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maraudersftw · 3 years

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Here’s my little contribution to the Fem!Jily February fest being hosted by the marvelous @thejilyship this month! This one-shot revolves around the fairy tale theme. Enjoy!

First Light

“I can’t believe you brought her here, Prongs.”

“Shh, you’ll wake her.”

“Why don’t we take this outside? Let her rest for a bit.”

“Yes, thank you, Moony. She looks exhausted.”

There was half a beat of silence, and she sensed several sets of stares directed at her unmoving form even through her closed eyelids. She felt strangely exposed, knowing that the owners of the voices—two male, one female—were likely observing her ‘exhaustion’.

“I don’t care if she was dead on her feet! You should’ve been more careful. You see a pretty face and suddenly you’re thinking out of your arse. This is dangerous,” the first voice seethed, sounding thoroughly put out.

“Don’t be ridiculous; she’s just a girl.”

“She’s the princess!” a fourth voice squeaked—male again—and she forced herself to not twitch in alarm. Wherever she was, and she hadn’t a clue as to where, she was still known, still unable to escape her identity.

“Exactly! Wormtail’s right. If a princess is here, soon the entire royal army will follow.”

“So, what do you suggest then?” The female voice again—melodic, strong, annoyed. “I should’ve just left her to die in the middle of the forest? That we drop her back there right this instant?”

Silence fell again, deeper and longer. It seemed no one had an argument to counter the point.

She figured this was not the worst sort of group to have landed herself in. If they were hesitant to throw her to the wolves, they were at least a sight better than her sister. It didn’t matter that the wolves in the latter case had been metaphorical.

“Look, I think she’s waking,” said the fourth voice excitedly, and she realized she’d foolishly let a frown crease her forehead at the thought of Petunia. Even inside her head, her sister caused her trouble.

But there was nothing to it anymore; she pretended to blink her eyes open slowly, a dim glow from lit candles presenting to her a low wooden roof and old walls filled to the crevice with beautiful artwork—plants, ferns, flowers, patterns, and colors of every sort brightening up the space directly across from her.

Her fingers brushed over cool sheets as she sat up, the bed frame whining underneath her in protest. She noticed now that the drawings filled the entire room—save the roof and the floor—and was certain that she’d never seen such talent extracted from the tip of a paintbrush before.

Finally, unable to ignore the curious gazes directed at her any longer, she turned to the occupants in the small room.

There were indeed four of them as she’d guessed—three male and one female. They stood in pairs on either side of the bed. The one with the hardest stare had grey eyes and a mane of silky black hair. He was a handsome creature with a pale face and sharp features. But what really caught her eye was a familiar but rare band of glimmering black that twisted around his right forearm and disappeared under his clothing only to then peek out again over the skin of his neck.

Immediately, she rushed to examine the arms of the others—and sure enough, they each had a band of their own ingrained into their skin.

Her breath hitched in her throat. “You’re shapeshifters.”

If possible, the air in the room became thicker with tension at those words, uttered in the raspy, unused voice. A soft inhale from her left drew her attention to the female, and she blinked slowly, lips parting as she beheld the most entrancing creature she’d ever laid her eyes upon.

Her hair was a mass of dark, unruly strands that fell over her shoulders in thick waves. She knew Petunia would take to the tresses with a brush in hand as soon as she saw them. This meant that Lily inevitably found it wonderful. Large hazel eyes framed by thick lashes blinked at her, her own awe-struck expression mirrored back. The band on her arm was a blazing golden color.

“Your Highness,” said another voice, and she recognized it to belong to the one named ‘Moony’. He was thin—weakly, so—but his face was kind and smile gentle as he bowed his head slightly. Blue twirled around his arm elegantly. “We’re honored to have you here.”

At this, the grey-eyed one snorted in derision.

Blushing, she cleared her throat. “I’m sorry, but who are you? And—where am I?”

“I’m Remus Lupin,” he smiled at her, unbothered by the bitterness of one of his companions. “This is Sirius Black, Peter Pettigrew, and Jamie Potter,” he introduced, pointing to each one in turn.

Her eyes stayed on the last person for a second too long before she turned back to Remus. “It’s good to meet you. I’m Lily Evans.”

A small smile. “We know.”

“And—are you—?”

“Yes.”

“But your kind—we were told you became extinct decades ago!”

“Evidently not,” grumbled Sirius. Then, without preamble, “what are you doing here?”

She bristled at the tone but held the bite in her voice. “Where is here exactly?”

“Just beyond the forests of Gryffindale,” answered Jamie, and Lily was glad to have an excuse to turn to her again. A quick smirk appeared on the woman’s face—the expression so well-suited it was almost alarming—while her elbow swiftly dug into Sirius’s side. “I found you there in the woods. Unconscious.”

A brief scuffle ensued between Potter and Black, but she let her mind wander, dragging up the memories that had been eluding her for the past few minutes. It all came back in vivid clarity: Petunia’s mandate as the Queen of Gryffindale that she be married to Prince Severus. Her vehement refusal. The banishment from the castle for disgracing the family name when she’d confessed that she couldn’t marry a man, any man.

And then the terror that had led her to the forest in the first place—Severus had taken the rejection a little too hard, firmly pressing his belief upon her that she could come to love him if she just tried, and until then his love would be enough for them both, and why wouldn’t she just listen? He’d make her see the truth even if it meant making her stay with him until she ‘came to her senses’.

That was precisely when she’d fled.

Unfortunately, she’d underestimated the dangers that had lurked within the forest—finally coming to understand why humans were forbidden to enter it. She remembered crossing paths with creatures of all sorts: an Acromantula twice her size that had put the pictures she’d seen of the monster to shame, Kappas lurking in small clearings of weed-riddled swamps, and then she’d finally been chased to exhaustion by a pair of Red Caps who’d wanted to beat her to death.

She didn’t remember having collapsed, but if Jamie was to be believed, she was glad to still have breath in her lungs.

“How did you find me?”

Jamie paused in her attempts of trying to pull Sirius into a headlock and turned to her again. Instantly, a practiced grin graced her lips, one hand raising to mess with her hair. “I was strolling around. You seemed like you needed help.”

“Strolling?” she raised her brows, unimpressed, “in the forbidden forest?”

“We do that sometimes,” Peter said, reminding her that there was a fourth person in the room.

Eyes trained on the brown imprinted on his arm, she shook her head. “I can’t believe you’re actually—are there more of you?”

“Not that we’re aware of,” Jamie said. A smirk again, “neither in kind nor in nature.”

“Why do you live here? Hidden beyond the woods?”

“Why shouldn’t we?” Sirius snapped, “our kind is considered ‘unnatural’ in your world. We step out there and we’ll be hunted immediately.”

She looked down, upset. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

“Never mind that,” he waved her off, and she had the feeling that his anger was a fickle thing. “What I’m more interested in is what you’re doing here. And whether that spells danger for us.”

“I—I don’t know,” she sighed truthfully, “I was on the run from—someone, and the forest was the only place they wouldn’t follow me into. I didn’t even know creatures lived on the other side.”

“So…what?” Sirius gaped, “you just ran into that bloody forest knowing that you were probably going to end up dead anyway?”

“I didn’t have time to think at all if I’m being honest.”

The strangest thing happened then. At this careless narration of the most reckless thing she’d ever done in her entire life, Sirius Black grinned at her. Wide and bright and utterly mad. “Brilliant,” he said.

She wanted to roll her eyes, but fear was slowly creeping into her chest and burrowing comfortably again. “You don’t suppose they can cross the forest to come looking for me here, do you?”

A movement to her left. Jamie had moved closer to her side, hazel eyes boring into her with an inscrutable expression. “Not unless they want to die painfully. But the question is, do you want to go back?”

She exhaled, head pounding. Did she want to go back? Well, the answer to that was fairly simple. But she couldn’t see herself moving on with her life on this side of the forest without a care. Everything she’d ever known—everything she ever was—would be lost for all of eternity.

“I need to think.”

“Right, of course,” A nod from Remus. “You must be exhausted. We’ll leave you to rest for a bit.”

“You can freshen up if you want,” said Jamie, and she noticed how the woman’s fingers twitched as if to reach out. “I could lend you something clean to wear.”

Warmth bloomed in her chest, eyes falling to the shredded skirts of her dress, the dark stains. “I would be grateful, thank you.”

They filed out of the room then, Jamie almost knocking into Sirius in her haste to push past him.

She chuckled at the affronted ‘watch it, Prongs!’ and rose from the bed, meandering over to a bathroom across the narrow hall after asking for direction from Remus.

It was small, with little room to move around, but it was clean and smelled faintly of some plant—eucalyptus, perhaps. But it was the art—more of that beautiful, breathtaking art—that made her stare at the walls with her mouth agape. There were four animals that were recurrent throughout: A great black dog, a huge furry wolf, a large stag with antlers that touched the sky, and a nimble rat that she often found hidden in places least expected.

She had a fairly good idea of what—or who—they were meant to represent.

Feeling a little overwhelmed with the reality of her situation, she turned to the modest, round mirror above the sink.

Her thick red hair was matted over her head, limp-looking and crusted with dirt. There were smudges all over her face and a cut marred the skin near her right temple. There was no recollection as to how she’d gotten it. She grimaced at her reflection, hating the dryness of her lips, the sallowness of her skin.

Unbidden, the horrifying knowledge entered her mind that that was how she’d looked the first time Jamie had found her.

She groaned, embarrassed at the direction her thoughts were taking.

“Now, now, it’s not all that bad, dear.”

A scream was wrenched from her mouth—louder and more surprised than she would’ve expected. But Lily didn’t think she could be blamed. Because—because—had the mirror just tried to console her?!

Before she’d had a chance to gather her bearings or figure out whether she’d hallucinated the voice, there was a thundering sound from outside the bathroom. “Princess Lily?!” a panicked voice: Jamie's. “Are you okay?! I’m coming in!”

But she didn’t have to unlock the door. It was tugged open so effortlessly that she had to wonder whether she had locked it, to begin with. The thought was pushed from her head, however, when frazzled hazel eyes came into view. She noticed—at a rather inopportune moment—that Jamie stood a good few inches taller than her.

“What’s wrong? What happened?” And then light, gentle fingers were upon her person, turning her around, “are you hurt? I heard you scream.”

“I—”

“What an overreaction, young lady,” the mirror said again, and then proceeded to click its tongue, “screaming at another being is not good manners, you know.”

She sucked in a huge breath, wide green eyes swiveling to Jamie again. She reached out and gripped the woman’s arm in a deathly hold. “Did you hear that? Did you hear the mirror talking? Am I losing my mind?”

But she didn’t get an answer. Instead, Jamie’s entire face was swept over with relief, the stiffness of her limbs deflating into casualness under her very fingers. “Oh. The mirror. Bloody hell, you gave me a right scare.”

She couldn’t help her incredulity. “There is…a talking mirror in your bathroom and I gave you a right scare?”

“I would appreciate not being spoken about as if I’m not able to hear every word,” said the mirror disdainfully.

“Not now, Bertha,” Jamie scolded, as if there was ever a good time for such a complaint from an inanimate object—or what was supposed to be inanimate, at least. Lily suddenly found a simple green cotton dress being closed around her fingers. She looked up to find that Jamie’s stare had softened somewhat, an amused smile on her lips. “Here. Freshen up, and I’ll answer your questions honestly.”

She could hardly do anything but nod.

Right before Jamie stepped outside and closed the door behind her, she heard Sirius’s voice bark down the hall. “What the hell was that noise? Did someone die?!”

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

When she returned back to the room, decidedly cleaner and refreshed, Jamie was waiting for her, knee jostling violently with nervous energy. She seemed to have been muttering something under her breath, pulling on her chaotic strands and shaking her head quickly as if to clear it.

She all but sprang up from the bed when her eyes landed on Lily. “Hello.”

“Hello.”

“That dress suits you much better than it ever did me.”

She looked down at the fabric, fingers trailing softly over the cloth. It was a little loose around the shoulders and slightly tighter near the hips, but was more comfortable than anything she’d ever owned. “It’s beautiful. Thank you.”

Jamie shrugged, casually pulling her hair over her left shoulder in an attempt to seem unaffected. But Lily caught the pleased glow that had taken over her face. Hazel met green across the room. “Have you decided if you’re staying?”

“I haven’t,” she replied, “there are things I must know.”

“Then sit, and I will give you all the answers that I can.”

She moved towards the bed, walking around it so that she was closer to where Jamie stood. Behind the woman, a window revealed the first rays of the sun peeking over the forest canopy. She averted her eyes—fear from her recent adventures not erased yet—and found herself looking at a lily in full bloom.

“Who painted these walls?” she asked, “the art is all over the house, as far as I’ve seen.”

Jamie’s dark eyebrows raised, a smirk on her face. “That’s your first question?”

“It’s one I’m most curious about.”

“Do you like them?”

It was the opposite of an answer, but she hummed, stepping closer to the woman so that she’d see the sincerity in her eyes. “They’re the second most magnificent thing I’ve seen in my life.”

A sharp intake of breath. “What’s the first?”

“I was promised the truth,” she replied, feeling strangely clever as she sat down on the bed, heart fluttering madly, “I don’t remember offering any in return.”

Jamie grinned, quick and impressed. “Fair enough. What do you want to know?”

“I think I’ll start with the most obvious—why do you have a magic mirror in your house?”

“That mirror is not the only thing that’s magical here.”

She felt her mouth go dry. “But—but that’s impossible. Magic was wiped out centuries ago. It couldn’t possibly—”

“Couldn’t it?” Jamie interrupted, excitement buzzing around her very being. “You know what we are. You saw that mirror. Do you really still believe everything in the world is what you’ve been taught, princess?”

“Just call me Lily,” she said quickly, and Jamie smiled, “but then how does no one else know? Why is everyone on the other side of the forbidden forest ignorant to such breathtaking possibilities?”

“Not everyone,” Jamie answered slowly, lowering herself onto the bed so that she was facing Lily properly. Her eyes were depths of molten gold and held the promise of everything beautiful in the world. “There are some on the other side who—who know about us, whom we’ve placed our trust in. We get our news about Gryffindale, about the royal family, from them. It’s how we recognized you. Magic has existed in your world always, Lily, and will continue to do so even if it remains hidden behind closed doors.”

“Have you—did you ever live there? Before?”

“Yes. As did Sirius. He’s my brother, in all the ways that matter. After my parents passed, we decided it wouldn’t do to hide our identities anymore. These marks on our bodies—we didn’t want to be ashamed of them anymore.”

Almost instinctively, Lily’s fingers reached out to trace over the glowing print on her arm. Jamie tensed underneath the gentle touch but did not make to pull away. She looked up and found a whirlwind of emotions blazing in her eyes. “And so you escaped.”

“And so we escaped,” Jamie confirmed, voice barely more than a whisper.

“That was very brave of you.”

“I suppose you can understand the feeling—pretending to be someone you’re not—and how it can slowly kill you.”

Lily nodded, tearing her gaze away when the intensity of her words, her eyes, grew too much. Her forefinger continued to trail down the band until faded into the skin of Jamie’s palm. Something caught her notice, and Lily smiled, eyes flashing up again. “It’s you.”

“Pardon?” Jamie’s pulse skittered erratically against her touch.

“You’re the one who made these paintings,” she clarified, smile widening. A drag of her hand, until she could tap meaningfully on Jamie’s fingertips. “There are smudges of fading colors and dried paint all over your fingers and nails.”

“Oh that,” a mumbled response, and she was surprised to see the flush that had stolen over Jamie’s cheeks. For someone who exuded so much confidence and smugness with every toss of the hair, the sudden modesty was exhilarating to watch. “Well. Yes. I just make them when I’m bored.”

“If this is the result of your boredom, I’d like to see you actually try, Prongs.”

She looked pleased at that, shifting slightly closer so that her knee bumped against Lily’s. “Caught that, did you?”

“It suits you,” she nodded, trying to count the number of shades in hazel, “being a stag, I mean.”

“Well, you did say I was magnificent.”

It was her turn to flush; heat shooting up her face in a heartbeat. “I never actually said—”

“Lily,” Jamie interrupted, and the way her name sounded in that moment—gentle, caring, precious, revered—was enough to make the protests die down in her throat. Jamie shifted her hand so that she could slowly interlace their fingers together. She looked up, eyes beautiful and bright and entirely too hopeful. “Will you stay?”

Lily looked down into her lap when she felt tingling warmth run through her veins. Her breath got lost somewhere inside her when she noticed the pattern of delicate vines blooming on her skin from the places Jamie’s fingertips touched her hand. They were ephemeral—greens and blues of buds and stems dissolving into the paleness quickly—but glorious. And she knew, in that moment—she knew she could spend all her life watching Jamie cast more magic over her.

“I will stay.”

#claudia writes #claudiawrites #jily #jily fic #james x lily #fem!jily #jamie potter #fem!jily february #fairy tales #princess!lily #marauders #jily au #sirius black #remus lupin #shapeshifters #ao3

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aethelflaedladyofmercia · 4 years

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To Travel Through the World and Not Be Alone (Good Omens Fic)

Last week I asked for some more fluffy prompts, and @sparkkeyper suggested Crowley getting flustered and turning into a snake. Well, it looks like I’ve used up all my “Short Fic” mojo for the time being, as the result was over 10k and is available on AO3.

I really, really tried to make this one light and silly, but my brain does not operate that way, and so...a somewhat emotional deconstruction of the trope I guess?

Aziraphale stepped out from the dubious shelter of a sharply angled rock, shaking the last of the rain from his wings. Since leaving Eden the weather had certainly become much more variable. Days so hot his skin ached, nights that left him shaking with cold, a dryness that got into his mouth and eyes, and then – quite unexpectedly – more rain! Not as much as the first time, of course, but unpleasant enough.

The demon, Crawly, had been walking by his side, as he generally did, nattering on about the way sand moved in the wind and something about camel noses, but he trailed off as the rain began to fall. Aziraphale had lifted his wing to offer a bit of protection, until he noticed the rock in the distance, just tall enough for two man-shaped beings to crouch behind. Perfect, he’d thought and quickly gave Crawly’s hand a tug, intending to lead him over. Instead, the demon had all but run from him, vanishing into the night without another word.

Odd, that.

Stretching his arms in the bright morning sunlight, Aziraphale took a deep breath. Lovely, really, the slightly moist smell of the air after a rain. He suspected it would be even more pleasant once they found a place a bit more like the Garden itself – lush and green, rather than this endless expanse of sand, stone, and stunted trees.

He could see the humans up ahead, packing up their camp. The shelter they’d found had been no better, and Aziraphale hoped the cold and the damp hadn’t done any harm to the Woman or the child she carried within her. Quite a lot was riding on that yet-unborn human. There was still a chance the whole of humanity could end, now, here, in the blink of an eye. But the Man put a hand on the Woman’s shoulder, and she smiled, shaking her head, and helped him pick up their supplies.

