d make super cute babies, based on what he looks like and has always looked like the kid would outshine any other snot maker.
While he didn’t know what you looked like as a baby he just assumed you did too, briefly considering what a baby would look like if it came from you and him.
He’s got his mother's blonde hair despite his father's brunette coloring so that’s a dominant trait, possibly overriding your own but who can know, it’d more likely have more of your features.
Out of anything he’d want a little girl just like this one, though he’d be happy with anything as long as it's yours.
Your features have always been something he likes, face as well as body, you’re built well in every aspect he tends to care about.
That, and your winning personality, even he can see that it’s a very pleasant contrast to his own.
A kid with a mixture of both would be undoubtedly unstoppable, making him proud left and right.
Suddenly the thought bubble pops as reality rises to the surface.
You’re not his and he doesn’t like you anyways, this doesn’t bear so much thinking since it’ll never happen.
A heat takes to his cheeks as he tries to move on and pretend he wasn’t having a domestic fantasy involving you, mostly pretending he hadn’t had any fantasies about you.
It was something that’d creep into his mind sometimes.
Kirishima and Deku tended to have some softer traits alongside their bolder ones but it just wasn’t the same coming from either of them.
You had a certain tenacity to you, it was totally within your options to let some rich older man take care of you but you wanted more for yourself, you wanted to be a hero.
It made you strong, and you were strong because you worked for it constantly.
As thick as your innocence tended to be, he was fairly confident you could knock him unconscious if it strikes you as the right choice.
He shook his head and made an effort to clear out all his emotions, directing his attention back towards the baby to ground himself.
At some point during his daydreaming she’d knocked out cold, the dinosaur laying on the floor beside him, propped up against his chest, quietly snoozing while drooling a slight amount.
Even if he wanted too he couldn’t be grossed out, it was way too cute of a sight for him to get mad.
Looking at her makes him feel tired, so he decides that taking a nap wouldn’t be a terrible idea.
Careful to avoid waking her, he shifts around to get comfortable, hooking an arm around her so she doesn’t teeter backwards while he’s moving.
He thinks about whether he should turn her over and lay her on the blanket, unsure of what the proper protocol is.
His neck is gonna get super fucked up if he stays sat like this, so he very slowly gets up and lays on his bed, keeping her held to his chest until he’s flat enough to let gravity do the work.
For a moment he returns to thinking about laying her on a flat surface but he lets her stay as she is, being a light sleeper means he’ll be able to deal with any problems if there are any.
-
After thanking Aizawa for the extra sparring lesson, you quickly get yourself showered and changed.
It’s been about two hours since you left her with Bakugou and you were getting increasingly worried he was reaching his limit.
Honestly you didn’t expect to be gone this long, but you were glad you gave him the estimate because it meant he’d have less reasons to be upset with you.
You prepare yourself for him to yell at you for leaving him alone with a demon for so long, even if she’s rarely a problem you do suspect he’ll be dramatic.
Still, it was a godsend that he said yes to begin with, you were going to make sure to tell him that.
When you get to his room you don’t bother with knocking, opening it to let yourself in without hesitation.
You were going to say something, but you forget the instant you lay eyes on the scene in front of you.
Practically swooning, you place a hand over your mouth to prevent making any noise, getting your phone out to document perhaps the cutest thing you’ve ever seen.
He’s laying on his bed, one arm over her and one over his eyes to block out the light, her tiny hands secured around the collar of his shirt, both of them peacefully asleep.
Not intending it to be blackmail but being aware it would probably become that, you take pictures from several different angles, wanting nothing more than to show everyone.
Though, for his own sake, you don’t actually send them anywhere near the class.
This doesn’t mean you don’t send them all to his mother, you do.
It does pain you to know you’ll have to hold off on showing people lest the information come back to him, but you do make it your phones home screen anyways.
#bakugou katsuki#bakugou baby shenanigans#fluff#mha fluff#SFW#gender neutral reader#gn reader#bakugou katuski x reader#a03 fic
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Agents of Discord - Part 2
Back by (very) popular demand, here's a continuation of THIS story. I jumped the queue of WIPs to get this done asap, and had fun doing it
*****
"Zerlix," Captain Piulo groaned as she rubbed the rough crest on her head, "this route only has a small handful of moments when this crew doesn't have to be on high alert. Why do you insist on filling those moments with your antics about the humans?"
"My antics?" Zerlix clutched the comm device harder. "Captain, did you not hear the recording? Human John outright admitted that they're all imposters and are going to kill us all! They're going to throw this entire ship into their own special brand of discord! Listen, listen, I'll play it again, here." He reset the audio file and Human John's one-sided conversation from when Zerlix started recording filled the room.