As they moved out, Aziraphale began to follow after, but stumbled as some sort of black shadow twisted away into the brush, moving too quickly for him to make out. His body helpfully supplied a massive dose of adrenaline, which sent Aziraphale’s heart racing.

Steady on, he warned himself. It would take some getting used to, these human instincts, but there was no reason he couldn’t control himself. He was, after all, an angel. Aziraphale forced his breath back into a steady rhythm, expelled the unneeded chemicals from his system. That was better. He squinted at the line of dried-out bushes, then tilted back his head to scan the sky, but whatever had cast the shadow seemed long gone.

Well. Probably nothing important.

Already, the humans were fading into the distance, but it wouldn’t be difficult to keep up. Day by day, the Woman grew larger about the middle, and their pace slowed. The real danger was not accidentally overtaking them, or stumbling across them at rest and revealing themselves.

Both he and Crawly had received orders to observe the humans until their child was born. Not to protect, or disrupt, or involve themselves in any way – simply to observe. As for how to deal with each other – they’d been given no instruction whatsoever.

And so, for the past week, they’d passed their days traveling together, trailing behind the humans unseen. Aziraphale had expected it to be a time of silent contemplation, but Crawly had apparently never heard of such a thing. He constantly pestered Aziraphale with questions, tried to make conversation about topics that, if not technically forbidden, were certainly better left alone. He crouched sometimes, digging around in the sand, never saying what he was looking for. It was an annoyance, but whenever he was out of sight, Aziraphale found himself worrying. What is he getting up to now? And when will he be back?

He found he didn’t like being alone. Which was absurd – he was an angel – a Guardian. Being alone for long stretches of time was part of his job description, his very being. And yet, in the same way his body was programmed to overreact to every shadow, it also needed to have other bodies around, to see them, hear them, possibly even to touch them. Unfortunately, until the Woman delivered her child and Aziraphale was allowed to reveal himself to the humans, his only option was the strange demon who talked too much and wandered off without warning.

Just as Aziraphale was certain he would lose sight of the humans – and was making up his mind to leave without the demon, and let him find his own way – Crawly materialized, stepping out from behind a sand dune and shuffling over to Aziraphale.

“It’s about time,” the angel said in a low voice, ignoring the unwelcome wave of relief. “I hope you’re not planning to leave me waiting for you like this all the time. And where, precisely, did you go?”

“Not far.” Crawly shrugged, not meeting Aziraphale’s eyes. “Anyway. You don’t have to wait for me.”

“You’re planning something, aren’t you? We agreed not to interfere until the child’s birth – these humans been through enough, Crawly, and they don’t need you—”

“Sssss’not that.” His lips twisted as if he’d eaten something sour, then pressed flat again. “Didn’t go anywhere near them. Promise.”

Aziraphale wasn’t sure he believed that, but up ahead the humans had already vanished into the heat-hazy distance, apart from the flare of the flaming sword and a long line of dark footprints. “If you say so. Keep up now, Crawly, there’s a good fellow.”

After two more weeks, their path began to run alongside a stony ridge. The base of it was cool, a little damp, and small flowers grew there, shielded from the sun. The humans had paused up ahead, and so Aziraphale stood watching them, grateful for a chance to rest in the shade.

Crawly, on the other hand, was causing some sort of trouble again.

“Look at these!” He tugged at one of the plants. “Have you ever seen anything like them?”

Aziraphale glanced down. Tiny flowers, just a speck of white or red on a thick stem growing out of a mass of green, low but thick. “We had much larger ones in the Garden,” Aziraphale commented. The humans were gathering rocks, it seemed, tapping them against the exposed stone of the ridge.

“Yeah, but look!” He’d been going on like this all day, digging at plants, collecting funny stones, running over to show each to Aziraphale, as proudly as if the demon had created them himself. It didn’t seem to be harmful or wicked behavior, but Aziraphale couldn’t decide what to make of it. “No water, no sunlight, barely even any soil to root in. You wouldn’t think anything could grow here. But they—oops.”

“You killed it, didn’t you?”

“No, just – look I pulled off the flower. The rest is fine.” Crawly wandered over just as the humans seemed to finish their task. The Man took the Woman’s hand – how odd, to walk like that, yet it didn’t seem to slow them down – and together they headed eastwards. Aziraphale stepped out of the shadow of the wall, and bumped directly into the demon. Crawly skittered back, clearly struggling with his own adrenaline, though Aziraphale had mastered that particular unwanted reaction ages ago.

“Terribly sorry,” the angel said, brushing his hands down his robe. Crawly’s dirt-smeared arms had left a mark, but he found he repeated the action more times than necessary. “But, please, Crawly – learn to pay attention to where you stand.” Another brush of his hands. It was soothing, in a way.

“I meant to be standing there.” The demon scowled. “I was going to show you…here.” He thrust the flower towards Aziraphale.

It was a bit unusual. Formed into a little cup, petals strangely thick to store the rare water of the desert. A sturdy little plant, a survivor, but beautiful in its own way. He plucked it from Crawly’s fingers, in order to study it from every angle. Their fingers brushed each other in passing, and Aziraphale found he was rather more aware of the contact than justified for such a minor thing. “It’s…quite nice, I suppose.”

“Good.” Crawly stepped back, fingers twisting in his robe. “Um. You can have that.”

“I see. And…what am I meant to do with it?”

Crawly shrugged. “Whatever you want. Just thought, you know. Flowers. Very angelic. Let’s go.”

He hurried along the ridge while Aziraphale looked at the flower again, fighting back a smile. Did it look better after their now, after their brief exchange of words? He found himself admiring the way the petals faded from dark to light.

“Oi! Angel!” His head jerked up. Crawly had stopped at the same spot where the humans had paused. “Come look at this!”

Tucking the flower into his sleeve, Aziraphale quickly stepped beside him, glancing over to see what the fuss was about.

“Oh, that is…” but words escaped him. Somehow, the humans had made marks in red and yellow, white and black across the stone. Not just marks, shapes.

Aziraphale could see two rough, humanoid figures standing hand-in-hand, one holding a brilliant yellow line. The sun illuminated the rock ahead of the figures, and cast a deep shadow behind. Other, simpler marks indicated parts of their journey – a hint of storm clouds, the line of the Garden Wall, a lion, crouched, ready to pounce.

“I think…” Aziraphale’s gaze traced it, east to west. “I believe this is what they call art.”

“Huh. Thought it was gonna be, y’know. Fancier.”

“Well, they’re just starting out. I’m sure we’ll see improvements soon.”

“Right.” Crawly was digging around in the dirt again, and stood quickly with a lump of charcoal. “Just need to make a few adjustments.” He rubbed the dark, crumbling stone against the ridge, making a black streak some distance behind the two figures.

“Crawly! What are you – you can’t – that isn’t allowed!”

“Oh, what, now it’s forbidden to make marks with rocks? Heaven is nothing but stupid rules these days.”

“No – yes – you’re distorting something the humans created!”

“I’m making it more accurate.” He stepped back, studying the newest figure. Thin and black, legs splayed in a funny way, arms spread by its sides. “That’s me, following behind. Hand me some red ochre, gotta do my hair, too.”

“This is, without a doubt – we’re supposed to be observers, not – not making ourselves part of the – what are you doing?”

Fingers now coated in ground-up lime, Crawly was dabbing another figure onto the stone. Brilliant white, and with a bit more care taken to the limbs, this one stood close beside the black one.

“Adding you, of course. Little me can’t be up there alone.” He glanced at the two human figures, then rubbed at his own one last time, extending the white figure’s arm to end…just where the black’s did.

Hand-in-hand.

“What do you think?” Crawly asked, rolling his neck as if he’d just finished some strenuous task.

“It’s…” Aziraphale stepped closer. “I mean, you really shouldn’t…” His mind raced, trying to think of any response that would be even remotely appropriate. This was a…a gross breach of protocol, surely, and Aziraphale had to…put his foot down, make it clear such things were not acceptable.

Instead, rather without his direction, his hand drifted over to clasp the demon’s.

Once again, it seemed the work gained more beauty the longer he looked at it. And Aziraphale found he was very aware of Crawly’s hand, just as he had been of his fingers. Crawly squeezed his hand, an uncertain, welcoming gesture, and Aziraphale felt a strange tingle, a rush of warmth roiling up his arm, filling his head. He squeezed back—

“Sorry. Gotta.” Crawly dropped his hand and bolted away, back up the path they had just walked down.

“Don’t be ridiculous, that isn’t even—!”

Vanished.

Aziraphale waited a long moment, wondering if he would return. It gave him ample time to study the wall, the little flower. His own hand.

Then, with a sigh, he followed after the humans alone.

When Crawly returned, just before sunset, he didn’t mention running off. Or the art. Or the flower that Aziraphale had carefully set aside on a rock where he had stopped to rest.

Probably best to forget it all, then.

More weeks passed, enough that Aziraphale lost count, and the humans came to a river.

Not perfectly clear-blue water running merrily over rocks and under sweeping trees, as they’d had in Eden, but a large brownish affair making its way between steep banks covered in reeds. There were some trees, larger than the ones in the desert, and fruits hung from them for the humans to gather. It was painstaking work, as they grew too high, or over thorny patches. Some fruits were too ripe, others not quite ready. The Woman was also in no state to be climbing trees, so the Man did most of the work, tossing fruits down for her to catch.

“I know we said not to interfere,” Aziraphale said, rubbing his palms together. Another habit that seemed ingrained in the body, but it seemed to help his worries. Perhaps he’d keep it. “But surely it wouldn’t hurt to – to lend a hand, would it?”

“Wuzzat?”

The angel turned, ready to repeat the question, until he saw something that put the humans out of his mind entirely. Crawly had tied his robe up around his knees and was walking along in the river.

“What on earth are you doing, you – you strange creature?”

“It’s hot,” the demon griped, scooping up some water to pour over his head. More of it got on his robes than anywhere else.

“Well, now you’ll be hot and covered with dripping wet clothing, does that really sound more appealing?”

“Don’t know, haven’t tried it.” Crawly reached into the water again, drenching his sleeves. He frowned as they emerged. “No, that’s…heavier. Not very comfortable. But…a little less hot.” He squeezed his sleeve, water dripping back into the river. “Could take the clothing off entirely,” he mused. “That might work.”

“Now you’re being absurd. It isn’t allowed!”

“It isn’t?”

“No! There are – Crawly there are rules.”

“Only for the humans. And look, they’re not wearing nearly as much as I am.” He tugged at his dripping garment again. “I can wrap some leaves around my bottom if that will make you feel better.”

“It’s not about making me feel better! It’s – it’s the principle of the thing. You and I should be setting a good example for the humans, not…not…” He waved helplessly as Crawly arched his back to dip his hair into the water.

“This is a good example! Problem solving! Using the available resources to make yourself more comfortable. If the humans bothered to look back and see us, they might learn a lot.” He flipped his hair forward, spraying droplets everywhere. “You wanna join me?”

“Certainly not.” Aziraphale rubbed his hand at the back of his neck, where itchy sweat was beginning to accumulate. “We have more important things to worry about right now, like—” He glanced back to where the Man lowered himself from the tree, seemingly entirely unharmed. The Woman smiled and handed him a piece of fruit, which he accepted gratefully.

“You know the humans are fine without you.”

That, surprisingly, hurt. Aziraphale found, more and more lately, he had a strong desire to join the humans. To walk beside them, to hear what they said, to laugh when they laughed. When he watched them walk away together, he felt…oddly empty.

An emptiness that vanished when he turned back to Crawly. Much as the demon grated on his nerves, Aziraphale found he enjoyed his company. When he spotted Crawly crouching in the shade of a tree, long fingers scratching at the ground, or scrambling up a ridge of stone to see what was on the top – there was always a bubble of anticipation, an eagerness to see what he’d found, to see that shining excitement in his eyes.

He felt it now, as Crawly waded deeper into the water to investigate a log floating in the current.

“I mean, m’not saying you should give up or anything, but…you can’t spend every day worrying about them. They’ll be fine.”

“Of course I spend every day worrying. I’m a Guardian, it’s my nature to want to help and protect those around me.”

“Ohhhh, is that why you’re always nagging me? Or is it because—”

Without warning, the log split into an enormous, tooth-filled jaw, lunging forward to snap at Crawly. With a yelp, the demon tumbled backwards, kicking water at the revealed crocodile, scrambling back towards the shore.

Aziraphale rushed forward, colliding with Crawly, wrapping one arm firmly over his chest to pull him back to safety; the other hand he flapped at the snapping creature. “Shoo!” he called and, just to be safe, put a note of angelic command in his voice: “WE ARE OF NO INTEREST TO YOU.”

The crocodile snapped its jaws one more time before turning away, lowering itself again to float downriver.

“Well,” Aziraphale said, trying to settle his mind. The adrenaline had flooded him again, but this time it had helped, giving him the speed he needed to react. Perhaps these instincts could be useful, if properly regulated. Unlike Crawly, who still clutched at Aziraphale’s arm, heart racing so that the angel could feel it. He pressed Crawly back a little more firmly against his own chest. “I hope you’ve, ah, learned your lesson.” He wasn’t sure what lesson exactly they should take from this, but he needed to continue his policy of blanket disapproval of all demonic nonsense.

“That thing—” Crawly started, but his voice pinched off, too tight to speak.

“That thing could have bitten your leg off,” Aziraphale chided, brushing Crawly’s torso with his free hand, making sure everything was intact. “I’m not sure if I can heal a demon at all, and I certainly can’t regrow limbs. You must learn to be more careful, my dear fellow.”

His eyes met Crawly’s enormous golden ones, and a heat rose in Aziraphale’s face that had nothing to do with the sun and the desert.

“I, uh…” Crawly very nearly blinked. He tilted his head back a little further and his breath brushed across Aziraphale’s cheek in a startling way.

“Yes. Well.” Aziraphale let him go, though his arms seemed slow to obey.

Immediately, Crawly scrambled away, jumping into the thickest part of the reeds.

“Oh, for goodness sake, Crawly! Is it too much to ask that you comport yourself with a little…” But when he looked along the riverbank, there was no sign of the demon.

Aziraphale took a good long while to search – until the humans had finished their mid-morning meal and begun walking again – but all he managed to find was the usual wildlife: rodents, reptiles, a few birds.

“Typical,” Aziraphale muttered. Such strange behavior had become increasingly common as they traveled, and the angel had learned by now that if Crawly didn’t want to be found, he wouldn’t be. Best to just keep walking while the demon got over today’s mood; Crawly always managed to catch up in the end.

Sure enough, well after sunset, a dark-robed figure slunk over to the spot Aziraphale had chosen to rest in. “Angel,” he mumbled in greeting.

“And where were you this time?” He felt another wave of relief, but sternly reminded himself not to encourage the demon. “Honestly, I half thought some river creature had devoured you, and it would serve you right for – for disturbing it…”

Crawly didn’t say anything, merely dropped onto the ground and stared at the light of the humans’ fire, far ahead. Not even a glance at Aziraphale.

When the silence had drawn on too long, Aziraphale lowered himself to sit beside Crawly. “I…am glad you’re unhurt, you know.”

“Shut up.”

He didn’t know what to make of that, so they sat in silence for the rest of the night.

“Aha!” Crawly crowed, leaping from one rock to the next, pale skin flashing in the sunlight. “I knew this was going to be better!”

“I’m sure it is,” Aziraphale said as neutrally as possible, trying to keep his eyes on the path ahead.

“You can’t even imagine! I feel so much lighter! I can finally move!” He dropped into the river with a splash, Aziraphale turning quickly to make sure Crawly was unharmed. But, no, he stood in the shallows, tossing water all over his bare skin. “This is…Angel, you have to try this!”

“And why, precisely, would I want to do that?”

“I told you, it feels good. Washes off the sweat and – I dunno. Like the heat can’t touch you through the water. Just come down, I’ll show you.”

“Crawly, get out of there. I’m not about to see you be devoured by wildlife again.”

“It’s ffffine.” But he hopped out, dashing up the path to a fruit tree. Before Aziraphale could say anything, he’d pulled himself up onto the lowest branch.

“Crawly! No, get down, you’ll break your neck and…and…”

“Why do you worry so much?” He pulled himself higher and higher, vanishing among the leaves. “I’m a demon, I’m not going to fall unless I want to.”

“I’ve told you, I’m a Guardian, it’s my nature—”

But surely Crawly couldn’t hear him all the way up there. A head emerged from the crown of the tree, gazing out into the distance as the wind stirred his bright red hair, sending streamers in every direction. He glanced down at Aziraphale and waved and, quite at a loss, the angel waved back.

He almost wanted to join Crawly. Not with the nakedness, though his robes were getting to be something of a burden, ending each day heavy with dust and sweat. But it seemed peaceful up there, cooler. And ever since the incident with the crocodile, Aziraphale had been feeling a strange urge, to be near the demon, to touch him, to ensure that he was safe.

Perhaps it was related to the instinct that compelled him towards proximity to the humans. That made sense; lacking options, his mind was trying to reach out for the only other being available. Though that didn’t really explain the strength of the urge, or why it seemed to grow daily as they spent more time together.

Crawly’s head disappeared. Branches rustled, leaves falling along the riverbank, and suddenly he dropped onto the lowest branch, grinning like he had a secret. “Look, I know you’re hot, Angel. Just admit it.”

“Certainly not! I am perfectly content as I am,” Aziraphale lied, trying to subtly flap the collar of his robes to let in a little air. “Perhaps it is your…Fallen nature, but I am completely immune to the effects of the environment.”

“Are you? Here, catch.” Something flew towards Aziraphale’s head, and his hands barely snapped up in time to grab the oddly shaped, greenish fruit. “I think that’s a pear,” Crawly continued. “Also, pretty sure it’s ripe.”

Golden eyes sparkling with excitement, he grabbed the branch with two hands and leaned back a little with an eager smile.

Aziraphale studied the fruit, turning it over in his hands. Well. No point in being rude, was there? He raised it to his lips and took a bite.

The inside was soft, but not too soft, with an oddly gritty texture. More importantly, it flooded his tongue with a mildly flavored liquid, sweet and refreshing. He’d gotten so used to his mouth being dry, Aziraphale had stopped thinking about the discomfort, but this – this was exactly what he needed. He eagerly took a few more bites.

“Oh,” he finally said, glancing up at Crawly, who still watched from his perch. “This is absolutely marvelous.” He wiped the juice from his chin and smiled.

Crawly grinned back, swinging his legs with a bit too much excitement, but it was an infectious excitement, bubbling up in Aziraphale’s chest with every bite.

Until, suddenly, Crawly’s expression fell, as did he, dropping from the tree to scramble about on all fours, racing back the way they’d come. “Don’t wait for me,” he called when he managed to get his feet under him, and by the time Aziraphale had even turned around, he had vanished again.