"Enough Zerlix, stop."
Zerlix’s claws scrambled to pause the recording, all the while Captain Piulo and a few other high-ranking officers seated around the meal table watched blankly. One feathered officer kept looking between Zerlix, the captain, and the half-eaten meal in front of them.
Captain Piulo sighed and pulled up a command screen on her comm device. “Let’s clear this up as quickly as we can, shall we?” Her short fingers scrolled through contacts before she found Human John and opened a direct call.
“Human John, could I have you join us at the meal hall as soon as possible?” Zerlix couldn’t hear the human’s response on the other end but assumed it was positive, as the captain then thanked him and closed the call.
The feathered officer finally decided the following awkward silence was an appropriate time to sneak in a few more small bites.
Thankfully, the human in question must have not have moved from the alcove where he’d been plotting everyone’s demise because it didn’t take long before he was walking into view.
As he approached, he patted his chest in the ship’s customary salute. “Captain Piulo, what can I do for you?”
“Human John, please take a seat,” the captain motioned to a spot on the long bench Zerlix was already on. John promptly sat on the other end. Zerlix tried scooting to the farthest part of the bench.
“Zerlix here has some concerns and claims you are planning to ‘sew discord’ and ‘destroy us all’. There’s even a recording of your conversation saying as much.” She nodded to Zerlix who played the recording again, a satisfied grin slowly spreading when the audio ended.
“Do you mind explaining?”
John looked from the captain to Zerlix who was now so far down the bench, they were close to falling off the edge. “Oh, so this is another Zerlix thing. Okay. Uh, yeah. I thought that was weird that you just left like that earlier.” John paused and pulled out the tablet he’d been on earlier in the alcove.
“I’m sorry if you misunderstood, Zerlix. I was talking about an old Earth game. It’s gotten really popular again lately and my friend was trying to get me to join a few rounds. I can show you all a round of the game if you’d like.” He tapped the small tablet’s screen a few times and held it up so everyone could see. “I left the round I was playing with my friends, so I don’t know if they’re done yet, but I can jump into a different room to show you how the game works if you want? It really is just a harmless game, totally for fun and that’s it.”
“If that will set minds at ease,” Captain Piulo nodded and nodded, “Proceed.”
John tapped a few more times and turned around so he could hold the tablet in a way that everyone could see the screen as he played. As the game began, John explained what everyone was doing and the goals everyone was working toward.
It took only about half a moortik before Captain Piulo cut him off. “I think we’ve seen enough. Thank you Human John. You’re excused to return to your rec time.”
“But Captain!” Zerlix protested as the human stood up. “He said he was going to kill! That he was an imposter! That… that… discord and chaos! We’re not safe with them arou-”
“Zerlix, stand down.” The captain’s voice immediately silenced everyone within hearing. She exhaled and brought her voice down as she continued. “I don’t know how much convincing it’s going to take to get to you, but I am nearing the limits of my patience while trying to find out. You overheard Human John talking about a game. Before that, you thought Human Nekpen was challenging you to a duel to the death. This ship has five humans aboard, and despite all your wild accusations, they have never done anything against anyone. We have a little less than half a cycle left before we reach the Chiru Strait.” At the mention of the celestial spacemark, several officers grimaced. It was not the most dangerous part of the route to Senbora 6, but it was pretty close.
Captain Piulo paid no heed and continued, “I will strongly suggest you take that time to visit the medbay.” The captain’s tone indicated what she was saying was more than just a suggestion. “Doctor Fah can fit you in and hopefully start helping you get over this severe paranoia you seem to be experiencing. I need you at full capacity, not hindering yourself because of unwarranted fear from your own crewmates of all things.”
Zerlix sat there, dumbstruck. This was not how this conversation had been expected to go.
“You’re excused, Zerlix. I will let the medbay know to expect you soon.”
***
The medbay was not particularly busy, but Zerlix still had to wait to be seen. Just insult to injury at this point. How did no one else see this? How the frewan had the humans been able to pull cover once again?! It would be almost admirable at this point if it weren’t so flargin’ exasperating! And this time, it had only ended in a blubkus trip to the medbay for the trouble of trying to expose them.
A sudden bump knocked Zerlix out of their silent fuming.
“Oh, sorry about that,” the only other occupant of the small waiting room creaked. Jannoah, a young Toanoaktree scooted the offending barky leg back. Small leaf growths along their shoulders and arms were trembling slightly. “Are you okay? I was just playing a game and I got startled and jumped. I didn’t mean to do that.”