Well. At least it was quieter now. Aziraphale took another bite of his pear and continued his walk.

He was, by this point, getting used to Crawly’s unexplained disappearances. He never arrived later than the following dawn, and sure enough he caught up just as the humans were settling down to sleep. Once again, he didn’t say much or even look at Aziraphale, merely crouched on the ground, watching the distant firelight.

The next morning, however, was a different story.

“Ow! Stop that, it hurts.”

“Well, I do apologize, but I need to know what’s wrong!” Aziraphale rubbed his finger again across Crawly’s now bright-red skin, peppered here and there with some truly nasty looking blisters. It was extremely hot to the touch.

“Sssstop!” Crawly tried to wriggle away, but he was firmly trapped: Aziraphale sat on his back, legs pinning the demon’s hips in place, one hand lightly on his shoulder, but ready to press it flat into the dirt if required.

“If you don’t stop moving around, I’m not going to be able to help you.”

“You aren’t – this is torture, that’s what it is. Bloody sadistic angel!”

“It would appear you have burns covering every inch of your skin. How on earth does that even happen? What were you getting up to yesterday?”

“Nothing! Just – you saw. Walking around. Wanted some space’s all.”

“That’s all?”

“Ngk. Might have. Stretched out on a rock to bask for a bit at noon. Felt good.”

Aziraphale sat, considering the boiled red of Crawly’s back and his own slightly pink hands, the itch at the back of his neck. He’d been working on a hypothesis, and this would seem to be his first clear bit of proof.

“Crawly, I believe you’ve been burnt by the sun.”

“Didn’t go to the sun,” Crawly grumbled.

“This is no laughing matter. I understand burns can cause permanent damage to humans.” He brushed his fingers down Crawly’s spine, carefully avoiding the blisters, but even that was enough to send the demon squirming. “Does this hurt?”

“Yes it hurts! What have I been saying? Are you even listening?”

“I am,” Aziraphale assured him, looking for any spot that was still mostly pale. “How about this?” He pressed fingers into the side of Crawly’s ribs, just under the armpit.

“Ssssssss…not as bad, but yes.” At least he’d stopped struggling, but still Crawly’s fingers curled into the dirt, scraping deeply in the brown clay.

“If I’m right, the burn is the worst in areas that received the most exposure to the sun, and only light or incidental in areas that were shaded or protected.” There weren’t many of those. Crawly was a very thorough basker.

“Wait, really?” He started to twist around to look at Aziraphale, then cringed and looked forward again. “You think human skin can be burned just from being out in the heat?”

“Perhaps. I’m still gathering evidence.”

“Well, the humans aren’t getting burned!”

Aziraphale bit back another remark about Crawly’s Fallen nature. That wouldn’t be helpful here. “I’m not quite sure why that is,” he admitted. “But my own burns are very minor, perhaps theirs are the same. Certainly, they keep to the shade as much as possible, particularly in the hottest part of the day. Meanwhile, you are the first one to spend half the day lying naked in direct sunlight.”

“Not half the day.” Crawly whimpered a little as Aziraphale pressed his shoulders down one more time. “Seems a major design flaw, you ask me,” he grumbled.

“Hush, now.” Aziraphale lifted his hands and rubbed them together, summoning just a thin line of celestial power. “This may sting a little.”

“What? What are you doing now? Everything stings!” Another squirm as Crawly tried to pull free, but there was very little chance of that.

“I’m going to heal you, if you can hold still, you ridiculous thing.”

“Heal me?” Crawly went still and stiff. “Why?”

“Why? Because you’re in pain. What other reason do I need?” He reached a finger towards the worst burn, then hesitated. Could he dilute his power even further? “What did you think I was doing back here?”

“Dunno. Thought you were just…curious. Or wanted to learn for the humans.”

Taking a deep breath, Aziraphale traced his finger across Crawly’s shoulders. It left behind a trail of bright white, which rippled out several finger-widths in every direction, a wave of healing that left behind unburnt skin. He sighed in relief. “Well…there was that, too, but I thought I’d made it clear by now, I have no interest in seeing you come to harm. Even if it is harm by your own doing,” he added, so that Crawly could be sure he wasn’t entirely off the hook for his choices.

“So…you’ll…heal all of it? Entirely? No…leaving scars so I learn my lesson?”

“Crawly! How could you even think such a thing?” He pushed his fingers to the healed skin. It was a bit darker, browner than before, with a smattering of darker spots. “Does this hurt? Or here?”

“No…it’s…it’s good.” He lay his head on the ground, seeming subdued.

“Wonderful. This shouldn’t take too long.”

Down by the river’s edge, the humans finished picking up their woven mats and bundles of food. “They’re getting away,” Crawly muttered as they wandered down the river.

“We’ll catch up,” Aziraphale assured him, carefully applying just a touch of healing along his spine.

“You’re not worried? Thought it was your job.”

He glanced up, taking another look at the Woman, her blossoming belly, the Man helping her step over a patch of rough earth. He did feel an emptiness, a need to follow them, but it felt less important, less urgent, than the task in front of him. He smoothed away a particularly horrid patch of burn, and Crawly murmured with relief, a relief Aziraphale felt in his own chest.

What was this? The human need for proximity, an instinct he still couldn’t control? His own Guardian nature, perhaps, leading him to want to protect the being nearest to him?

Both of these, yes. And something more. Something that made him wish to see Crawly running across the riverbank, carefree and smiling again.

“Why did you disappear so suddenly anyway?” Aziraphale asked, carefully working on Crawly’s arm.

“Nrrrg. Just…wanted to be alone. Don’t you want to be alone sometimes?”

“Well…yes, but…” But I’d thought we were having a good time.

“Aaaaah, s’not fair!”

Aziraphale moved to kneel beside the demon, and Crawly rolled over, sitting up so he could watch Aziraphale heal his legs. “I used to handle actual stars, you know. In my bare hands! Now look, I can’t even stand in the light of one without…this.” He gestured to his still-burned front.

“You were fine for many days, Crawly. You just have to be careful.” The bottoms of his feet were fine, at least. Perhaps the thicker skin had helped protect them. “And, I think, keep your robes on. They seem to block the burning aspect of sunlight.”

“But I don’t want to be careful.” Aziraphale released his foot and Crawly crossed his legs tightly so the angel could start on his chest. “I want to explore. Experience things, everything, now while I can.”

“What do you mean, while you can? The world is going to be here for a good long while, regardless of what happens to the humans.”

“Mmmmph.” His shoulders hunched forward from something unrelated to the pain, and Crawly looked away. “Not supposed to tell you.”

“Ah.” His thumb ran across Crawly’s throat. “Then don’t.”

“I’m not…actually supposed to do anything when the child is born. Just, watch the humans, learn what I can, and then back to Hell until they decide what to do with me.” He shrugged, still not looking at the angel.

“Oh.” Aziraphale’s fingers moved slowly across Crawly’s chest.

“Guess I surprised them all, with everything in the Garden. Don’t know what to do now, right? Your side has a Plan. My side needs information, to figure out what to do. So they gave me until the humans have their child, then I go back, tell them everything. Maybe...maybe they’ll send me back to Earth. Maybe they’ll send someone else. Maybe it’ll all get locked up in bureaucracy and they won’t make a decision until everything comes burning down.”

“I see.” Somehow, Aziraphale had assumed they had the same orders.

While the humans were banished from Eden, no Word had come down whether they were to be considered entirely lost. The Archangels had determined that, regardless of the status of the Man and the Woman, it was possible their child had not been completely corrupted. So Aziraphale was to assist in raising the young human, and any others that came along, asserting as much Heavenly influence as possible.

He’d thought Hell would want the same, that he and Crawly would be working…not together, but in parallel. A Guardian and a Troublemaker, guiding the little souls.

“Is that why...you’re always running around...investigating everything? Gathering information for your side?” He kept his fingers as steady as possible, tracing across Crawly’s stomach.

“Nah. Hell barely cares about the humans, you think they want to know about...flowers, and rocks, and little ducks? The way ants follow each other in lines that go on forever? No one gives a shit. I just - I want to see it all. So...I have something to remember when I’m down there again.”

“I see.” Aziraphale wished he had something more to say.

“Except I can’t do everything! Stupid…things…getting in the way. Stopping me from…what I want to do.”

“Well, your time is limited, it’s true.” Careful strokes under the eyes, sending a ripple of healing across his cheeks. That long nose was absolutely covered in tiny darker dots. “But…I don’t think this should stop you from experiencing everything you can.”

“Everything?”

Aziraphale ran his thumb across Crawly’s chin. It wasn’t necessary – all the burns were gone – but he found he couldn’t stop himself. Each touch made him feel…jittery. Electrified.

It was like the human bodies were made for contact, fingertips picking up invisible details, the bristle of little hairs, the flex of muscles at the edge of the mouth. Look, how perfectly his hand slotted on the side of Crawly’s face, cupping his jaw and cheek, thumb moving across the sharp cheekbone.

��Hnnnnngh.” Crawly shoved him back – not hard, but enough to give the demon room to scramble to his feet. “I’ll catch up.”

And once again, he vanished.

Sighing, Aziraphale called in the general direction he’d run off to, “Just make sure you don’t lie about in the sun again, I can’t be doing this every day.”

Seasons changed – hotter, cooler, wetter, drier. Aziraphale hadn’t yet learned how to mark the passage of time, but Crawly explained it had been almost half a year, then explained what a year was, then tried to explain how he could tell from the stars, then gave up.

The demon’s newly-browned skin seemed more resistant to the sun, but he still sometimes burned himself if he wasn’t careful. He took to wearing his robes again, but with sleeves pushed up past his elbows. Every few days he slunk back to Aziraphale for a fresh round of healing, staring determinedly at the ground between them while the angel cradled his hands and gently rubbed the burn off his forearms, the back of his neck, his cheeks. Afterwards, he usually scurried off to sit against a nearby tree.

The humans moved more slowly now, not just because the Woman’s child was nearly ready to arrive. Sometimes they would stay in one place for days at a time, experimenting with creating shelters for themselves out of leaves or reeds or branches. When they did move, it was only over short distances, trying a little closer to the trees, then a little farther from the river’s edge.

Aziraphale found he had a great deal more time now, and not much of an idea what to do with it.

He tried keeping closer to Crawly. To keep an eye on the demon, yes, but also because…it felt right. It made the hollowness he felt vanish for a little while, particularly whenever he saw that look in his golden eyes, the burning passion that was woven into every disrespectful question, every ill-advised endeavor. It was unlike anything Aziraphale had ever seen before. More and more, he found he could hardly look away.

He felt he needed to do more. When Aziraphale found a new and interesting type of berry, he wanted to share with Crawly, find out what he thought. When he greeted the demon on returning to their resting spot, he wanted to straighten his robes, his hair, rub a bit of dirt off his cheek. When they sat, he wanted to move closer, until their fingers brushed, until the warmth of another body tickled down his side.

And yet, any time he indulged one of these whims, the need for more only grew stronger.

Disgraceful, really. Maddening. If this was some sort of human instinct, perhaps he should return to Heaven and have the body adjusted. He could ignore the body’s need for sleep, for food, for almost anything else - there was no reason this one instinct should be so much more powerful than the rest, unless something was wrong.

Besides, his actions tended to send Crawly scampering off again, vanishing for most of the day.

It was very hard not to follow.

After the half-moon set, Aziraphale had very little to do apart from watching the banked fire in the distance and waiting for the sun to rise. Crawly wasn’t talking, for once, lying on his back nearby, either studying the stars or drifting off to sleep.

Aziraphale thought he saw some movement in the human camp, shadows at the edge of their shelter. They sometimes woke before dawn, but rarely did much apart from hold each other and talk in soft voices. Seeing it always made Aziraphale’s arms itch in a strange way. But there seemed to be too much movement this time.

“Crawly. Crawly!”

“Whaaaaa?” He shifted in his awkward, ungraceful sprawl but didn’t turn his eyes away from the stars.

“Can you see anything?”

“Mmmmh?”

“The humans!” It was Aziraphale’s angelic instincts this time, his Guardian mind telling him something was wrong, that he was needed. “Something is going on over there, but I can’t quite make it out.”

Slowly, too slowly, Crawly rolled onto his side and glanced at the shadowy figures. “S’fine. Just moving those reed mats around.” He slumped back, wriggling around again. “You think those things are comfortable?”

“They’ve been using them every night, so I imagine they are.” Aziraphale kept his eyes on the distant figures, even though Crawly seemed to have lost interest already.

“Cuz this ground. S’really starting to make my back hurt.” He arched his spine, stretching. “Another design flaw, you ask me. S’like this body isn’t even made to be bipedal. Hurts if you walk too much, hurts to sit, hurts to lay on the ground.”

“My back doesn’t hurt,” Aziraphale lied piously. “Perhaps you’re just using it wrong. I’m fairly certain you’re not supposed to just…fling your limbs all over like that. Not to mention the way you walk.”

“What’s wrong with the way I walk?”

“Nothing,” Aziraphale said, a little too quickly, pressing his lips together. Lately, Crawly had been trying to swagger, but he hadn’t quite gotten it down yet. It was more a meandering progression of flailing limbs, an embarrassment to watch, and Aziraphale always had an almost overwhelming urge to pull Crawly against him and tell him to stand still.

“S’right. Nothing wrong with that.” Crawly turned back to the stars again, deep in thought.

A flare of light drew Aziraphale’s attention, but it was just the Man building up the fire a bit, crouching outside the shelter. Unusual, he supposed, but everyone got restless sometimes. Seeing the flames reflected off the Man’s dark skin, Aziraphale felt himself relax. He wasn’t needed here, a thought that was both soothing and slightly disappointing.

A few more pokes at the fire, and the Man picked up another woven mat and carried it back inside.

Aziraphale could just make out the shadowy shape of the Man offering the mat to the Woman, shifting her onto it to lay more comfortably. Once again, Aziraphale felt that itch in his arms, that ache in his chest for a warmth that had nothing to do with fire. He was often alone, in the Garden, in Heaven – but only now, wandering the world, did it have a physical effect on him. Aziraphale wondered how much longer he could bear it.

He glanced over at Crawly, and for some reason remembered a pear offered on a hot day. It wasn’t wrong to give his body the refreshment it needed. Even if the offer was made by a demon. Surely, surely if his body had a comparable need for contact, there was no harm…

Aziraphale made a decision and rose to his feet.

“Here, this should make you more comfortable.” Crawly twisted around, and Aziraphale smiled a little at the shocked expression that crossed his face. The angel shook out the mat he’d miracled up, making it snap in the wind. It was modeled after the ones the humans used, but better; Aziraphale had a little insight into materials they hadn’t yet found in the world, ones that would be a bit softer, provide a little more support.

“Angel, what are you—?”

“You’ve complained enough for one night, haven’t you? I know how to take a hint.” One more shake and the mat stretched across the ground. “Go on. See if this makes your back feel any better.” He crouched on the ground beside it and smiled encouragingly.

“Look…s’not that bad. I was just. Making conversation.” Crawly rolled onto his side, but still eyed the mat as if it might turn into a crocodile.

“Fine. Let’s make conversation. I’ve designed a new sleeping mat and would like your opinion.” He pressed his hand against it, showing how the mat compressed slightly. “Do you think the one is enough? Sometimes the humans pile a few together, but that might not provide much advantage. Come, now, I want to know your thoughts.”

Crawly’s eyes finally flicked up to look into Aziraphale’s face, then shot back down to stare at the mat again. “It’s, ah…” Crawly ran one finger along the soft surface. “It’s big enough for two.”

“Is it?”

Aziraphale doubted his tone sounded as casual as he meant it. Already the heat was rising in his face. It was, of course, a foolish idea. And painfully obvious. But these human bodies were not designed to go for half a year with only minimal physical contact. He craved it, like he craved food, rest, a comfortable seat, and he just…very much needed to feel…closeness.

He’d thought he could resist it. He was supposed to be stronger than this.

“You don’t sleep.”

“You do.” He’d seen how the humans slept, the Man pressed against the Woman’s back, arm across her protectively. He thought about it at night, and sometimes during the day. There was no reason Aziraphale should want that, no reason he should have any desire to protect a demon, and yet…he did.

“I nap. During the day. When it’s hot.”

“There must be a reason they sleep at night.” Aziraphale leaned forward, pressing his hands on the mat. It was more than just a physical need. He wanted to see Crawly smile. Wanted to feel him slowly relax inside the circle of his arms, trusting and content. He wanted to whisper secrets in the darkness, like the humans did. They had no need to whisper, there was no one to overhear, and yet they did, and Aziraphale wanted to know why. “Let’s find out. You’re the curious one.” Hands a little closer, until they almost touched Crawly’s. “You told me you want to experience everything.”

“Tempting me?” Crawly didn’t smile. He looked tense, almost panicked. Aziraphale lifted a hand to reach towards him, and the demon flinched. “I…I can’t.”

Aziraphale’s stomach plummeted, a wave of shock, of disappointment, of shame. “Crawly…”

No. He wouldn’t argue. What more was there to say? This was his foolishness, Crawly had rejected it. There was no need to drag things out. “Of course.” A wave of his fingers, and the offending mat was gone. “Don’t know what I was thinking.”

Crawly still looked away, past the human encampment, away across the endless expanses of desert.

“I…didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable,” Aziraphale said. No wonder Crawly always fled from him. He needed to learn…boundaries. Needed to learn control. His fingers had already reached out to tuck a lock of hair behind Crawly’s ear, but Aziraphale forced them to stop, hovering in the empty night. “It was never my intention to—”

Crawly grabbed his hand and, fast as anything, pressed his lips to the knuckles. Then, just as suddenly, he surged to his feet and started walking away.

“Wait!” He hadn’t let go of Aziraphale’s hand, and the angel pulled him back, so sharply Crawly nearly fell. “Don’t just – we need to talk about this, Crawly! What I’m feeling – I don’t understand it, but – if you feel it too—”

“I don’t, I don’t know what you’re…let me go!”

“Crawly, please!” Aziraphale still knelt in the dirt, clinging to the demon’s hand in confused desperation. “Yes, these – these human emotions are confusing and intense, but we can’t just ignore them. It was foolish of me to try and act on them, but—”

“Don’t talk to me about human emotions, Angel, you have no idea—”

“Then tell me!” Aziraphale squeezed his hand, wishing Crawly would look at him. “Regardless of – of everything else, Crawly, I want to help. I care about you!”

The words seemed to echo through the empty plain, across the river, up to the stars above.

It really was that simple wasn’t it? Human emotions and Guardian instincts and everything else aside, Aziraphale had simply come to…care about his enemy.

“You—!” Golden eyes turned back, wide with shock. “You said – But I’m—”

Crawly jerked his hand free, stumbled back two steps, and fell.

Except that what landed on the ground was not a red-haired, pale-skinned demon, but an enormous black serpent with a red belly.

“…Crawly?”

The serpent stared at him a moment, then shot out across the desert.

“No, get back here!” Aziraphale ran after him, fast as he could go, but the black shadow moved too quickly. “Crawly, wait!” Already he was vanishing into the night. “Crawly, please! Let me help you!”

But the serpent had vanished, as Crawly always did.

Aziraphale found his legs were shaking, trembling, until he could hardly stand. Even tugging his sleeves and smoothing his robes was not enough to set things right. He stumbled across the brown sand to sit on a rock, trying to make sense of it all.

Two puzzles presented themselves: What had he just seen? And what had he just said?

I care about you. And not in a…Guardian Angel way, aloofly wishing to ensure his charge’s safety. This was something different, something not at all of Heaven. He thought of the way the humans took care of each other, as equals. Not just providing safety, but happiness, and taking it from the other in turn. There was a gentleness in their actions, hiding a deep burning passion that would quite possibly consume an angel. He certainly didn’t feel that for Crawly, but…could he? Was this how it started?

What he felt just now was worry. He knew Crawly had come to Earth as a serpent, of course, had seen that with his own eyes. He didn’t think the transformation had harmed Crawly, but…it wasn’t supposed to happen. His shift to a human form was supposed to be permanent.

And the way Crawly had transformed…the suddenness…his distress beforehand…it hadn’t seemed entirely voluntary.

As he sat there thinking, one long streamer of shadow detached itself from the night and slid closer, coiling itself by his feet.

“Crawly?” Familiar golden eyes reflected the light of the stars as the serpent’s head rose. “Can you still understand me?”

Slowly, the serpent – Crawly – nodded, then tilted his head to the side. Yes, but not well, Aziraphale guessed. That made sense; this form didn’t have ears, and demonic senses could overcome only so much.

“Are you hurt?” Crawly shook his head. “Can you…change back?” Another shake, and he looked up at the stars, slowly progressing across the sky. Not yet.

“Why…” Too many questions, buzzing around Aziraphale’s mind. Crawly was the one who knew how to handle questions. Where to even begin? “Why did you run away?”

“Sssssshame.” It was hard to make out the word in the hiss.

“Shame? But why would you feel…” Aziraphale slid off his rock, kneeling next to Crawly. “There’s…you don’t have to be ashamed.” The serpent pulled back, coiling into himself, tucking his head somewhere along his body until everything appeared to be a black knot of night.

“No, listen. I’m the one who should be ashamed.” Aziraphale reached a hand towards the cool black scales, but stopped just shy of them. “I…I have behaved reprehensibly. Saying…all manner of things. Touching you when you didn’t want to be touched. And my actions tonight…no. It was my choice to – to indulge, to explore these new emotions, but I never should have attempted anything without seeing if you felt the same. Crawly, I never wanted to upset you…”

As he spoke, the narrow head emerged from the coils and shook, indicating a negative.

“No? Am I…wrong about something?”

A nod, but Crawly wouldn’t meet his eyes. Something worse, perhaps? “Can you…tell me what’s bothering you?”

“Ssssss.” This time he could decipher nothing.

“That…let’s try another way.” Once again, Aziraphale stretched out a hand. Crawly pulled back his head, looking at it uncertainly until Aziraphale lowered it back to the ground. “Sorry. You don’t want to be touched, do you?”

A nod, followed by a complicated ripple down fifteen feet of serpent that might have been a shrug.

“Alright. Let’s see…did this happen all those times you ran off?” A nod. “And…do you have any control over it? Changing to this form, I mean.” A shake. “What about changing back?” A head tilt and another rippling shrug. What did that mean? Some control? He wasn’t certain if he had control?

Well, that wasn’t important right now.

“Do you know what…causes this?” Nod, again not meeting Aziraphale’s eyes. “Can you tell me?”

“Sssssssss.” A defeated head shake.

“Well…I know it was usually when we were talking, or when I…reached out or…” He swallowed. “It’s my fault?” Of course it was. It was so blindingly obvious. Foolish Principality, invading Crawly’s space again and again, driving him away, forcing him to change form.

But Crawly shook his head frantically. “Sssssss.” This one sounded frustrated. “Ffffffff. Fffffeeeel.”

“Feel?”

“Ffffeeeel. Hhhhhhaby.”

“Feel happy? Feel…Crawly, are you telling me you – you change into this form every time you feel happy?” A nod, this one eager. “But you’re always happy! Or most of the time. Not tonight, though, you were very sullen and…”

But Crawly shook his head again. “Hhhhhhhaby.”

“You were happy?” Nod. “That…I came over with that mat and…?” Nod. “And that I said I…care about you?” Nod, and his snout moved a little closer to Aziraphale’s face.

“So, you change when you’re happy. Very happy, I assume.” Nod. “And…I’m the one who…?” Another nod, this one looking more embarrassed.

Aziraphale lowered his gaze, feeling strangely pleased that he could have this…incomprehensible effect on another being. Oh, it wasn’t something to be proud of, but it made that warmth surge inside, to think that of all the things that made Crawly happy...

“Ah. But. Um. Why change? You said it wasn’t because you wanted to.” Head shake. “Then why?”

“Sssssss.” Crawly drooped. Whatever it was, he couldn’t explain it in this form.

“Never mind then.” Aziraphale stood up again, dusting off his robes. “Ah. How long to change back? You’re usually gone for hours.” A nod. “Oh.” Aziraphale glanced over his shoulder, back towards the human encampment. Surely…they would be fine on their own…for one night. “Should I stay with you?”

“Ssssssssssss.” The serpent pulled back into his coils again, but, after a long pause, emerged to nod slightly.

Aziraphale smiled, settling back onto the rock. “It’s my pleasure, dear fellow. What can I do to make you more comfortable?”

“Ssssss.” Crawly reached forward and rested his head on Aziraphale’s knee. “Ssssss?”

“Oh.” Serpents were, after all, much simpler creatures than humans. A human body needed many things to be happy, physically, mentally, and emotionally, as Aziraphale was rapidly learning. But a snake only desired heat. “Yes. Of course.”

Crawly darted forward, twisting himself up Aziraphale, wrapping around his stomach, his chest, his shoulders, tail twisting down around one leg, head coming to rest by his cheek. Aziraphale managed to get one arm free, the other pinned against his ribs. A squeeze went through Crawly’s body, gentle and brief, as he settled into place. “Ffffffffffine?”

“Yes, this…this is perfectly fine.” He scratched one finger carefully on the back of Crawly’s head. The serpent leaned into it, then shook free to tuck his head under Aziraphale’s chin. Another brief ripple of a squeeze, before bit by bit Crawly drifted off to sleep.

“Have pleasant dreams,” Aziraphale said, fingers stroking the black scales wrapped around his belly.

It wasn’t what he’d imagined. And yet, Aziraphale did spend the night with Crawly pressed tightly against him. He did provide his companion with comfort and safety.

Not at all how he’d thought it would happen, but Aziraphale was still radiantly happy.

“Itsssssstupid,” Crawly muttered, still lisping a little after his change back.

“I’ll be the judge of that. Just tell me.”

Crawly had awoken just as the stars had begun to fade, quickly twisting free of Aziraphale to transform back into his usual shape. He’d explained, somewhat embarrassed, that sleeping usually helped him change back quicker, and that sometimes he even woke up back in his humanoid form. This had presented Azirapahle with a very interesting mental image that he didn’t have time to indulge just now.

Crawly walked beside him, golden eyes darting in the pre-dawn light, reading Aziraphale in an instant before turning to stare at the ground again. “It isssss.” Crawly clenched his jaw and continued more carefully. “Sspent too long in the sserpent body. All that time in Hell. But. Ssnakes don’t…have emotions. Not like human bodies. Sso…I get…overwhelmed. And I can’t hold my shhhape anymore.”

“I see.” Aziraphale carefully studied Crawly out of the corner of his eye, almost afraid to look at him straight on. “And all those times you ran away?”

“I can ssort of…feel it coming. I have a little time to get away, but there’ss nothing I can do to sstop it.” He swallowed, seeming angry with his own mouth. “Stop it.”

“But why would you need to get away?”

“Ngh. I mean. You’re the enemy, I’m not supposed to…” Aziraphale couldn’t hide his pained expression fast enough, as Crawly’s eyes flicked over again. “And…it’s embarrassing. Don’t want to be that snake anymore. This is me now. This body.” He took a breath. “I…didn’t want you to think less of me. Because I can’t control myself.”

“I would never!” Aziraphale stopped walking entirely, but managed to fight down the urge to grab Crawly’s shoulders. “My dear fellow, we’re both learning to control ourselves here. You might be struggling with it physically, but I assure you…” He thought back over the choices he’d made since leaving the Wall. Things he’d said, ways he’d reached out and pulled back with almost no warning. Blaming it on urges and instincts, but he could have resisted if he’d wanted to, could have spoken about his feelings, could have done many things that were better, wiser, kinder. “I thought there was…something between us. Some understanding. But I was completely unaware of your struggles the whole time. I have been abominably selfish.”

“Don’t be too hard on yourself.” Crawly watched his toe trace lines in the dirt. “I think this…whatever it is, that makes you act the way you do and makes me so…mind-numbingly giddy I can’t keep my shape…I mean. It’s meant for the humans. We’re the first angel and demon to feel it. Of course it isn’t easy.”

“But…you do feel it, too?”

“Think so, yeah.”

Aziraphale tried to fight back the smile, but there was no stopping it. He turned away, preserving at least a little dignity. “So…what do we do about it?”

“Dunno.” Then, softer, “I want to touch you. Your hands, your face. I’d only...you know…but I want to.”

“I as well. It’s…I’m resisting but…it seems to grow harder every day.” He smoothed his hands down his robe. “Do you suppose it will always be this way? Between us? With every being we spend enough time around?”

“I hope not. It wouldn’t feel as…important if it were common. And it’s…distracting. I miss just talking.”

“As do I.” Aziraphale turned back in time to see Crawly’s smile. “I suppose…if it’s a question of the human-shaped corporation, you could always have it adjusted. Remove the troublesome emotions.”

“No!” The vehemence of Crawly’s voice startled him. “Aziraphale, that’s the last thing I want. I told you before, I want to – to experience everything this world has, including stupid human emotions. I don’t need them taken away I need…I need to build up a tolerance.” He nodded, staring ahead. “That’s it. A little at a time until…until…”

“Until you can feel whatever you want. Without…repercussions.”

“Nh. Don’t know how I’ll pull it off but..yeah. It, ah…” Another quick glance. “What about you? Probably help with your angelic duties if you didn’t have to worry about…all this.”

“It probably would.” They started walking again, slowly, side by side. “But I think…I think I would also like to experience all this world has to offer. And I can learn to control myself.”

They continued in silence for a little while, each lost in his thoughts.

“Do you think it will take much longer?” Aziraphale asked, twisting his fingers.

“You definitely need to learn patience, Angel.” Crawly grinned. “Yeah. Um. Remember when I tried to explain what a year was? Probably lots of those.”

“Ah. Is there…anything I can do to help?”

“Ngk. Well. You—”

A high-pitched scream echoed from the camp ahead, long and drawn out.

“The humans!”

They both took off at a run.

In the end, despite half a year of careful observation, Aziraphale and Crawly did very little. By the time they arrived it was nearly over; by the time they’d finished awkwardly re-introducing themselves – and convincing the Man not to skewer them on a flaming sword in a blind panic – there wasn’t much to be done except provide encouragement.

The Child was born, a healthy young boy who shouted quite indignantly at the inconvenience of it all.

The human race had truly begun.

Much later, as the Man and Woman rested, Aziraphale held the tiny baby in his arms. The boy had settled down somewhat, now that he was wrapped tightly and warm, and looked in danger of falling asleep in the angel’s arms.

“How does it feel?” Crawly asked, sitting at the edge of the camp.

“Oh, I can’t – it’s incredible, Crawly. I know he’s just a little thing but – I can feel it, his presence, his potential. Everything he can be, good and bad, and it’s just—” The baby opened his mouth in a wide yawn. “…It’s adorable.”

“You’re pathetic,” Crawly said, but with a smile, rising to stand closer, peering over Aziraphale’s shoulder at the Child. “So? Everything there? I know you spent about an eternity counting fingers and toes. Didn’t think it took that long to get to twenty.”

“They’re just the most precious little things! Look – look at his ears.”

“I’m looking.” One hand stretched out uncertainly, tracing along the Child’s cheek. The baby turned his head immediately, searching, sucking on the fingers he found. “Look at that. Not even a day old, searching for food, trying to survive. They just…they just keep going, huh?”

“I suppose so.” Holding the Child filled an emptiness in Aziraphale he hadn’t known was there, not the strange magnetism that drew him to Crawly, but that deep desire for connection, the need to walk with the humans, to be known. Accepted. Though it wasn’t all that different, he reflected. Two sides of the same…two-sided object. A need to not be alone. “Do you want to hold him?”

“Angel…” Crawly’s hand drifted back to the Child’s head, resting on the nest of dark downy curls. “Aziraphale. I really don’t think I can.”

He turned around, and was surprised to see tears in Crawly’s eyes.

“Sssstupid, huh? Child’s got nothing to do with me. But…” He turned abruptly and walked away from the camp.

“Crawly, wait!”

“Nope. This was it, Angel. Just on Earth until the kid was born.” He turned back and shrugged, arms spread wide.

“That doesn’t mean you have to go now.”

“I can feel them calling already. In here.” He tapped the side of his head. “Longer I wait, more likely they’ll send someone to get me, and that’ll just be...messy. And what am I supposed to do now, anyway? Sit here and watch you...carry him around...wishing I could...” He bit his lip. “What would be the point?”

“But…but I thought…”

“Yeah, I thought, too. But what can we do?” Crawly looked down at the ground, rubbing a hand across his forehead. “Look. Take care of them, alright? They don’t need your help. They’re smart. But…be kind. S’what you’re best at.”

“But…” Aziraphale looked down at the future of humanity in his arms. “Is that enough?”

“It’s everything.” Crawly stiffened, clenched his fists. “Shit.”

“What? What’s wrong?” Aziraphale took a step forward, and immediately the Child started fussing, sensing his anxiety.

“Well. Guess it’s not just happinessssss.” He swallowed hard, clearly fighting something. “Look. Angel.” Crawly walked back to hover beside Aziraphale again. “I – I really liked working with you. I hope…If I get another chanccccce…” He shook his head, then leaned in and pressed his lips to Aziraphale’s cheek.

It spread across his face, a warmth, a blush, a smile, blooming like a flower.

Aziraphale turned his head, catching Crawly’s lips with his own. He’d seen the humans do this from afar, and he’d wondered why, but now…

Now he knew.

Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, Crawly was gone, and a large black snake slithered away, fast as a shadow.

The Child started to cry. Aziraphale rocked him, bounced him a little. “No, dear, don’t worry. We’ll see him again.” The taste of Crawly was still on his lips, new and intriguing. “Nothing ends today. This is the beginning of our story.”

Thank you for reading! If that ending wasn’t satisfying enough, I recommend the fic Snuddles (Snake Cuddles) as a very distant epilogue.

#good omens fanfiction #good omens prime #aziraphale and crowley #ineffable husbands #snake crowley #snek crowley #asexual ineffable husbands #lonely aziraphale #curious crowley #crawly #post eden #historical fic #crowley turns into a snake #first kiss #falling in love #feels #my writing #ao3 link

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volleyball-dontknowher · 4 years

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1 picture = 1000 words Oikawa Tooru x reader

Words: 2140

Warnings: fluff

A?n: sorry guys I had an off day and I wanted to go ahead and tell you that I have the other requests for the event and I am planning on doing them either when I climb into bed or tomorrow!!! I also only have a few requests left so please bare with meee

Going to Aoba Johsai was an easy choice for you, they had an amazing art program that was one of the best in the prefecture as well as being well...the closest to home. You walked maybe five minutes to school which was absolutely perfect when someone walked home with you, it was just long enough that you got to chat but never got into something too deep. Another wonderful reason that you decided on Aoba Johsai in the first place was a beautiful man named Oikawa Tooru. You and OIkawa had been in the same class now for five years, and you had had a crush on them since day one. It was something you would never ever admit to anyone, you wouldn’t even risk putting it in your journal because of all of the what if’s involved.

You found yourself taking little peeks at Oikawa throughout the day and just admiring how beautiful he was. You loved how he was easy to talk to, even though you had only done so a handful of times, how his smile never faded, and you especially loved how his heart never strayed away from what was right. You had seen him go from just some boy playing volleyball to someone who was regarded as one of the best setters in Miyagi. Oikawa was always cool, calm and collected traits that you could only admire.

You had gotten a simple assignment for your art class, paint a stranger. Without trying your brain went to Tooru and you were set on painting him. The task was that you should paint a stranger, but a stranger you could watch so it would be perfect. You sketched him later that day in class before taking it home and starting to paint. You had been working hard on getting every little tuft of hair correct as you tried to imitate the boy you had secret feelings for.

Today was the day you were supposed to turn the projects in and you were fretting more than usual. You didn’t like how lopsided his lips looked and wanted to fix it up but ran out of time. You were one of the first in the classroom, as it was about five minutes before class actually started so you decided to set your stuff down and head to the bathroom. On your way back from the bathroom you suddenly didn’t feel so well. Halfway down the hall you stopped and took a sip from the water fountain before slowly sinking down next to it. You couldn’t help but see that the world was spinning and you couldn’t help but watch as it went black. When you woke up you were in the nurses office, quickly being asked a series of questions. You sat up and scratched the back of your head as you figure out what exactly had happened to you.

Oh shit.

You forgot to eat breakfast this morning, you were up late working on the painting, then this morning woke up so late that you had to sprint to school and you’d spent the whole morning stressing. You passed out.

Double oh shit

You left your painting on your desk, exposed to everyone and your next class had already started in that room. THe class you shared with Oikawa Tooru. He was going to see your painting and there was nothing you could do about it. Luckily for you the nurse decided that you were not feeling well enough to continue on with the rest of your day. Your mother came to pick you up. She walked you to the car before going back to the school to grab your backpack.The car ride home was short and you had to admit that you were relieved to put off the inevitable for at least another day. You felt sick just thinking about the rude things that the girls that hung around him would say. They were the meanest, and the prettiest, in the school and you just practically cast yourself as even more of an outcast than you already felt. You liked to keep to themselves and that was something these girls knew nothing about, you heard stories of all of the guys they liked and dates as well as gossip about everyone else in the room. Once you were home you shook off these uneasy feelings as you ate some leftovers and went to bed. You slept the rest of the afternoon, waking briefly to have dinner before going back to bed in a mindless slumber.