“You’re fine, I’m fine. No harm done,” Zerlix muttered in reply as they readjusted their seat.
The waiting room returned to silent normalcy. Or actually, not silent. Zerlix just had been too deep in fuming thoughts that they hadn’t noticed the sounds coming from the tablet the crewmate held in their branch-like hands. Voices were talking and laughing in conversation. At first, Zerlix thought maybe Jannoah was watching a video or something until they responded to a question one of the disembodied voices asked.
Zerlix sat up a little straighter to see what exactly was going on. Toanoaktrees don’t have great eyesight, so Jannoah didn’t seem to take notice.
Colorful characters were running around the screen in what Zerlix recognized as the “game” Human John had been “playing” earlier. This time, however, the screen was split with another box that had circular pictures and text. A green outline kept moving from one circle to the next as voices changed. What was this?
“Oh hey Zerlix,” Jannoah must have noticed after all, “Have you played this yet? The humans showed me and helped me set up an account. Or well, accounts. One for the game and one for Discord.”
Zerlix froze. There it was again. Discord. The humans were spreading it under the guise of this deceptive, vile game! Dread and vindication pulsed through Zerlix’s veins.
Jannoah frowned and tried to study Zerlix’s expression while still keeping an eye on the game. “Uh, you okay? I didn’t knock you that hard, did I? I’m so sorry.”
A confused voice spoke up from the tablet and the green circle changed places on the screen. “What are you talking about Jannoah?”
“Oh, nothing sorry! I was talking to my crewmate, asking if they’re okay. I’ll mute my mic for a bit. Hold on.” With a quick tap, Jannoah looked back to Zerlix expectantly. “Sorry, I didn’t realize they could hear me on that. Are you okay?”
Zerlix didn’t respond at first, never taking their eyes from the tablet screen. “How are they talking to you? Who are they?”
“Oh,” Jannoah turned the tablet to show the screen better. “Some new friends I met. Well, kind of met. Not in person at least, just online. Human John invited me to join this Discord server and everyone is really nice and invited me to play this game with them.”
Zerlix couldn’t believe what they were hearing. This was so blatant on the humans’ part! How could they be so bold in the open like this with their dastardly plots and still think they were going to get away with it?
Well, they supposed, the humans were getting away with it. That was the problem. Maybe… just maybe a change in tactics was in order. What did Jannoah say earlier? The humans helped ‘set up an account?’ Maybe in order to catch them, Zerlix had to get in closer to the situation.
“Hey,” Zerlix said slowly, “how do I get an ‘account’ on this discord server?”
#humans are weird#humans are space orcs#discord#video games#space#aliens#humans#spaceship#writeblr#original writing#prompt request#prompt fill
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Ichihime Week | Day 2: Lovers
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The room is quiet once again, cold, hard marble floor reflecting the sunrise behind the huge glass windows. She would hide if it was necessary: hide from any photographers, anyone barging through the massive yet stylish sleek brown door, or perhaps even some neighbors able to see the two of them in bed like that. But thankfully, there is no such thing as neighbors for Ichigo.
Ichigo Kurosaki, her once high school crush, with his angry scowl, fighting tendencies and terrible frequentations. A young man, still halfway just a boy, who was still mourning the death of his mother, still fighting depression, still trying to figure out how things worked. That Ichigo, who would help save her without a second of hesitation when a rival gang had taken her away, playing gangsters. Oh, she had fallen for him so hard… From so high. Not because he was a mysterious man and had muscles. Because he was kind, caring, loving under this mask of indifference.
She was too much of a coward at the time to ask him anything. Even requesting a pen in this big, boring and dusty classroom was something she couldn’t imagine asking. So, for 2 years, she stayed silent, lovingly looking after him as a simple acquaintance.
School was over soon. Ichigo had to move to Tokyo, for a family business she had heard, and she would stay in Karakura Town. Orihime had been ready to say goodbye, to never see him again, because what were the odds? Ichigo had nothing holding him back in the small town. He’d go, live his life, get new friends, new enemies surely… Another girl would be in love with him, and Orihime was fine with that truth.
The last afternoon of her high school days, opening her locker to retrieve her walking shoes, she noticed a small piece of paper that had been slipped between the small gap, still hanging loosely from a corner, rumpled. In the golden light of the fading sun, she had felt, deep in her stomach, in her bones, her heart, a warm breath.
Please keep a room in your heart for me, just like I’ll keep a room in mine for you.
I. K
.
.
.
Ichigo Kurosaki had not changed in the 7 years of his absence. Instead, he had matured into a tall, lean, muscular and calm-looking adult, the fury of fight faded in his eyes. His scowl was usually gone, unless some piece of news made him grumble incoherent curses. The orange spikes, untamable at the time, had been cut short. She never thought she could like that type of style, being so used to the unruly hair, but she had been terribly wrong.
In 7 years… Ah, in 7 years he had learned so much. How to dress in a suit, the suffocation he had claimed from wearing a tie as a student transformed into a preferred style, the capacity to rapidly think to discern the best thing to say instead of rushing to a conclusion. The steady, deep voice. The small chuckles. The curt smiles. The eyes… As if they had witnessed a supernova from up close, and, with infinite patience, had gathered the wisdom raining from it. He was… Ichigo. But the grown version.
She loved him even more.
They met again at a student’s reunion, one of those sometimes boring, sometimes time-wasting events. Orihime had of course expected to turn in, say hello, munch a few cakes and then go back home and enjoy the upcoming weekend after a long week of work. She was supposed to relax, but the moment she turned around to wave goodbye, Ichigo had appeared next to her, curious eyes asking her if she had read.
‘Read what?’ She wanted to ask, lost for a second. But, of course, she remembered. Actually, she never forgot about it.
After 7 years of no talking, not seeing each other, not even knowing if the other would still remember, she looked up in his eyes and nodded, small but sure.
“I did. I kept a place.”
Maybe it was his smile. Maybe it was his hands. Or his body. Or himself. Orihime couldn’t tell, but something pushed her to fall into his arms that night. And all the other nights after that.
He stirred next to her, a gruff grunt as he placed his head far into the pillow, hands digging in the sheets to hide his eyes from the awful rays of light that had pulled him from his sleep. Orihime turned her face to watch him, chuckling.
Ichigo in a suit was a sight, but Ichigo bare was a wonder to the eyes. While she had rather light skin, his was rapidly turning golden when he sun-bathed too long. And when he was tanned, the strong muscles everywhere on his body rolled deliciously, inviting her to touch him, much like she was compelled to do so.
Orihime laid back down next to him, staring at him up and down, one hand timidly touching his shoulder.
“What time is it?” He asked, voice low and barely audible. Orihime looked around, the small digital numbers on the alarm clock indicating he had a good few hours before having to head to yet another business lunch.
“Only 8. You know, maybe we could go meet your sisters tonight? They haven’t seen you in quite some time.” Ichigo opened a lazy eye and nodded. Yuzu and Karin were done with high school by now, and starting their own studies. Karin was interested in being a lawyer, which had turned out to be quite the surprise. Yuzu wanted to take after her father, and had entered medical school. Last he had heard, she was enjoying it. They were growing up, and even if he had hoped they could remain small and gentle for a bit more, he was proud of them.
“Yeah… We’ll go. They will be happy to see you too.” He smiled, a sweet thing he did a lot around her. Orihime curled her arms around his navel, and he brought her on top of him, cuddling her to his chest. They stayed silent for just a few moments, Ichigo waking up slowly, opening and closing his eyes, and Orihime stretching her arms and legs like a cat after a nap.
“…When we see them, I’d like to present you as my girlfriend.” He croaked, voice catching in his throat, shaky and expecting the worst.
For a year now, they had been rolling around with each other. Sleeping together, caring for each other, taking the other for a date, but never saying the three words they died to mutter. Had it been only for the sex, it wouldn’t have lasted. Had it been with a stranger, neither would have even started this relationship. But… It was different. They knew the other like the back of their hand, what they liked, didn’t like, could live without, couldn’t. This pining that had lasted for years, this hesitation that bored holes into their souls had been enough for them to try something new. And now that they lied with the other every night, cooked for the other, shared a life really, Ichigo felt he could ask this question. Suggest her this option.
He was a busy man now, interested in English literature in his free time while he built a small enterprise from scratch. She was about to have her teaching degree. That was quite the leap between them, but neither cared.
Orihime looked down at him, gaze falling in his own. How cute, heart-touching was it that such a powerful man feared something so evident. It brought a blush to her radiant face, and she kissed his lips with a small chuckle.
“Of course. I would love to have you as my boyfriend, my sweet Ichigo.”
He was the one to blush at her words, relief in his brown eyes as he kept her closer to him for a few more hours.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Day 2!
Phew this one was tough to write... The meaning of "Lovers" can vary to so many different things, and my brain was thinking of several situations at the same time... I wanted to be a troll first and write something about what they liked, for example, some type of food... But decided against it.
Then my time was cut short and I decided to go with a safe AU-like writing.
Hope you enjoyed it! See you tomorrow for day 3!