Getting ready for school in the morning felt like the most tedious drag and you found yourself dragging your feet more than usual. You grabbed your backpack and quickly made your way to school. You got to school, passed the gates and went straight to your first class, ready for this day to be over already. You sat in your chair with your head on the desk hoping to get a little bit of shut eye before you had to go to start your day. Class started and came and went as usual, lucky for you this was just home room and OIkawa didn’t share this part of the day with you. Next was art, oh shit. Art. You didn’t have your project. No. It wasn’t with your backpack, it was probably in your mom’s car. You couldn’t imagine turning it in two days late, that was completely unheard of and unacceptable. Walking into class you tried to think of the best things to explain to your teacher but she just smiled and told you welcome back. You sat through the lecture with a lingering worry as you tried to figure out where your stupid project had gone.

At the end of class you decided to suck it up, “Mrs. Paddich I’m sorry about missing yesterday and about my project, I-” you start, nervously.

“Oh dearie, a young boy turned in your project for you yesterday clamining that you left it in the class. I do have to say that your painting looked awfully like the boy, it was incredible”

Your heart sank.

“Oh, um thank you,” you stuttered before leaving the classroom quickly. Oikawa had seen your painting and had turned it in for you. That was the only explanation for this, you had never seen him near an art room, even if he was dating an artsy girl he didn’t meet them down here. Why did he do it, how did he do it, all of these questions were a mystery but you had to deal with it. You went to your shared classroom today and instead of using the bathroom you went straight in and say down. When Oikawa entered the classroom you didn’t bother to run and look at him because you didn’t want to have him notice you. Little did you know that when he saw you in class he smiled just a little bit before getting drawn into talking to the same girls as usual. The entire class you were focused on avoiding Tooru while he was focused on ways to catch your attention. He wanted to ask a million questions about the painting, it was beautiful and he wanted to know how and why you made such a beautiful thing of him. Even though he seemed to be the most confident in the room Oikawa wasn’t. He wasn’t even the second or third most confident, he was closer to the end of the list but seeing you capture him and make him look so happy, so alive made his heart flutter. Tooru couldn’t help but stare at the painting when he first saw it and tucked it quickly away before the other’s could say anything about it. He knew it had to be returned to you, except you never came back and he had no idea what to do. Oikawa decided to bring it to the art teacher in hopes maybe you would show back up there next period and get to have it back. Secretly he wanted to keep it and treasure it forever, it was the most sentimental thing anyone had ever done for him, and the sad part was it wasn’t for him. Your painting stuck with him for the rest of the night and he found himself constantly daydreaming about it, about you. He had to confront you and talk to you, but he didn’t know how. He knew that you were in the same class for many years but you were always shy and even if he was interested you two were sat on the opposite side of the room.

The class was over before he had even finished his day dream and you both tried exiting as quickly as possible, for complete opposite reasons. He had barely missed you but was determined to get to you but you rounded the corner into the mass of people before it was possible.

It was now the last class of the day and Tooru had the same thing happen three more times to him, he had no idea why or how you escaped him so perfectly every time, but you did. This time was going to be different. He was going to get the advantage and get to talk to you once and for all. The bell rang and he jumped from his seat faster than anyone else in the room, and instead of trying to get you to talk to him right there in the busy hall he followed you just a few steps outside before catching up to you.

“Y/N,” wait,” Tooru tried calling, but it came out as more of just a whisper. You turned back to look at him, both worried and confused, this was the first time he has ever said your name.

“I-I just wanted to say that I saw your painting and I really liked it and I wanted to know how you did it,” he caught himself stuttering out. That was weird, Oikawa never stuttered.

“I don’t know I just did,” you shrugged trying not to let your heart beat out of your chest.

“It looked amazing Y/n, I just can’t stop thinking about it, I have never felt that way about something before. Why did you choose me?”

“If you want it, you can keep it. It was just for a project, I had to paint a stranger and I just guess I chose you,” you were looking down at your hands now, unsure of where this was going and trying to keep the heat from rising to your cheeks, “because we were supposed to paint strangers and I thought you would be a good subject,”

For reasons unbeknownst to Oikawa those words stabbed him directly in the heart as he felt himself suddenly breathless at the word. Strangers. Nothing in the world could have ever prepared him to have such a reaction, after all it was the trust, you were strangers. “If you don’t mind Y/n, I would like to change that,” Oikawa tried his typical flirty boy thing with you, but you could both tell that he was faking it, “I mean, I would like for us to not be strangers anymore,” he quickly corrects himself. You look up at him in almost disbelief, had the Oikawa Tooru just stuttered in front of you and messed up his words. You took a second to process it all before nodding at him. The butterflies that arose in both of your chests was something that promised happy days to come.

You exchanged phone numbers before he left for practice and before you knew it texting an old friend. Oikawa was funny and flirty but also real over texts, he sent you dumb picutes of what he was doing and you felt comfortable enough with him to do the same back. Girls in your class quickly noticed the change in their king and when they attempted to approach him about it, he was already engrossed in a conversation with you. It had been almost a week since you turned in that project and you had totally forgotten about it, moving on to other portraits. You got the painting back and walked to class with it behind your back hiding it from Tooru until you gave it to him as a gift.

He gave you the goofiest smile as you found yourself smiling back at him. He told you he had a surprise for you too, when you asked what it was he refused to tell you. All throughout class you kept bugging him and all he would tell you is that you would have to go with him and see.

“But Tooru, where are we going?” you found yourself shyly asking him.

“On a date silly,” he beamed back.

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tellyouwhatilike · 4 years

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WILDFLOWER PART 1 - CALUM HOOD

So this is what I’ve been working on! I’m finishing part 2 as I post this. I really hope y’all like this, it’s been super fun to write and I haven’t posted any new writing in a loooooooong time- so please let me know what you think! <3

Part one does not contain any smut, part 2 will 100% be smut lol.

WARNING: This contains mature language and subject matters, 18+ please!!

__________________________________________

PART ONE

“Cal!” An excited voice called from across the large patio.

Calum’s head whipped around while his eyes searched the scantily-clad crowd at one of this month’s industry networking events the label requested he attend. He had to admit, this was one of the more amusing ones, a themed pool party with a barbeque style spread. With that signature phony, ostentatious LA touch to it, of course. This is the kind of thing Calum typically steered clear of in the past; less so since officially uprooting his life to Los Angeles and being conditioned by his band’s record label to make appearances at gatherings like this on a regular basis. His eyes finally landed on his target and his lips curled up instantly—the melodic voice that had called out his name over the masses of valleyspeak blending together in the background, and subsequently, the only true reason he’d agreed to represent the band tonight at this function.

“My, my, my; look what we have here” he said with cheeky implication as he took a moment to slowly look her up and down with a shit-eating grin spread across his face, leaving his eyes squinted and cheeks rounded. She looked even better than he remembered, her long tousled hair neatly spilling over her shoulder just how he’d always liked it. It had been months since he’d seen her in the flesh and the sight of her was enough to make him feel giddy to his core.

“I’m so glad you could make it” she replied with a breathy laugh, cheeks slightly flushed as her arms wrapped around his neck for a quick squeeze ‘hello.’ In that moment, she was very pleased with her decision to wear her sleek black one-piece suit under her cutoff shorts with a red lip—a combination that always delivered. His palm lingered across the span of her waist around her back, squeezing gently, letting it run down to her hip before letting go. When they parted from their embrace and their eyes met, Calum’s cheeky confidence quickly turned shy and boyish, as it typically does.

“Yeah, me too. This is—this is quite the soiree.” He motioned to the mingling bodies around them. “Um, so how have you been, how was Morocco?” He looked down awkwardly at his shoes for a brief moment, cursing himself and nature for not being smoother. Trying not to come off too eager although he’d been thinking about this interaction daily for nearly a year now, whether they had been speaking or not.

They had been engaging in a modest flirtation for months and months now, they had tried going on a handful of dates right around the time the band came back to LA from touring to focus on writing the following album, ‘Calm.’ The term ‘dates,’ however, should be used loosely; Calum’s record label doesn’t approve of the guys getting snapped by paps casually dating around. Rules have certainly been broken in the past— but he figured, since they’d only just met, it wasn’t worth the headaches that these things cause on the harsh world that is the internet. People always talk and it tends to confuse the masses. So, they opted for more intimate yet appropriate venues for their rendezvous like dinner at Calum’s outdoor living space, tight knit shin-digs at his bandmate Michael’s house, or lengthy facetime calls from their respective home couches.

Calum was absolutely smitten- a feeling so new to him, he couldn’t even remember if he’d ever felt it with anyone else before. He was also terrified things would fall apart just like they always had in the past, she ran free and untamed, never staying in one place long enough to make lasting connections, making Calum wary of her potentially leaving and breaking his heart. He could always see it in her face, there was a wild side to her that she couldn’t explain. Things quickly began to prove too consuming for him as he tried to juggle really getting to know her, despite his reservations, and focusing on pouring his heart into the upcoming record. He’s the type to completely immerse himself in whatever it is that’s important to him, so he felt it wasn’t fair to them or his art if they continued building on the relationship. The pair chalked it up to poor timing and decided to give each other space while he worked with his band tirelessly on their music for a number of months. Forever the wandering bohemian, she jetted off to spend some time living with friends in Amsterdam and then frolicking about in Morocco for the summer.

Once the record was released, promotion was finished and the tour was completed; he and his band mates arrived back to LA for some much-needed R & R before eventually returning to the writing process to start it all over again. She returned back to her home base, for the time being, sun-kissed and thrilled to be back in the states for one major reason. Calum had spent nearly the whole first month home catching up on sleep, ordering sushi on grubhub and lounging around in boxers doing next to nothing; standard procedure. But now he was fully rested, extremely rejuvenated, and he was eager to get up to no good.

“I’ve been good, yeah, Morocco was gorgeous and…mind-altering…” She trailed off, losing her train of thought while taking in his face, she shook her head slightly. “Wow, it is so nice to see you again.” She reveled, her green eyes catching light of the twinkling strings adorning the canopy above where they stood. “It’s been a while, huh?” Her cheeks swelled up as she flashed him a smile and attempted to calculate quite how long it had been in her head, remembering some of the last times they hung out vividly. Thoughts shifting to his scent, how he looked different but it was somehow even better than before, the way he had to look down to meet her gaze, the hand he had pressed against her waist when he greeted her earlier, how she felt at ease and wired at the same time to be in his presence.

“Way too long” He said through a toothy smile, already having to remind himself of how they vowed to take things slowly over the text messages leading up to tonight, and simultaneously imagining leaving cherry red marks down the length of her neck. He couldn’t stop sneaking glimpses of her exposed skin and imagining her dark hair splayed across his crisp white sheets or holding her tightly while she wore one of his old t shirts, he desperately hoped that’s where this night was headed. His tongue slipped out and ran its way over his bottom lip when the thin black strap of her bathing suit slipped down her shoulder, his hand moving before the rational side of his brain had any time to talk him out of it. He gently brushed her hair back to expose her bare shoulder and slid the strap back up into place for her, their eyes meeting as his hand lingered there for a moment too long. His jaw tensed as he pulled his hand away, looking down briefly, she swallowed and made herself busy with her champagne flute. He swore he could feel little tiny electric sparks flying each time his skin met hers. “Sorry” He muttered, ever apologetic.

“Don’t be” She said softly and gave him ‘the eyes,’ the eyes that Calum still thought about before he fell asleep some nights. A face that looked like it came straight out of his dreams, innocent yet sinister all rolled into one, making him shiver. A face he couldn’t help but imagine staring up at him while she takes him into her mouth slowly, then all at once. Quite a regular fantasy he’d been having these days, this face felt like she was giving an open invitation to daydream of her. They’d been calling or texting almost daily for around two weeks since she arrived back home, anticipation rising with each passing day.

“So,” He cleared his throat some, “What are you doing after this?” He asked, meaning for it to come off more charming than it did. “I mean, would you want to go hang out somewhere… else? Or something.” He suddenly regretted going in for the kill so soon, he couldn’t read her expression, though he thought if he stared at her pouty pink lips and long dark lashes for long enough, he might. She smirked to herself and let out a chuckle, using her index finger to poke him in the chest. He, rather dramatically, twisted his face up and rubbed the spot vigorously with his palm.

“Owww!” He whined, wide eyed and feigning disdain. “What did you do that for?” He carried on while she rolled her eyes playfully. Tired of the party’s cold chickpea ‘cheeseburger’ sliders and shallow conversation, she decided to speed this process along. She was no fool, they’d both been waiting for this very moment as an excuse to hang out alone again.

“Let’s get out of here.” She leaned in to put her lips up close to his ear, brushing her palm up against his bicep lightly. She pulled back to look him in the eyes, a little smile taking over her plush lips his eyes kept finding their way back to. “I wanna come to your house” She stated, stepping forward slightly to close the space between them, her scent creeping up into his nasal passages and making his mouth go dry imagining how sweet she’d taste.

“Yeah,” He cleared his throat, his eyes widening. “Sure… I mean, yeah, sounds good. I’ll grab the car.” He said, trying (and failing) to sound as cool as possible, turning abruptly and b-lining for the gate, lightning suddenly coursing through his veins at the thought of what was to come. Once to the car, he used the mirror to check his hair as he pulled around to the front drive of the house, moving it around and smoothing it down, not making much of a difference with his recently-buzzed ‘do. Now, he knew exactly where the night was going.

(To be continued...)

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psychosistr · 3 years

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Green-Eyed Monsters- Chapter 1

Summary: Domino and Steelbeak’s relationship has been going well so far, but will a high-class heist involving some lovely ladies drive a wedge between the deadly duo?

Notes: I rise from the grave after months of fatigue and inability to write to bring you more from my “Falling Like SteelDominos” series. First time in a while doing a longer story for the series, so I hope you all enjoy it :3 As usual, Domino belongs to the amazing @thefriendlyfour , but there will also be OC’s from myself and @starlightmoth making an appearance soon, so look forward to that ;3

*knock**knock**knock*

Black feathered knuckles rapped against the door to a certain metal-mouthed fowl’s apartment. While the owner of said knuckles had been given a key to the apartment a couple months ago, Dominic still preferred to knock before barging in.

Within less than a minute, the loon standing at the door was greeted by quite the sight: Steelbeak- chief officer of FOWL, as well as Dominic’s partner- in his full six and half foot tall glory, clad in nothing but a pair of black runner’s shorts and holding a water bottle in one hand.

“Mornin’, Dom.” The chief officer greeted, sounding as calm and casual as ever. “Not runnin’ late, am I?”

“Not at all.” Dominic reassured his partner, sneaking a few glances at the taller bird’s physique when he glanced over his shoulder to confirm the time. “I thought I’d drop by and help with breakfast. Hopefully I didn’t interrupt anything..”

Steelbeak shrugged and stepped aside to let his partner in, closing the door behind him. “Food’s already in the oven, I was just finishin’ up a set.”

Ah, so that explained the lighter fowl’s current state.. “Well, seeing as I’m already here, mind if I keep you company while you finish?”

Another calm shrug. “Suit yourself, all I’ve got left are the free-weights.” The duo made their way through Steelbeak’s home side by side, past his living room and kitchen, and entered the room to the right of the chief officer’s bedroom.

Dominic knew the room to the left of the master bedroom was a guest room that Steelbeak claimed was for close friends (though he gave no names for said friends) who needed a place to stay while in town for work. The one to the right was a spare that had been converted into a home-gym, complete with a treadmill, weight stand, barbell set, rowing machine, and a few other pieces of workout equipment the loon had yet to fully familiarize himself with but were all quite impressive to see worked so effectively into such a limited space. Dominic had a similarly sized spare room in his own apartment, but had opted for turning it into a small private study/library with a few comfortable chairs and ambient lighting.

As Steelbeak picked up a pair of dumb-bells (both sides of each being larger than his fists with shockingly high numbers written on them), set his water bottle down behind his soon-to-be-seat, and sat down on the edge of his barbell set’s bench as he began to do some concentration curls- alternating between arms every few curls- Dominic made himself comfortable on the seat of a resistance-based machine and enjoyed the view. “Do you do this before breakfast every morning?”

“Nah.” The well-built rooster huffed between curls. “Try t’ alternate an’ do it every other day- ‘least three days a week, if I get the chance…but, yeah, I usually try gettin’ it done before breakfast.”

“Every other day, hm? I’ll keep that in mind.” Dominic would have to start coming over before breakfast more often…

Stopping mid-rep, dark grey eyes blinked in surprise and looked up from their previous downward position to stare in shock at the other man’s appreciative red-eyed gaze and the borderline lascivious smirk on his long, dark beak. “Wait a minute…are..are you checkin’ me out??”

One dark brow quirked upward, but the loon’s expression remained otherwise the same. “We’ve been dating for more than half a year- I believe I’m fully within my rights to ‘check you out’.”

Ah, there was the dusting of red under those lighter cheek feathers that never failed to please the shorter fowl. “Thought ya weren’t interested in that sorta thing…”

“I never said that.” Pushing himself back to his feet, Dominic gave a brief roll of his eyes before making his way closer to the still-seated rooster. “Besides, I’m ace, not blind- I can appreciate the beauty of a Greek statue without wanting to sleep with it.”

A smirk slipped easily onto the metal-mouthed fowl’s namesake as he looked up at the approaching loon. “Ya tryin’ t’ say this body’s a work of art?”

A low chuckle rumbled in the aquatic avian’s chest once he was close enough to tip the other’s beak upwards with one finger. “Hmh..well..the phrase ‘well-sculpted’ certainly comes to mind.”

“Well, I….I..y…” Steelbeak’s efforts to flirt back were severely hampered by the black-feathered fingertip sliding back and forth along his beak. He put up a token resistance, but soon enough gave in and leaned into the touch with half-lidded eyes and a blissful smile on his face as he always did.

Within seconds, the now-familiar trilling started and Dominic couldn’t help smiling at how adorable it was to see his partner lose himself so completely every time he gave the larger bird the smallest of touches. Even after so many months had passed since their first date, he could still turn the larger man into putty in his hands within seconds.

Chuckling quietly to himself, Dominic took the chance to fully look over his partner’s body now that he had a better vantage point (making sure his feet were clear of the dumbbells, just in case the other’s grip became too relaxed).

It was a rare sight indeed, getting to see the rooster’s buff physique on full-display. Steelbeak wasn’t shy by ANY means- he’d gladly brag about his looks, his strength, and any other aspect of his vanity given the chance- but it wasn’t often that he went around so exposed. Dominic had seen him in everything from suits (both in-tact and semi-destroyed depending on their work day), to tee shirts, and even sleeveless tops. This, however, was the loon’s first time seeing his partner completely topless and, he had to admit, it was a shame he didn’t get to take in the sight more often.

Steelbeak’s vanity was well deserved, it seemed: The man was attractive.

Dominic’s earlier comment of the lighter fowl being “well-sculpted” was almost an understatement- he’d clearly spent many years training and conditioning his body, and the well-defined muscle mass he’d acquired was the well-deserved result. Add to that his handsome face, that extremely dangerous yet enticingly unique prosthesis, and the confident smirk he wore most of the time, and it was easy to see how he’d been able to keep so many “girlfriends” for so long with so little effort.

The loon’s mood soured slightly at the thought of the so-called “ladies’ man” and his plethora of female companions. How many of them had gotten to see his partner like this? Had any of them ever been invited over for a meal? What kind of gifts had he given them? Were there any of them that he actually lov-

A light cooing sound followed by a quiet trill and a nudging at his palm brought the aquatic avian’s attention back down to the still pleasantly-dazed smiling face of the metal-mouthed fowl in front of him. It seemed his internal musings had distracted him from the oh-so-important task of moving his fingers over the other man’s deadly prosthesis and he’d started nudging the black feathered palm in front of him in search of more.

A soft smile found its way to the darker bird’s long beak. “Sorry, am I not giving you enough attention?” The question was rhetorical and the quiet laugh that accompanied it was proof- Steelbeak never answered him verbally once he reached this state. The content trills and quiet cooing would have to suffice for an answer as Dominic resumed stroking and petting the rooster’s gleaming beak once more.

Steelbeak’s own blissful smile grew as the dark fingers on his beak moved back and forth over the metallic surface. Dark grey eyes closed as he all but melted into the smaller fowl’s touch, looking completely open and unguarded as he happily accepted more of his partner’s touch.

That expression was all the loon needed to dismiss his previous train of thought. Steelbeak had to feel superior to everyone else around him constantly. He had to feel like he was smarter, sharper, and stronger than anyone he interacted with. He had to be cool, tough, and confident at all times. He had to keep everyone else at arm’s length until he was ready to reel them in and toss them aside. He would never let anyone see him look so soft and unguarded- it would ruin the rest of the cool-tough-guy image he’d worked so hard to create.

Anyone that is, except for Dominic, it seemed.

He seemed to be an exception for many of the arrogant rooster’s previous mindsets and practices: While Steelbeak hated being told what to do by anyone outside of High Command (and even then it seemed he only listened out of fear), he’d listen to his partner and do what he said if the shorter bird had a plan. While Steelbeak would keep his “girlfriends” strung along for months without contact, he’d always look forward to spending more time with his partner whenever the loon gave him the chance. While Steelbeak would often toss his dates aside on a whim (sometimes literally- the two had had quite the interesting conversation when Dominic stumbled on that hidden disposal chute in the chief officer’s living room), he seemed genuinely invested in making sure his partner felt valued through the little acts of consideration and gifts he’d leave for the loon to find at his convenience.

Yes, Dominic thought, he was the only one who got to be close enough to FOWL’s cocky chief officer to see such a perfectly relaxed and uncharacteristically genuine expression on the larger man’s normally smug face.

And the only one who gets to see him so casually underdressed anymore, a slightly cocky voice in the back of his head reminded him.

That thought certainly brought a grin to his long beak as he unabashedly resumed his earlier inspection of his partner’s body. As red eyes wandered over the vast expanse of hard muscles and soft off-white feathers, however, something else red- other than the rooster’s proudly styled comb- caught his attention. “Hm..?” Releasing the metal beak from his barely-held grasp, Dominic walked around the bench to get a better look at the rooster’s back. “I didn’t know you were painted..”

Getting “painted” was essentially the closest thing most birds could get to a tattoo. Since their plumage tended to cover up any marks on their skin, shops that catered to avian clientele used special airbrushes full of dye and affixed different sized nozzles onto them. The results were colorful and detailed “paintings” that, if done by the right artist, looked just as good as what many other animals could have done by a needle. The only downside to the process was that the dye was done on the bird’s feathers rather than their skin, so once the feathers fell out and new ones grew in, the “painting” would be gone. Still, to lose the whole image would usually take at least a year- give or take, depending on the rate at which the individual shed their feathers (or if there were any incidents that tore out a large patch all at once).

“Huh..?” Gray eyes blinked themselves open as Steelbeak’s mind tried to comprehend what had just been said to him. “Oh..yeah…usually get it done on my back- easier t’ hide, y’know? That one’s kinda old, though, been thinkin’ ‘bout gettin’ a new one soon.”

Dominic could certainly see what his partner meant when he said the paint was old, but the image was still quite lovely- it was a rose with petals in varying shades of red and pink done in a gradient with the darkest petals on the inside and the lightest ones in the center, all set atop a blood red stem with two twisting red vines woven around the stem. The flower had several of Steelbeak’s own off-white feathers mixed in with the various darker shades of red by this point, distorting the uniformity of the image.

“Why a rose?” The design seemed far too specific to just be a spur-of-the-moment decision.

“Went out drinkin’ with an old pal for my birthday a couple years back an’ we decided t’ get painted t’ celebrate.” Dark gray eyes peered back over Steelbeak’s shoulder to look at the loon as he talked, apparently trying to gage his reaction to the brightly colored ink. “We thought it’d be funny if we got t’ pick each other’s ink…had t’ draw the line at words an’ tramp-stamps, otherwise I could’ve gotten stuck with WAY worse.”

A light quirking of the corner of the shorter fowl’s long, dark beak was accompanied by a teasing look in his amused red eyes. “What a shame, I think a tramp stamp would suit you perfectly- something gaudy in gold and silver with one of your cheesy pickup lines written in some overly-curly cursive.”

And there was that loud, nasally, very-particular laugh that Dominic had grown to relish over the past months. “Hey, I may like havin’ a good time, but I ain’t no tramp!” Once Steelbeak’s laughter had subsided to a more manageable series of quiet snickers, he winked back at his partner with a playful grin. “An’ my pickup lines ain’t cheesy- they’re grade-A babe-wooin’ material.”

Dominic returned the grin in kind and picked up the nearly forgotten bottle of water on the bench nearby. “If that’s your A-game, then women must be easier to woo than I imagined.”

Despite pretending to look shocked and offended by the darker bird’s criticism, Steelbeak still took the bottle of water when it was offered to him. “Geez, ya really know how t’ hit a man where it hurts, don’t ya, wise guy?”

“Maybe if your ego wasn’t so large, it would be a much harder target to hit.” Taking a seat beside his partner on the now empty portion of the bench, Dominic took the liberty of leaning his head against one broad, uncovered shoulder. He enjoyed times like these- little moments where the two of them could flirt and tease each other in equal measure and just relax in one another’s company.

And, if the content sigh he felt more than heard was any indication, Steelbeak enjoyed them just as much. “Aw, c’mon, Dee- we both know that if I was anythin’ less than what I am, ya wouldn’t be interested.”

“Keep telling yourself that.” There was a tinge of amusement to the loon’s words, but no sarcasm this time- he was a bit too content for it at the moment, he’d save it for later.

Unfortunately, nothing good could last forever, and the pair groaned when they heard a very familiar alert down the hall.

“Think if we ignore it, they’ll leave us alone?” Steelbeak muttered under his breath; the smaller fowl didn’t need to see his gleaming beak to know there was a dissatisfied scowl on it.

“Only long enough to send an eggman up to fetch us.” Dominic sighed and, with no small amount of reluctance, got back up to his feet.

Steelbeak followed his partner’s lead and stretched out his legs before rising up on them and depositing the weights in his hands back on their designated spot on the stand full of dumbbells. “Much fun as it’d be t’ give those guys a reminder not t’ call whenever they feel like it, I don’t think I want High Command seein’ me one step away from my birthday suit. Mind takin’ this one so I can get changed?”

While that was a scene that Dominic would personally love to see play out sometime, he gave his partner a quick nod and made his way back towards the living room. “Fine, but next time you’re answering it- whether you’re properly dressed or not.”

As he entered the room, the aquatic avian wasn’t the least bit surprised to find the screen in Steelbeak’s living room had already turned itself on and had the less than pleased silhouettes (how did a silhouette obscure physical features so well while still allowing such clear scowls to show?) of High Command staring at him. “Agent Domino.” The usual member of the trio spared him nothing more for a greeting. “Where exactly is Chief Officer Steelbeak?”

“On his way, sirs.” Dominic stopped in front of the screen, looking at his leaders with a calm but respectful expression to show he was paying attention. “I take it you have an assignment for us?”

“Yes.” The silhouetted leaders’ eyes narrowed in warning. “And failure will NOT be tolerated.”

Next Chapter->

End Notes: A short, sweet, domestic bit of fluff and bonding to start off with :3

#darkwing duck #dwd #steelbeak #Dominic Domino #steeldomino #darkwing duck oc #dwd oc #not my oc #green-eyed monsters

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wandering-bitch · 4 years

Text

Notes for I Have Always Loved The Door (pt 1)

I Have Always Loved The Door is the Wen Qing/Mianmian fic that all the wlw wanted but canon could not in any way make happen

This is part one of three, i’m sorry, but it is a 30k fic and i’ve never written anything this long. it’s like. six months of my life. annotations are gonna be longer, too.

What is this fic About? Uh. Lots. Mostly your relationship with your past and your future. making choices about what you carry with you into your life.

title is from Charly Bliss’ “Percolator” but like. the rest of the fic is in no way related to the song. Just the lyrics “I have always loved the door/but I will always love you more/I love metaphors” fit well for the wen qing mood

it is a fucking CRIME that wen qing died, and while i’m happy that luo qingyang got a happy ending with a soft man who just wants to make her happy, i think she deserves more. so i gave her a fancy job

i struggled with the outline for this so much until i realized that mianmian’s canon arc is partially about saying goodbye to your home/family because you no longer fit there + it’s not a great place anymore. and that’s so close 2 wen qing’s

so that drove a great part of the plot, and helped shape the youya/tuzai bit

ch 1

the first chapter is so funny and then nothing ever approaches it, i’m so sorry i got ur hopes up with the shennans TTnTT

i hate most of my writing after it’s up but i still like this chapter. wen qing being a doctor, nmj knowing his place, mianmian cursing loudly

“If you’ve been knuckles-deep in me, you can consider yourself a friend” i spend a lot of time in this fic trying to kill wen qing with Lesbianism, but honestly that’s just to make up for mianmian killing herself with lesbianism.

this was b4 i decided to care how i ended chapters haha

ch 2

i’m proud honestly of this fic alternating perspective, bc it forced me to learn to write more distinct voices.

“are you eating enough red meat?” “in the unclean realm?”

if i had 2 be in a Great Sect i would 100% want to be in the big sexy sword jock sect but unfortunately i’m a vegetarian

please think of me, an average-sized gay, with noodle arms, pushing away all the giant cooks and self-appointed nie aunties, who are trying to shove meat into my mouth

like you know how cats avoid the bath??? and their people are like “jesus fuck how is this 10 lb animal defeating me, i’m huge and strong and also have thumbs”??? that, except it’s an average sized sword gay fighting ten RIPPED aunties holding out beef

i do love the mianqing dynamic i created here and i’m not sure i kept it up but WHATEVER this is about annotations not about editing

mianmian: god FUCK the jin clan, the jin clan sux. wen qing: hmmmmmmmmmm

i think mianmian’s three older sisters might show up in a future work in the series

yeah, i fell in love with this au, there will be at least one epilogue.

ch 3

oh ho ho!!! it’s the beginning of Sword Content!!!

i watched so many videos of dao work vs jian work and then i ignored all of it!!!

by that i mean “there were only like two decent-quality videos on dao work that i found on youtube and i couldn’t study them hard enough to get what i wanted”

someone trying to correct your practice with boring, irrelevant suggestions??? it’s extremely likely, it’s happened to me multiple times, i straight up stopped practicing outside bc of it

please, men, i’m begging you. if you see me doing martial arts, rather than correcting me, ask “oh cool, what are you doing? ah, i do [this art]” and like. talk with me like i’m a human

not to be A Bitch but there is a 70% chance that i’ve actually studied more marital arts than you, on account of most ppl abandoning within a few years, and me practicing aikido for more than a fucking decade

god swinging a weapon full-speed at someone and stopping inches from their head??? a Fun Time

mianmian’s doing it as a big dick energy move

but in my school we just trusted each other to not fuck up.

im too gay to want any “”””homophobia””” or “””discovering you’re gay”””” or “””coming out”””” plots, i just wanna fast forward to the “”””i wanna kiss a girl””” bit

OH MAN i forgot wwx’s voice in wen qing’s head.

“even after his death the yiling patriarch managed to annoy her” i love wen qing

ch 4

IT’S THE MEMORIAL DINNER CHAPTER

memorial dinners are an important part of my household’s mourning process sorry

“she waved her hand to indicate the entirety of his use of demonic cultivation, fall from grace, and mass murder” mood wen qing. fucking mood.

oh my god im rereading this and seeing where i misspelled shit ugh. sorry lwj

so sometimes i’m vague about food and that’s because the only food i can think of when i’m writing is pork. i just. can’t remember what other foods u can eat. pork and also buns (but meat buns) soup? never heard of her. chicken? what is that??? piles of vegetables??? no one eats that obviously

please remember that im vegetarian and not only do i not eat pork, what i do eat is piles of vegetables

ah yes!!! time for mianmian to say prisons are for burning!!!!

our girls are both radical leftists sorry not sorry

acab, reproductive rights, prisons are for burning, capitalism is an inherently exploitative system, unionize your workplace

“tip your servers well” -- wen qing

wwx, shouting from beyond the grave: GET SOME, GIRLS!!!

wwx’s ghost: do y’all need anything? snacks? water? a condom? ah, love you kids, you keep me young

oh i forgot “for my local radical,” i should make sure to keep using ‘my radical’ as a cute endearment for the wives

ch 5

awwwww yeahhhhhhh trauma dreamsssss

writing jin guangyao is so fun!! and stressful!!!

fun because he never says anything straight, only through six layers of plausible deniability, and that’s just a fun exercise

fun also because i Love a Bitch.

stressful because he never says anything straight, only through six layers of plausible deniability.

the bit where he threatens to expose wen qing and mentions specifically that nmj does not like being lied to??? took me several times to perfect and im still not happy!!!

but i’m deeply proud of him sending the flame hairpiece, that’s some a+ innocent-looking menace right there, that’s the only thing on this planet i believe in anymore

i loved making up sect politics that weren’t specifically “let’s put up watchtowers” because i don’t think that happened while jgs was still alive

uh @ self why did i capitalize da-ge that’s so uncomfortable.

oh my god i just realized that jin guangyao has to watch his ex boyfriend/nie mingjue treat mianmian the way he used to be treated oh fuck

sorry i was not at all writing 3zun cinderella when i wrote this so i wasn’t in the habit of thinking about jgy being in pain and now???

get fukt jin guangyao

he 100% cries to lxc about this later

what’s that??? you say i keep writing overthinkers who are anxious and terrified of everything??? huh i’m not sure i agree and if even if you were right i’m not sure it means anything

“grumpy frog” mianmian mvp

god the flame hairpiece is one of like two whole good endings i did for this fic haha

next time: ch 6-10!!

#mdzs #cql #mo dao zu shi #the untamed #wen qing #behind the scenes #i have always loved the door #mianmian #god i just [clenches fist] love mianmian

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eveningstarcatcher · 4 years

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Anthiana Jones (Crowley) and the Lost Book

For the Great Good Omens Snake Off Also available to read on Ao3! Inspired by a conversation with a friend and @whiteleyfoster’s amazing art (Thanks to @summerofspock for organizing the event!)

“I told you that you didn’t have to come along, my dear.” Aziraphale chided softly. He held a white pith helmet in his hands, a sturdy explorer jacket replaced his usual antique coat, and tall brown spats covered his boots and lower legs. His pale hair was golden in the torchlight, his blue eyes laughed and wrinkled around the edges. It was absolutely endearing and Crowley hated it.

“Though I do think you’re enjoying the warm weather. Egypt is lovely this time of year, isn’t it?” the angel added, distracted by a particularly interesting symbol carved into the wall.

“I wasn’t going to let you go alone. Get yourself discorporated.” Crowley muttered as he paced ahead down the dim tunnel, holding the torch aloft, casting long shadows against the hieroglyphic- and cobweb-covered walls behind him. Aziraphale, noticing the fading light, hustled to keep up with the demon’s long strides.

“I’m quite capable of taking care of myself.” Aziraphale’s voice wavered slightly, as if holding back a laugh.

“Oh! Are you?” Crowley stopped suddenly and turned on his heel, causing Aziraphale to stumble against his chest, clutching at Crowley’s shoulders to regain his balance. “Last time I checked, this isn’t the first time I’ll be around to save you. Remember the Bastille?” He was thankful for the black lenses blocking his eyes from view.

“Of course I remember!” Aziraphale’s cheeks were flushing pink, his hands still resting against the black fabric of Crowley’s shirt. “How could I forget?” he added quietly, the ghost of a smile dusting over his lips.

“Well, then, you know why I have to be here. Foolish angel’s bound to get himself into trouble.” Crowley ensured that Aziraphale was firmly settled onto his own feet, then stepped away.

“I like the new look,” the angel cast him a cheeky side glance as he adjusted his vest, smoothing it down over his soft stomach. “Though the footwear’s a bit much.” He chuckled as he gave Crowley a once-over, lips pressed into a thin smirk.

Crowley’s travelling outfit consisted of sleek black boots that came up over his knees, giving way to tight maroon trousers. He had pushed the sleeves of his black button-up above his elbows, revealing freckle-spattered skin that glistened as he shifted the torch from one hand to the other.

“Are we at least going the right way?” Crowley rolled his eyes and leaned against the wall, cocking a hip, watching as Aziraphale consulted the ancient map, his hands moving gently over the parchment, his brow furrowing in concentration.

“I do believe so. If we just continue down this way,” he gestured to the path behind Crowley, “we should be there in no time at all!” He beamed up at Crowley and carefully rolled the map up and replaced it into a leather blueprint tube, securing the lid, and sliding the strap across his chest, letting the document settle against his back.

“Alright, let’s go, then.” Crowley sighed and strode off down the tunnel, Aziraphale only a step behind.

“Wait, Crowley! We should be careful. There were numerous warnings in the texts.” Aziraphale’s hands worried at the strap across his chest, eyes scanning the floor and walls for signs of danger.

“Warnings about what?” Crowley huffed. “The demon that lurks the halls? I’m on your side, angel.’

“Yes, I know that, Crowley,” Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “But the texts were quite clear that were could be several-”

His words were replaced by yelps and screams as the floor disappeared under their feet, giving way, leaving them to tumble into the darkness below. They landed with heavy thuds.

“- traps.” Aziraphale finished breathily, splayed on his back against the cool stone, the document tube nestled against his chest. His hat had been lost during their sudden descent and he had landed on his hip before rolling to his back, the sharp pain fading as he brushed a hand over it.

“Thanks for the warning.” Crowley coughed out. He had landed in a puddle of limbs, tangled and curled in on himself. He sorted himself, sitting up and lifting a hand to his head, which was pounding from the impact, pulling it away to find blood smeared on his fingertips. He groaned from annoyance more than from pain.