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the men of metal, menacing with golden face, 3/?
a.k.a sequel to terrible with the brightness of gold
(cherik fic, viking au, subtle a/b/o, mature rating)
(part one) (part two)
Hi all, I am so sorry for the space between these updates! - I am so close to finishing my PhD (not in any history or medieval studies field, lol) and things are just really hectic with revisions, publications and syllabi, etc.
A reminder that the last chapter (from 5000 years ago) ended with Charles being graphically/violently threatened by a mysterious man. (See the link above if you’d like to re-read it.
Warnings: Slightly gory description, mentions/implications of violence and sexual assault, child death (not Charles’ kids)
----
In the end, they don't set off that afternoon.
It’s decided in a council, a strategy meeting that Charles is not invited to, and reported to him curtly by Lehnsherr later that day that if they start off early enough it’s only most of a day’s ride to Eoforowic, and is the preferable alternative to the vulnerability of camping overnight.
He sees almost no one before the Danish king returns to the tent bearing an evening meal.
The man in question has forgone the advisors and trailing pages, leaving his subordinates behind for the night, as no loud voices or other signs announce his arrival. The denizens of the camp are likely off savouring the hours of daylight that remain in varied nefarious ways. The long summer nights are not yet over, but in the tent it’s darker, shadowed but not yet dim enough to warrant a candle or fat lamp. The canvas walls seem to glow faintly with the strange quality of early evening light.
Charles has arranged himself in a defensive position, seated at the small table on the lone chair facing the tent flap. He took advantage of his time alone to redistribute a number of the furs from the main pile, making the corner where he intends once again to sleep more comfortable and well-padded. Together with the extra things Alex brought him--when, under the watchful eyes of the guards, they risked exchanging only a nod to confirm his task’s success--he fashioned a warm berth for himself. His current placement, with its slight chill, is a tactical necessity. He straightens in the hard, wooden seat. It’s best to avoid being caught in a prone position lest Lehnsherr take it as an invitation.
When he enters, Lehsherr carries in two rough-hewn, steaming wooden bowls balanced atop an extra stool.
“You must be hungry.”
Charles scans him for ulterior motives, finding none for now. He hasn’t eaten since the food that was left for him this morning, but can’t seem to muster up much of an appetite.
“Yes. Thank you,” he says anyway. He needs to keep his strength up.
Lehnsherr sets the bowls on the small table, nudging one slightly towards Charles, and the stool beside it. He then turns away, once again going through the routine of divesting himself of his gear. If he notices or has any feelings about Charles’ rearrangement of his space he says nothing, leaving Charles to return to his own thoughts.
That afternoon, after the monstrous man retreated, slinking off to some other part of the camp while Charles stood shaken, Charles’ guards had suddenly and conspicuously reappeared.
As he was escorted back to Lehnsherr’s tent, Charles had, briefly, turned over the possibility of telling him what happened. Of what could be construed as nothing other than a violent threat. But the man hadn’t actually done anything, hadn’t even touched Charles. And what, even, were the chances that Lehnsherr would believe him—or that he would care? In any case what exactly could he expect the Dane to do? The bear-man, whoever he is, must be powerful, as he contrived some way—whether by bribery or sheer command—to send the guards away from their positions outside the tent.
—Or, the thought had occurred to him, both disturbing and the most plausible yet, perhaps Lehnsherr had sent the man to threaten him, to warn him off and keep him in line. It is this possibility that is nearest in his mind as Lehnsherr wanders the tent.
“I trust you found your men well?” Lehnsherr questions, not turning from where he is folding his gambeson.
Charles contemplates several responses. Acerbic: ‘Alive would be a more accurate understanding.’ Another part of him wants to respond in anger, Logan’s blackened eye, the morning’s events, urging him to confront and accuse Lehnsherr. It’s an urge he knows is at least partly the product of fear. He presses his palms flat against the wood of the table and feels its uneven surface press back. In the end, exhausted, and unwilling to cause a fuss, he settles on, “I did,” then turns towards the bowl before him.
The food is hot, rabbit this time. Likely commandeered from one of the many the braziers and fire pits that dot the camp as he doubts Lehnsherr has had time for hunting. It is good, and Charles feels some appetite flare again, even when Lehnsherr has divested enough weapons and layers and joins him at the table.
A silence falls between them, not exactly awkward, but not quite comfortable either. On Charles’ end, it stems from reservation. Lehnsherr, conversely, seems content not to speak.
Charles steals surreptitious glances between bites. He studies the lines of the other man’s face trying to puzzle him out as the shadows in the tent begin to lengthen.
He’s a man become even more confusing and inscrutable after the day’s events. If Lehnsherr had sent that beast of a man to threaten him in place of doing so himself, it speaks to a capacity for sophisticated psychological manipulation, one that goes beyond and complicates his reputation for sheer brutality. For all of Charles’ careful planning he hadn’t seriously considered the possibility that Lehnsherr might be worse than Shaw. He needs to know who he’s—getting into bed with, his mind supplies—getting involved with. Only then can he have any hope to defend himself. For who can say what will happen to whatever appeal he has—the tenuous sexual hold that had checked Lehnsherr the night before—once Lehnsherr finally gets what he wants and is sated. What then can Charles possibly do to hold him back, should he prove monstrous?
He must have been more transparent in his observation than he realized, an act which once again is misinterpreted.
“Relax, your Highness.” Lehnsherr says. “I’ll honour your wish to wait. I won’t touch you.”
“Until we are married,” Charles says aloud if only to remind himself, tracking with his eyes the slow advance of a line of shadow across the table.
“Until we are married,” Lehnsherr agrees, his voice carrying notes of something that has Charles turning back studiously to his food to avoid analyzing.
...
The sun is just ghosting above the horizon when they assemble to head off the next morning, gently bathing the plain in its orange-red glow. There’s a morning chill carried in the wind that batters at Charles’ cheeks. It wipes away the bleariness of the early hour, and makes him glad that extra furs were among the items that he’d requested Alex fetch. And yet the last edges of summer are holding on; it’s nothing compared to the winter they’ll face once the seasons change and even the memories of warmth fade.
Lehnsherr had woken him just before dawn, and they’d had a hurried breakfast in the tent by the light of a flickering taper. More of the flat, dry bread and some of the season’s last berries, foraged from a nearby bush.
They’ll be going overland to Eoforwic. It’s the slower route than sailing up the coast, which tells Charles that either Lehnsherr doesn’t want their journey observed or reported, or that he’s uncertain of what awaits them in Eoforwic.
Scanning the group, Charles counts about fifty gathered, all told. Enough to defend themselves if it came down to it, but still a small enough party to travel relatively unobtrusively.
His horse gives a restless shuffle, tugging gently on the reins in his hands. A nobleman's former mount, certainly. Fine little features stand out in the saddle, tack, and gear. The rivets in the saddle bags are detailed in a star motif, points radiating out in blades of light, as only the very wealthy could afford. It was probably scavenged from its slain owner, or, optimistically, was given up by a defeated city relinquishing its riches. Londres had given up several hundred horses in the surrender.
Lehnsherr, who’d gone off on an unnamed errand after seeing Charles matched with a horse, approaches once more. He’s leading not only a horse of his own, but a woman. Charles recognizes her dark eyes and small stature from the previous morning.
“Charles,” Lehnsherr says without ceremony, “this is Angel. She’s here to assist you.”
He looks back over at her, as she returns his gaze placidly. Assist him? The road, travelling rough as they are, is no place for an attendant. Then, focusing on her smooth expression, it all clicks into place.
Assist him. Ha. More like spy on him. He quickly re-assesses the meeting he interrupted yesterday as an intelligence report. Interesting. Sebastian, with his more traditionalist views, would likely not have thought to assign such a job to a beta or omega woman.
He manages, “a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Angel.” It’s a lie, of course, but Charles was raised with manners, and she can’t help the assignment she's been tasked with. While Charles is fairly confident in his charm, Angel proves just as enigmatic as her commander, offering merely a hint of a smile and a raised eyebrow before turning to see to her own mount.
With eyes on him secured, Lehnsherr seems relatively content to leave him alone, as he heads up towards the front of the column to rally the troops.
They set off, and Charles easily falls towards the back of the group, ghosted by Angel. If he had any remaining doubts about her occupation, they dissipate after watching her subte, silent moments, even on horseback.
Travelling en masse, they alternate bursts of speed with walking breaks to keep a sustainable pace for the horses.
He is content to pass the first canter course just relishing the abandon of the pace, the uneven terrain below the horses’ hooves. The sun gradually climbs higher until he can feel the warmth of it on his hair, and the wind blows across his face. He basks in the experience of being out in the open, running wild (if not free) after six months of siege.
The dusty roadside is lined here and there with dots of blue chicory, long stems stretching up tenaciously towards the sky. A flock of chaffinches, startled by their appearance, burst in flight. His spy, Angel, seems to have melted away into the group, perhaps prefering to operate in her usual mode when her targets don’t know she’s there. It is tempting to forget the circumstances and enjoy the moment.
But Charles is too pragmatic, hardened by bitter experience underlined by recent events, to let this lapse in Lehnsherr’s attention (Angel aside) go to waste.