“I did try,” Aziraphale pushed himself up to sit, trying to see into the darkness.

“Not hard enough!” Crowley snapped, wiping his hand on his trousers. “Still fell into this damn pit!”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale spoke softly, apologetically.

He felt the angel’s soft hand on the exposed skin of his forearm and he fought the urge to place his hand over it. He wasn’t ready to let go of his frustration quite yet.

“I am sorry for dragging you into this, but I am awfully glad to have your company.”

“Didn’t drag me into anything, angel. My decision.” Crowley grumbled, pulling away from Aziraphale’s touch to feel for the extinguished torch. When he located it, he pulled to toward himself, snapping his fingers to set it alight, then stood, offering his free hand to the angel. “Now let’s find a way out, yeah?”

Aziraphale placed his hand in Crowley’s and let himself be lifted to his feet.

“Thank you, my deee-AAGH!” Aziraphale screamed and scrambled closer to Crowley, wrapping his sturdy arms around the demon’s chest from behind, pushing and pulling against Crowley’s body in an attempt to climb up onto his back.

“ANGEL!” Crowley yelped, nearly dropping the torch in an effort to keep Aziraphale from sliding off, wrapping his free arm behind him to support the angel.. “What in heaven’s name are you doing?”

“LOOK!” Aziraphale had managed to settle himself against Crowley’s back, his legs wrapped around his narrow hips, his arms firmly set around his neck. He released one arm just long enough to point, his head burying itself in Crowley’s shoulder.

He lifted the torch and the golden glow cast light further across the floor, which was dark, but alive. It moved in all directions, smoothly, without sound.

“Snakes?” Crowley laughed. “Angel! It’s just snakes!”

“Yes, I am very well aware of that!” Aziraphale panicked against Crowley’s shirt.

“You’re not afraid. Tell me you’re not afraid of snakes.” Crowley’s body was trembling with stifled chuckles.

“It’s not funny!” Aziraphale cried, distressed.

“It is! It’s actually hilarious! I’m a snake, angel!” He was fighting the urge to double over as his body shook with laughter.

“You’re one single snake! This is a room full of them! And I know you! I don’t know what they’ll do to me!” Aziraphale was whining now, shifting himself further up Crowley’s back, holding tighter.

“M’bigger than all of ‘em put together.” Crowley mused. “And they’re not going to do anything to you! Promise.”

“You don’t know that! Tell them to go away!” Aziraphale fussed.

“You’ll have to get down, you know.” Crowley placed a calming hand on Aziraphale’s arm.

“Must I?” his voice was small.

“Just for a minute. I promise, nothing will happen to you. Trust me?”

Crowley felt the angel’s iron grip loosen as he slid down to his feet.

“Always, my dear.” He smiled nervously and tried not to flinch as he registered movement from just beyond the circle of light.

“Just stay here,” Crowley pushed the torch into Aziraphale’s hand, giving it a gente squeeze before he pulled away. “I’ll be right back.”

He slid downward gracefully, black scales shimmering in the flickering light, starting at his feet and working their way upwards until all that remained of Crowley’s familiar face were the slitted yellow eyes that Aziraphale so rarely got to see. He was coiled in on himself, large and powerful. His muscles rippled beneath his scaled skin as he stretched out his serpentine form, slithering around the circle of light, hissing softly.

Aziraphale’s eyes trailed after him. It had been thousands of years since he’d last seen Crowley in this form and it was exquisite. The way his skin shimmered in the torchlight, the elegance of his movements, the wide, unblinking eyes that watched him as he circled the angel, a familiar and reassuring gesture.

He shortened his orbit, moving closer to Aziraphale, then came to a stop as he curled his body in a ring around his feet, nose touching tail, creating a barrier between the angel and the other snakes.

He hissed long and loud and the room grew still for a few long moments. Aziraphale held his breath, one hand against his chest, as if to dampen the sound of his heart thudding and thundering against his ribs.

There then came a chorus of smaller hisses as the snakes shifted, the dark mass moving to the outer edges of the room, not unlike the parting of the Red Sea, clearing a path across the room.

Crowley slithered forward down the path, then paused, lifting his head and turning back to Aziraphale. He inclined his head towards the opposite side of the room, then continued on his way. The angel hesitantly followed, stepping carefully, as to avoid any other traps or snakes.

Crowley led him across the large, cavernous room they had landed in, through a large archway, down a narrow hallway and into another room. This room was much smaller, claustrophobic.

“Probably better that you’re in this form, my dear.” Aziraphale’s curls nearly brushed the ceiling. Crowley hissed gently in a response that might have been a chuckle.

“Is this the right way?”

He received a small nod from Crowley, who continued his serpentine path along the stone floor, to something that resembled an altar. It was long and low, carved with images of gods. Scattered along the top were idols and offerings of jewelry and metalwork. Nestled among the gifts was a large tome, bound and wrapped in cloth, as if mummified in this tomb. Aziraphale gasped at the sight of it.

“Is this it?”

Crowley slithered around, curling himself loosely around Aziraphale’s legs and waist, lifting his head to get a better look as the angel set the torch down against the altar. He reached out and gingerly lifted the cloth away, setting it aside.

“I do wish I had my gloves,” he muttered, causing Crowley to hiss in exasperation, as if to say just get on with it.

“Yes, yes. Alright!” Azirpahale replied, lifting it delicately between his wide hands, his eyes huge with anticipation, an astonished grin spreading across his face.

“Crowley,” he breathed. “Thank you!”

He took careful, measured breaths as he gently opened the brown cover, which was crumbling at the corners, eyes moving furiously across the ancient pages, soaking in every marking.

“It’s incredible! Dangerous, but incredible!” He beamed at Crowley, whose annoyance was finally waning, softened by the joy on his angel’s face.

“I will need to study this in better conditions, of course, but I must thank you for your help, Crowley.” He gingerly shut the book, giving his full attention to his companion. “I doubt I’d have made it this far without you. I hope you know that I-”

Just then there was a rumble and a large cracking noise, which reverberated through the small room. The ground shook and the objects across the altar vibrated and clattered.

“What’s happening?” Aziraphale stood, frozen, eyes wide and panicked. “Earthquake?” He clutched the book to his chest and stared at Crowley.

As much as snakes can sigh, Crowley did, as he wrapped himself more tightly around his angel, then uncoiled and slithered away. He had to double back and nudge Aziraphale into moving before they made it out of the small room, down the narrow corridor, and into the cavernous space they had fallen into.

As he slithered towards the spot they had landed Crowley began to shift forms. His dark, scaly skin became pale and leathery, the powerful tail split into two lithe legs. Arms folded out from his sides, and, finally, smirking lips and tousled red hair appeared as the transformation was completed.

Bits of stone were falling from the ceiling and the pillars scattered about the room began to crumble, sunlight streaming in through cracks in the roof.

Aziraphale weaved around the debris as quickly as he could, but was falling behind. He was breathing hard, his feet unsure, his arms cradling the book.

“Crowley!” He cried as he lurched to a stop, narrowly avoiding some serious damage to his corporation as a large chunk of pillar toppled in front of him.

“Wings, angel!” Crowley instructed as he dashed back to Aziraphale. He grabbed his elbow, practically lifting him off his feet and carrying him to the entrance.

As instructed, Aziraphale pearly white wings burst into view, as did Crowley’s iridescent black feathers, careful not to injure the other or push him away.

“Now!” Crowley hissed in his ear, then pulled away as they beat their wings, a powerful movement that lifted them out of the pit, Crowley letting Aziraphale take the lead. They were gliding down the tunnel towards the entrance, wings cramped, but carrying them far more quickly than their feet would have as the destruction continued behind them.

They burst into the cool night air and Crowley whooped as he somersaulted and twirled through the air.

“That was an adventure! And to think, I almost missed it!” he laughed, bright, clear and joyous.

“Really, dear! We were almost discorporated!” Aziraphale was breathing heavily, dropping down to his feet and folding his wings away.

“You were almost discorporated. I was doing just fine.” Crowley dropped down beside him, a wide grin gracing his sharp features.

“I beg your pardon!” Aziraphale’s brow was furrowed tightly, but his eyes twinkled with good humor.

“No need to beg, angel. S’why I came along, isn’t it? To keep you out of trouble? Sure hope it was all worth it!”” Crowley snatched the book from Aziraphale’s arms and flipped through it, earning him a symphony of stuttered reprimands.

“Please don’t! You’re handling it all wrong! Crowley! Please! It’s very delicate!” Aziraphale reached around, trying to take the book, but the demon held it just out of reach. “Crowley!” he pouted, crossing his arms and pushing out his lower lip.

“Fine,” Crowley surrendered, holding the book out and allowing the angel to take it. He was never good at denying Aziraphale.

The angel shrugged out of his jacket and wrapped it protectively around the tome.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale sighed, once again pressing it against his chest.

“You do realize you could have just miracled the snakes away, right?” Crowley smirked, brushing some dust off of his sleeve.

“No! I- well- that is to say,” Aziraphale sputtered, “you could have as well!” “Could’ve, but my way was much more fun!” Crowley winked dramatically, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“Fun? Ostentatious, perhaps, but not fun.” Aziraphale chided.

“No need to pretend, angel! I know you, and I know you love a good show!” Crowley began to walk back towards the town.

“It’s not a show when my life… er… corporation is in danger! Not to mention the trouble the humans could have gotten up to with this book! Best if I keep it safe.” He patted the book with one hand, letting the other fall to his side.

“Always looking out for humanity,” Crowley smiled softly, his hand falling to his side, gently brushing against Aziraphale’s. His heart fluttered in his chest.

“Well someone’s got to.” The angel’s cheeks burned crimson. “It’s rather a good thing I’ve got someone looking out for me, too, don’t you think?” He turned to smile at Crowley, soft and serene in the moonlight.

“Shut uuuup.” Crowley rolled his eyes and curled his pinky finger around Aziraphale’s.

#ggoso #great good omens snake off #great good omens snake-off #my writing #good omens #gofic #go fic #aziraphale #crowley #snake crowley #ineffable husbands

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theancientgeekoroman · 5 years

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Heyy, I’m currently an a-level student in England hoping to take classics at university. Do you have any tips for this course, or any advice on how to structure studying or help yourself at all? I know what the course entails and I absolutely love the sound of it, I’m just not sure how strenuous or difficult it is overall.

Sorry for the delay in answering, Nonny! It’s been a busy week, and I’ve been having some issues with productivity.

Here are some of the asks from the past that might help you a little bit in navigating this question:

Advice for Aspiring Classicist Ask: https://theancientgeekoroman.tumblr.com/post/179847323830/hi-im-a-high-schooler-who-wants-to-pursue-aSuggested Reading List Ask: https://theancientgeekoroman.tumblr.com/post/179972282550/hey-sorry-to-bother-you-but-i-recently-went-to-a

Where to Start: https://theancientgeekoroman.tumblr.com/post/183617460805/hello-im-a-high-school-student-interested-in (Includes the two links above in this one)

Advice for Studying Classics at University: https://theancientgeekoroman.tumblr.com/post/183612328890/hey-there-im-about-to-start-university-in-the

And this ask is about History/Museum Studies but might be relevant to your interests because these coincide fairly often: https://theancientgeekoroman.tumblr.com/post/183621851835/while-this-might-not-be-your-area-of-expertise

A lot of the above will answer your questions for tips/tricks/advice for studying and being a Classics student. But I’ll address the strenuous/difficult part here for you. Please also remember that this is coming from someone who attended an American university that is well-known, but not anywhere near “Ivy League” or Oxbridge levels of experience. Since you’re in England, your structure will probably be different, but any of my English followers who would like to add on, please do so! I’m going to go by the different courses I had to take for my Classics major and let you know how strenuous/difficult it was for me and I’ll go by least difficult to most difficult. I’m leaving out coursework that was for “general education requirements” because I don’t think English schools have that element and won’t really apply unless you end up at an American school (and the levels of difficulty varies for me depending on how much math was required, lol).

The Easiest Coursework: For me, the easiest coursework were the courses that had to do with culture (i.e., no language requirements). These courses for me were things like “Biblical and Classical Literature” (we had comparisons of the Bible and The Iliad, and it was a cross-listed as a Jewish Studies and English, so it was a lot of textual analysis, which I’m good at), “Prehistoric Archaeology” (a really cool anthropology course that delved into prehistory all over the world and touched on contemporary Paganism, too), “Women in Antiquity” (a 400-level art history seminar that had fun and creative aspects to it - including reading for Lysistrata for which I had a pool noodle sticking out of my tunic because I was reading as Kinesias), and Literature in Translation courses; I took “Greek Mythology” and “Greek Tragedy,” which were simple because it was more textual analysis.

The reasons I found all of these courses, the least difficult are 1. I am good at textual analysis, which is a big part of Classics in general, so it was good to be exposed to it continuously because if you’re not good at it now, you will be. 2. These classes mainly dealt with things that really interested me, so even if the material was a little difficult, I was interested in it enough that it didn’t feel that difficult.

Mid-Level Difficulty Coursework:

The classes that I had the most difficulty with that were not the language courses were the history courses. The reason I found these more difficult than the above courses because they were more specific and a lot of material. There’s a lot of people to remember, a lot of dates to remember, people you’re going to confuse because so many people basically have the same name. And in undergrad, you have those “survey” classes where you do an overview of an entire civilization, which is A Lot. When I took my Ancient Rome class, it was really overwhelming because we started with the Period of Kings, the “mythological” beginnings of Rome, all the way to the Fall of Rome, in one semester. It felt so fast and so slow at the same time, and I feel like I didn’t retain much from it. Only two of my History courses had to be ancient-related, so most of my other History coursework was Medieval, so that was also a lot of information. You might get overwhelmed easily from how much information you have to take in and remember for assessments/exams/papers. These courses were probably the most time-consuming study and assignment-wise.

Most Difficult Coursework:

For me, the most difficult coursework was Latin and then Ancient Greek (as in, Ancient Greek was the most challenging overall for me). This may not be the same for everyone, and I was relatively good at languages when I was younger, but when I got to university, things were more complicated. Since I started learning new languages in my 20′s, it was not as easy for me to pick up on them as I was when I was in high school. Ancient Greek was difficult because we learned both Classical Greek and Koine Greek, so I had to make sure I didn’t confuse them (we didn’t do a lot of Koine Greek, but I still had to do some work in it, and I was super worried I’d confuse the pronunciations). That and all the accents you have to remember and learning a new alphabet is a lot, too.

Latin, luckily, was a little easier. It was still difficult, but I knew a little bit of the grammar rules/alphabet differences before I began, but admittedly only knew a little bit of Latin from Catholic masses, but nothing beyond that. It was easier than Ancient Greek, but the difficulty lay in the fact that I was taking both of them at the same time, having never taken either of them before, whereas I knew quite a few people who had four years of Latin in high school before they went to university. My sequence was 101-102-201-202 for both of the languages, but a lot of universities are going to require more courses than just 2nd level languages, especially if you want to focus on the languages in graduate school or teach it.

What it all really boils down to is knowing how to properly manage your time. Which I am still really bad at, but you should write out a schedule for classes, homework, outside activities, and remembering to take time to take care of yourself and do necessary things.

One of the things I learned to do early on was to get through the difficult or more time-consuming assignments first, so then the next assignment would go by a lot faster once I had finished the harder homework. It will also make the next assignment seem much easier. But, remember to prioritize things that are due sooner and to try and break down long-term projects if the professor doesn’t (e.g., make sure you have articles/books picked for final papers if you know what your subject is going to be; some professors will basically outline check-ins by making things due for a grade over the semester, such as a proposal, then annotated bibliography, rough draft, and then the final draft).

I hope this helps, and please let me know if you’d like me to clarify anything or ask any more specific questions!

All the best,

Tychon, the Ancient Geeko-Roman

#tagamemnon #Classics #university #college #studying #advice #ask #asks #Anon #Anonymous #personal #long post

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razmahdaz-art · 6 years

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Thunder Rolls Over The Rockys Chapter 1

Hanzo Shimada’s family was relentless and merciless. Raising him from birth to be nothing but a cold blooded business man with a way of weeding out the weak that didn’t fit his family’s standards. But what truly forced Hanzo’s hand was when his father passed and the council of elders demanded that he eradicate his own brother. He’d finally had enough and the pair ran, going in separate directions. And Hanzo’s direction lead him to the most desolate place where the clan would never look, Midwestern America to a town called Gibralter, Montana. He doesn’t expect much at first, but with a more than welcoming community and bright eyed, wide smiled Cowboy may make this more enjoyable than he once determined.

Words: 3,084

The night was quiet. A rare quiet that settled in all the right ways, the feeling that as if the Earth itself was asleep. The night air whispering to the trees through every breath of wind that rolled through a forgotten canyon that stretched till the visable horizon. The road that rested high up on one edge was ragged and rarely traversed, the asphalt losing all paint while plants sprouted through the cracks on the borders where a year of man-made work meets mother nature’s centuries of carving. Pine trees both stood tall and fallen, bushes grew in wild patches, and rocks lay resting and marked by moss and scratch marks made from fauna that passed through time to time. The sky was decorated with stars that glistened like crystals, the milky way visible clearly against the soot black sky. No clouds dared to obscure the view, all being swept away from the expanse to make room for the piece of art millennia in the making.

It was such an odd sight, Hanzo mused. Growing up in the nest of bright city lights where every star was muffled by the gleaming blaze of artificial light, that seeing even one constellation was to be considered lucky. But looking up from where he stood, pulled over on the side of a high roadway, leaned up against a Jeep that had seen far better days, just done relieving himself after hours of travel with only occasional breaks, Hanzo has a moment to muse the idea of that he may enjoy living out in here.

Driving through the golden California and Nevada deserts, the rich and untouched forests of Idaho, the foreign wildlife he got the pleasure of glimpsing while traversing Yellowstone National Park, all of it mixed into a picture that he had long misinterpreted for years. He was always taught that the Midwest of America was a festering mess of “Hicks” and nothing but either flat plains or forests holding dangerous animals and people. He was pleasantly surprised to see it was more than just that. Even if he held quite a few hints of doubt, in this moment he felt a small tinge of optimism start to expose itself for this new venture.

He took one last deep inhale of the fresh air, savoring it as if it is the last breathe he might take before he wondered back around to the drivers side of the filthy dark blue Jeep and reclaiming his seat behind a well familiarized drivers wheel. The small clock on the radio displayed 10:48 pm as a song that had been long paused scrolled across the bottom of the screen. He pulled his seat belt over his torso and then pulled back onto the abandoned road to make the last miles of his journey. The trees blurred into a smear of green as he drove through the vast canyon. His headlights illuminated the long path in front of him, his window down to keep the cool air ventilating through the cabin, and tired eyes all work to help him find his way to his new home.