In the first walking break, he looks around at the stragglers in the second half of the party for promising targets of some reconnaissance of his own. Just ahead and to his left are two burly men engaged in animated discussion. Inching subtly closer, he’s disappointed but not surprised to find that they’re speaking Danish. He has so little of the language, certainly not enough to make reliable sense of their discussion, but at the least perhaps listening might improve his facility. He listens amongst the glottal phrases for repeated sounds he might begin to decipher.
“It’s a blunt-tongued language, isn’t it?” a warm voice addresses Charles from slightly behind.
He starts and turns his body in the direction of the sound—as pleased to hear the softer tones of Saxon as he is startled at the sudden intrusion—to find another rider approaching on his right.
He’s a young man, a little younger than Charles from appearances, and clothed in unusual attire. A flat sort of cap, fashioned from a vibrant dark red material, adorns his head. His tunic, where it peeks through his furs, is woven of rich fabric: not over-ornamented, but of a quality far surpassing the coarse weaves and eclectic dress of the surrounding men. He carries himself with a cool confidence, perched lightly on his saddle, relaxed and much more poised than any other of Lehnsherr’s men.
Charles pulls gently at the reins, slowing his horse’s pace to allow the other man to draw even with him.
Even as he takes him in, the clothing stirs a memory at the back of his mind of a childhood long ago; Muslim traders at the Norman court. The memory is an old one; Sebastian’s kingdom was an insular one and didn’t get on with outsiders, let alone cultured guests from the learned centres of the world.
“Forgive me for startling you, Your Highness,” the man says. Despite Charles’ deliberate choice to leave his circlet behind at the tent, it seems that Lehnsherr’s scene in the banquet hall the other night has left him no chance of anonymity.
“That’s quite alright. Though, you seem to have me at a disadvantage.”
“The name’s Armando, sir.”
“Armando.” He says, rolling the name around in his mouth. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” It's the second time today he’s offered these words, but he finds he can be more sincere with them when not faced with a spy. “And what is your role here?” He’s a figure somewhat misplaced among the rough-and-tumble Danes.
“I’m a physician. Born in Cordoba, and trained in Alexandria.”
A frisson of excitement runs through Charles at this announcement. “You speak Saxon very well for an Andalusian. Better than myself, and I’ve been speaking it almost since birth.”
“Thank you. Once I had the first few, the next languages came easily enough.” He switches into Norman for the second part of explanation to demonstrate.
“How many others do you speak?”
“Fluently? I’d say seven--maybe eight.” He cracks a broad, warm smile at Charles’ astonishment. “What can I say? I’m adaptive.”
Mindful of his spy close at hand, Charles yet can’t hide his delight to be in the company of a fellow seeker in the pursuit of knowledge, one with personal experience of the madrasas of the learned world at that. Despite this, he tries to rein himself in before his enthusiasm overwhelms his caution. After all, no matter how much he may seem a kindred spirit, he doesn’t know Armando nor his agenda. And, after seeing firsthand the danger that lurks in the camp, he’d be a fool to count himself safe.
They settle into a comfortable rhythm. It’s in the next walking break that Charles, between probing questions about the scientific and medical developments out of Baghdad, catches sight of a head above the crowd. His heart stutters, and he almost jerks on the reins impulsively. Riding up at the front, near Lehnsherr, but a bit off to the side. He’s easy to spot, rising nearly head-and-shoulders above the men surrounding him, stature and bearskin robe unmistakable.
“Armando, what can you tell me about that man?”
Armando follows his gaze to the front of the party, and when he sees the man to whom Charles refers seems to hesitate.
“He goes by the name of Sabretooth. He leads one of the strongest factions among the Danish warriors.” He pauses so long that Charles thinks he might have to prompt again, before continuing. “He and his supporters are known for their unyielding savagery in battle. I’ve only ever seen the aftermath.” Armando looks towards the riders at the front, squinting into the midday sun at the outline of the man in question. His words seem improbably incongruous in the brightness of the day. “Going into battle they consume a potion to free them of inhibitions and drive away all traces of remorse. Many of his followers file their teeth, supposedly to more easily rend the flesh of their enemies. Except Sabretooth himself who they say likes the challenge of a duller edge.”
Charles masks his disquiet with a wry remark. “No doubt a firm favourite of his Grace.” He had heard tell of such stories, whispers of viking cannibals, but had always assumed them to be over-inflations of reality.
“You’re wrong about that, actually.”
He looks back over, surprised.
“I have the sense—mind you, this is just my perception—that His Grace dislikes him very much.”
Charles thinks on this. Armando’s explanation would seem to square with the disagreement he witnessed back at the camp. Furthermore, the man—Sabretooth—seems prone to unpredictable violence, of a sort that might irk someone as careful and controlled as Lehnsherr. And yet—
“If that's the case, why invite him on such a party?
Armando takes a moment to respond, looking between the two riders up ahead. “There’s a common saying in Alexandria. It translates roughly to: a wise man holds his enemies close to his breast but far from his heart.”
Charles nods in agreement as he notes the appropriateness of it, thinking of the justification he had used to convince Lehnsherr to take him along even as he once again reconfigures his knowledge of the man. He, too, is an enemy Lehnsherr has held close. But before he can take the train of thought much further, the low blast of a horn signals the return to a canter, and it’s lost in the clatter of advancing hooves.
…
In the late afternoon, the first sign of smoke on the horizon alerts them. It curls above the treetops a little ways off the road. Too dense and heavy to be from a cooking fire.
The nearby homestead is set back from the road, but after the party halts at another horn blast a few riders break away from the pack in its direction. Charles pulls his horse past the crowd of remaining men and follows after them.
It’s a desolate scene. What was formerly a cottage now smouldering ashes but for the charred edges of a door frame still standing. The field of crops outside is churned up and scattered. Crushed stalks of barley that were trodden under horses’ hooves are beaten into the mud. A handful of slaughtered animals lie along the path. But what is most evident is the woman crouched in front of the remains of the house, keening in grief. Her ragged dress is torn, at her side a small child with a soot in their hair and clothes.
Lehnsherr has already dismounted, handed off his reins to another rider in order to survey the scene. Charles follows suit without a thought, and once he gets closer, it unfolds before him tragic inevitability.
He sees the dead man lying a few feet away from the woman and child, his grotesquely splayed body telling the story of his violent end. Then, clutched in the woman’s arms, a boy. A mere child, perhaps thirteen summers. His small eyes are closed almost peacefully, his forehead smeared with clotted blood.
Armando, who has followed Charles from the road, is quick to be rallied to aid.
Insensible in grief, the woman seems to barely register their presence as they cautiously approach. The young child, likely too small to comprehend the events that have taken place, tugs on her dress to get her attention, until she at last looks up at them. Her gaze is empty as one beyond reach, already crossed over to the next world.
It strikes Charles deeply, who freezes, feeling her disconnection mirrored in his own. Dissociation is a strategy he’s used to make himself hard, hiding his emotions in a fortress to protect them from a scene that has and will continue to play out countless times across the countryside. Recognizing it now in this woman, he’s struck by its haunting unnaturalness, the hollowness it invokes.
Armando, who had gently nudged the woman aside to conduct an examination, looks up and shakes his head.
The young child shrieks suddenly, drawing back and cowering behind their mother, who, past caring, doesn’t noticeably react. The cause is soon clear: having finished attentively examining the scene and damage, Lehnsherr is making his way over. To his credit, in response to the child’s dismay he slows his approach and spreads his hands wide in the universal symbol of non-aggression. It’s the only reason that Charles makes no move to stop him as he nears the woman and child, and crouches down.
Charles watches as he starts a conversation in Saxon, gently asking a question or two. He thinks he hears Lehnsherr quietly mutter a few words following the woman’s stilted responses. Then the man pulls an aged leather drawstring pouch from somewhere on his person, and produces several small, glinting coins which he hands to the woman.
A weregild.
Blood price for so much death and evil, paid for with some mere pieces of metal. He rails internally at his own impotence, safe behind a palace wall while people are suffering; dying. And at the authors of the violence, as Lehnsherr’s actions here have surely confirmed, the very men he rides with.
He’s overwhelmed by a helpless rage that washes over him like a tide.
“A few coins” the words come out flat, subdued. “Do you think they can repair the loss of a husband, bring back her child?” It’s an accusation but empty, anger deserting him as quickly as it arrived for a dull hopelessness.
Lehnsherr turns to him, delayed. His gaze is a bit distant, as though he’d forgotten Charles was there.
“It will bring them food,” he says levelly, “buy them shelter for the winter. Nothing can bring back the dead.”
Charles stands there for an indeterminable span of time, consumed by the endless cruelties of men. By this tangible reminder of the pain caused and lives lost to men—no, not men, beasts, seeking only personal glory, an enrichment of power.
“You generals and your wars,” he says coldly and turns away, the smoke still stinging in his eyes.
#cherik#viking au#Charles Xavier#Erik Lehnsherr#x-men#subtle a/b/o#cherik fic#brawlingdiscontent#twtbog#encomium carolis regis
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