The digital clock read 1:32 am in obnoxiously green letters as Hanzo pulled his car into the long, non existent muddied driveway that branched from a secluded dirt road. As the vehicle shuts down and the lights dim, Hanzo overlooks the small wooden cottage that almost blends into the foliage around it, vines of Ivy grafting up the left side of the building that held a brick chimney. He yawned as he grabbed the duffel bag that sat in the front seat next to him for the entire length of his journey, deciding to get the remainder of his things tomorrow afternoon when he wakes up. His feet carried his numb body and sore back to the porch while his hand rummaged through his parsel for the house keys that accompanied the bungalow. The wooden steps creaked under his weight as he reached the leaf and pine needle covered porch and he unlocked the front door to finally see the inside of his new living space.

It held only the bare essentials, but it was still somewhat cared for. A plain, black sofa with a few matching chairs seated around a dust covered mahogany coffee table and all sat in front of a long neglected fireplace with a mantle that only held one small potted succulent. A large bay window was just off to the left, the same wall as the door, and curtains drawn over them that fail to block out the moonlight that shone in. A kitchen towards the back that held only the essentials with nothing more than a fridge, sink and gas oven where a small island acted as the barrier to a dining table that only held two chairs.

Hanzo closed the door behind him as he headed through the living area, dropping his bag on the couch as he marched by. He trudged up the short staircase and into a large open room that held a queen sized bed whose frame was made of logs, two wooden nightstands, and a small dresser that sat at the foot of the bed. Hanzo didn’t have to direct his body to do what it did next. He rapidly kicked off his shoes and jeans, before pulling back the surprisingly comfy bed sheets and his body exhaustively crashing into the mattress, his hands barely managing to drag the blankets over him before he passed out, sleep engrossing him for the first time in his new environment.

The night passed by and faded to day, and as quickly sleep grips Hanzo, he’s pulled back into consciousness seemingly just as quick.

He groaned as he’s jostled awake, daylight streaming in through the one large window that was framed by half drawn, cyan curtains. But the sun wasn’t the only thing that awoke him. The faint sound of knocking on the door downstairs had somehow penetrated Hanzo’s deep slumber. It was occasional and without much rhythm, but still an obnoxious constant. He sat up in the bed, his back stiff and tense from the constant driving, cracking when he twists his torso to help relieve the aches in his bones. His hands messed with the tangled mass of black hair that needed to be washed into a tight but ragged bun as he slowly crept towards the window to catch a glimpse of any life.

Sure enough, there was a small white truck parked outside along his Jeep, but it’s owner couldn’t be seen from this angle. He attempted to wipe the last remnants of exhaustion from his face as he threw on the pants he had worn last night so that he was decent when he finally met this mysterious welcoming party. His feet almost stumbled down the stairs as he came to finally answer the door.

Facing him was a blonde haired woman who wore comfy looking outside wear, a maroon V-neck, open collar shirt and a pair of shorts, her hand hovering in the air as if she was about to knock once more. For a moment she looks surprised, caught off guard assuming that she wouldn’t get an answer. She gives Hanzo one quick glance before offering a sweet smile to the new comer.

“Good Afternoon!” she greeted in a chipper tone. Hanzo was caught off guard for a moment by his own sleeping in. He’d never once in his life slept past nine am.

“Sorry for disturbing you, truly. I just saw you come in last night and i had to see who bought this old cottage,” She said in a thick Swiss accent, her hand running over the wood frame of the door. “My name is Angela Ziegler, I run the clinic in town. It’s always a pleasure to see a new face in town,” she greeted, her other hand extending to shake the muscular man in front of her.

“Shimada, Hanzo. It’s a pleasure to meet you as well, Ms. Ziegler,” Hanzo replied as he shook the other’s hand out of courtesy. Her grip is like a bear trap, strong and surprisingly so. He hadn’t expected it from a woman with such a small frame. She almost sneered at him, but a smile still adorned her lips.

“Now, Mr. Shimada, I did not go to six years of Med school to simply be a ‘Miss’,” She said with a small chortle. “I’ll let it slide this once, but I hope to be called Doctor in the future, alright?” Hanzo smiles a small bit before nodding and retracting his hand that now made its home in his jean pocket. “Of course, Doctor Ziegler. It won’t happen again,” he apologizes.

The Doctor looked over the expanse of the house, taking a few steps back on the porch to view it all, Hanzo even stepping out to see if she had found something he hadn’t. She looked over the cottage with a gentle fondness, as if happy that it was being inhabited now.

“You better thank Satya for getting this house ready for you, i haven’t seen her work that hard since the new residential street went up in town,” she said, her hands on her hips. Hanzo had remembered that the house was going to be cleaned up for his arrival, after all, this residence hadn’t been lived in since the early part of the decade. Ms. Vaswani was the one that had sent him the keys in the first place. And beside the lack of decorations and the use of minimal furniture, Hanzo can’t deny that it was all neat and comfy in it’s own way. He made a mental note to send a thank you note or walk in to personally thank her when he was settled.

Hanzo’s shoulders sank for a moment at the thought of unpacking even the few things he had brought with him. He looked back at the Jeep that held his belongings, and almost shuddered at having to drag all his belongings inside and sorting through them seemed somehow worse. Angela’s gaze joined Hanzo’s, examining the Jeep and knowing exactly what he was dreading. Her hand’s clapped together to knock them both out the shared gaze, before she started to make her way off the porch.

“Well, Mr. Shimada, as much as i’d love to stay and help, I should really get back to my clinic. Have to be there in case someone gets mauled by a bear or something,” she chuckled out in a charming excuse to get herself out of helping him unpack. Hanzo rolled his eyes at her jokes as she made her way back to her truck. Her hand already pulling the door open and her foot lifting her on the step. But over the hood she could peer a hint of red just past the tree line that connected to the dirt road, and the sound of a roaring engine echoed through the small patch of forest.

Hanzo had to take a few more steps off his porch, but never stepping onto the jagged ground without shoes, cautious to not get anything caught in the joints in his prosthetic. He stands on the balls of his feet to try and catch a glimpse of this mysterious vehicle that carried with it a monstrous roar. Angela’s hand waved at something that was just out of his site, and almost in an instant, a red blur flashed just past his driveway. His eyes were too slow to comprehend any detail about what had just passed them, but the noise didn’t dissipate. In fact, it seemed to be coming back, and from the way Angela’s head turned to see where it went as well as her hand still waving, it was all evident that he may get a chance to fully see what had just flashed by.

The roaring finally revealed itself, belonging to a bright cardinal red motorcycle that gleamed in the bright afternoon sun. It had a logo that had been jaded by time painted in white on the side of the tank, but from where he stood, Hanzo couldn’t make out exactly what it said. But the bike wasn’t alone. Atop it was a tall, built man with dark skin and an obnoxiously red serepe around his shoulders. As the bike shut down he swung his leg over the bike so that he may stand at full stature. This man was full cowboy, chaps, jeans, boots with a dusty hat placed atop his head with brunette, neck length hair that was wind swept and tangled with a wild beard to miss.

“Jesse, you aren't supposed to make U-turns on these roads,” Angela scolds while hopping off the step of her truck. She walks over to him with her hands on her hips, but gets repaid with a warm chuckle.

“Couldn't help myself, Doc. I just had to see who bought this little ol’ cabin,” this curious visitor said with a voice laced with the most stereotypical country drawl that Hanzo had ever heard.

Angela’s hand motioned towards the porch where Hanzo was standing, and Jesse’s gaze met his in an instant. Even from yards away, he could see that the cowboys eyes were a dark, charmingly warm brown that seemed to introduce Jesse for him. The spurs on the heels of his boots jingled as he waltz forwards to formally meet Hanzo face to face.

“Jesse McCree, nice to meet ya,” He said with an extended steel hand. Hanzo responded by shaking it in a firm grip similar to Angela’s before him.

“Hanzo Shimada. A pleasure,” the stoic man greeted. His eyes shifted to the bike once more, just for a glimpse before they joined back with Jesse’s. “I hope you are courteous when you go about riding that,” He says in a deadpan tone. As rude as it may have come off, the taller man’s smile turned to a smirk.

“No need to worry, I only ride it when I want to piss people off,” he retorted, his metallic forearm tipping the brim of his hat up just a tad. Hanzo’s arms crossed and his weight shifted to one leg, making his shorter than he already was, a small shit eating grin on his face. Jesse let out a low chuckle that came from deep in his chest before looking back at the bike.

“Don’t fret, I only ride during the day, if that’s what you’re worried about,” He answered sincerely. “Won’t ever have to worry about me wakin’ you up from your beauty sleep,” he teased with a small chuckle.

The small doctor stepped in for a moment, her hands on her hips, and giving a reassuring smile to Hanzo.

“Mr. Shimada, I can guarantee if you need anything, Jesse is always happy to help,” she said in an almost suggestive tone. Hanzo knew what she was doing, hoping to force McCree to help unpack as she make her escape. Jesse side eyed her with one of his bushy eyebrows raised before peeking into the barren house through the door that was left open behind Hanzo. Angela nudged McCree’s arm with her own before speaking once more. “I’m sure he’d be glad to help you settle in, if you need it,” she coyly said as she took slow steps back.

They watched her as she made a poor attempt of being subtle before Hanzo finally asked formally. “Jesse, would you mind helping me unpack?” Jesse took off his hat and bowed in an exaggerated fashion just for Angela to see.

“Hanzo, it would be my unforced and own willed pleasure,” He answered a tone of regality and boisterousness. The pair shared a laugh as Angela quickly returned to her truck and fly the coop before she was put to work. Jesse stood straight and placed his hat back over the mess of hair on his head and looked back at Hanzo. “Love Angela, great gal. But good lord does she hate heavy lifting,” Jesse gossips a bit with his thumbs looping in the belt loops of his pants.

Hanzo rushes in for a few short moments to grab his shoes before he joins the cowboy again, who’s serepe was folded over the leather seat of the motorcycle so that he may work without having to fiddle with it. Hanzo opens the door to the back seat so that they may get to removing the surprising amount of parcels and boxes that had made the trek with Hanzo all the way here. Jesse stacked some boxes high and began to carry them towards the abode while Hanzo carried a few bags. It took multiple trips before everything was placed in or near the living room ready to be reopened and assorted.

“Thank you, Jesse,” Hanzo said appreciatively. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and fixed his hair from where it had fallen out of its tight ponytail. Jesse rested his hands on his hips as he overlooked their work. “You’re welcome, it’s what a neighbors for,” he reassured.

Hanzo turned his head back to look at the cowboy. “Neighbor?” he inquired.

“Well, sorta. Live quite a few miles down but yeah, neighbor,” McCree replied, his hand gesturing back towards the road and back from once he came almost an hour before. “I own the small ranch at the end of the road. You ever wanna come up, you’re more than welcome,” Jesse invited.

“I may once I’m comfortable,” Hanzo says, dreading the second half of this process. He lets a small groan of disdain leave his lips as he turns to Jesse to thank him one more time. Jesse tips his hat in a polite manner. “Godspeed, Hanzo Shimada. Godspeed,” he says as McCree finally takes his leave. Hanzo replaces his position in the door frame and waves the other off, the engine erupting to life once more and then following the dirt trail that he intended to travel earlier.

Hanzo closes the door once he could no longer see his neighbor or his incredibly loud coloured bike. His eyes dragged over the work that awaited him and he felt his muscles physically tense. He kicked off his shoes once more, walking towards a small room besides the staircase while taking off his shirt and pants.

Before he started, he desperately needed to do one thing he hadn’t done for far too many days.

Shower.

#mchanzo #mchanzo fanfiction #overwatch #jesse mccree #hanzo shimada #angela ziegler #my writing #slow burn #au #aka #an excuse to write about mccree and his motercycle

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corruptedtxt · 5 years

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so i’m writing/creating my own btd murderer character. i’m still fleshing out his details and story, but i wrote an introduction for him and mc? if anyone wants to give it a read or whatever. i’ll post the link but also post it here

link also posting below here in case the link doesnt work or something it looks better in the doc bc of the fonts and shit but yknow

Happenstance ( mc pov )

Vzzt. Vzzt. Vzzt. Vzzt―.

Hearing the ever familiar whirring, eyelids gradually opened, staring blankly at the white wall of their dorm room. Judging from how lit the room was, it could be surmised that it was already morning. Releasing a puff of air, eyes returned to their shut state, burrowing further into the case that sheathed the pillow embraced within their arms. It was far too early to be awake… Vzzt. Vzzt. Vzzt. Vzzt―.

Having forgot about the continuous vibrations, a grunt was released, shifting in bed as hands blindly attempted to find the source beneath the mass of sheets. Why was the phone unable to just stay in one place throughout the night? Vzzt. Vzzt. Vzzt. Vzzt―.

Annoyance further pressed, their body lurched upwards, haphazardly throwing the sheets back to expose the bed. No phone. Reaching towards their surplus of pillows, each one would be raised, searching for the damned phone. Still, no phone. What the hell?

Vzzt. Vzzt. Vzzt. Vzzt―.

Eyes slowly went towards the foot of the bed, arms sliding beneath the previously thrown sheets. After a moment of blindly swinging their arms around, the back of their hand finally hit a glass surface. Victorious, fingers clutched around the mobile device and yanked it free. How did this happen so frequently. Vibrating in their clutches, eyes stared at the now lit up screen, finger sliding across the screen to shut the alarm off. Once gone, only one thing remained: time. 9:45 AM.

❝ ―Fuck! I’m gonna be late! ❞

Flinging themselves out of bed, their usual morning routine would be cut in half. Throwing on a simple hoodie would have to do. After running a quick brush through their bed head and brushing their teeth, they returned to their work desk, tossing their school books in, all while attempting to stuff their feet inside their shoes. Laces be damned.

Slinging the book back over their shoulder, they briskly exited the dorm room. It was mid-winter, a brisk, cool wild hitting their face as they sped walked across campus. Did they look rather silly? Perhaps, but after being consistently late for this class twice this week already, it had been a personal goal to arrive on time―early, even. So much for that. College campuses were essentially set up to doom any and all late comers with how spacious they were.

Approaching the quad, a chilled hand reached within the pocket of their hoodie and pulled out their cell phone.

9:56 AM.

❝ Of course... ❞ An exasperated sigh pushed its way through their airway, eyes gazing towards the building which held the cafeteria. ...Well, if they were going to be late already, what was a few extra minutes? With how this day had started, a pick-me-up would surely be needed, and coffee was a tremendous ally. Changing course, they now had a new mission.

Pulling the door towards them, warm air melting the frigid layer that encompassed their skin. After observing that the length of the line wasn’t too horrid, they approached, standing in spot, waiting to approach the barista to place their order.

The wait hadn’t been too awful, and it was worth it, especially to feel the heat radiating off of the styrofoam cup, feeling the sensation seep into their fingers. It was almost to the point of burning them, but it was a comforting feeling. Swiftly turning around, their heart stopped momentarily, narrowly managing to dodge running into someone. That would have been bad―especially considering how scolding hot the coffee was. It could have seriously burnt this man. ❝ Shit, I’m sorry. I wasn’t paying attention. Are you okay? ❞ The tone seemed less than sincere, if only because no damage had actually been done. Not to mention, they were on a bit of a time crunch. There was no more time to waste, otherwise they would be extra late.

The aforementioned male’s―actually, would it be more appropriate to call him a giant?―aloof countenance ebbed away any true concern, the corners of his mouth raising slightly into the tell-tale signs of a smile. Was he trying to make them feel better, or was it for himself? It was hard to read, for some reason.

❝ I’m fine, no harm done. You should be more careful, next time. ❞

While his words seemed a bit condescending, his tone was anything but that. It was almost as if he held more concern for them rather than his own self. Almost as if the coffee would have spilled on him, he would still be the one apologizing for some reason. While tall, he also appeared lanky in stature, maintaining a rather poor posture. Hair longer than most, it also curled around the ends, bangs parted in such a way to cover the left part of his face. His whole appearance gave off a rather ‘edgy’ vibe, but he pulled it off fairly well. His appearance didn’t seem to match his seemingly quiet and tender personality. Granted these were all assumptions they were making of a stranger…

Wait, shit. They had a class to get to.

❝ Right, I will be. I have a class to get to, though. I’m super late. Sorry, again. Uh―later. ❞

Well, as lame as an exit as that was, there was no time to dwell on it. Turning away, they exited the cafeteria, once more continuing their rushed pace towards the art building. Why did they need an art credit, anyway? Well, it wasn’t like they had really chosen a major yet, so dipping their toes in every field was what the adviser had suggested, but…

Art was something you were born good at, right? Drawing something as simple as a stick figure came out completely awful for them. Oh well, it was just for a semester. Maybe the teacher would have pity on them…

Judging by the disapproving glare they received upon entering late for the third time this week, they highly doubted it. Attempting to be as quiet as possible, they tiptoed around portfolios and book bags, getting to their table and taking a seat. With the semester just starting, class mainly consisted of simple vocabulary terms and slight history regarding class assignments and projects that would be accomplished through the semester.

Paying attention proved to be difficult, especially as the classroom door opened once more, and a familiar face walked through. It was that guy―coffee guy. He was taking this art class, too? Why had they never noticed him before? He was sort of hard to miss. After a brief verbal disapproval from the teacher, and having him take his time to arrive at his table and seat, the lecture continued. However, most of it was tuned out, staring at the mysterious, edgy tall boy. Various questions swarmed their mind: What was his reason for taking the class? Had he known it was him at the cafeteria? Why did he not say anything?

Apparently they had been staring too hard, because suddenly their eyes were locked together. Breath caught momentarily in their throat, they felt like a deer caught in headlights. He was staring so intensely...was he just returning the gaze? Had they been staring that hard? Seemingly amused, he smirked, the back of his hand pressing against his cheek, head facing back forward towards the board, zoning back into the lecture.

With their gaze broken, their regular breathing returned, but their heart rate was another story. It was beating rather hard against their chest...from being caught in the act of staring, maybe? Damn, what if they looked like a freak? Maybe it was pretty freaky, though…

❝ ...and so you will need a partner for this assignment. To keep things fun, I’ve put the number of students in this class inside of a hat. Pass it around, and draw a number. I’ll put the number pairs up here on the projector. ❞

What? How lame was that? Not only did partner and group projects suck, but being partnered with a stranger was so awkward...though, maybe it would be a chance to make a new friend. That was something they were lacking thus far in the ‘college experience’. Once the black top hat finally arrived, they reached in, fishing around for a scrap of paper. Pulling it out, they slowly unfolded it, revealing a hastily written number: 13.

Glancing up at the projector, their eyes scanned for the paired number: 8. So, whoever had the number eight was their partner, right? Noticing that the pairs were already beginning to meet up, their eyes scanned to room for any loners, assuming that by the process of elimination, that would be their partner. Once more, their eyes locked with his―coffee guy. Did...that mean that they were partners? Seriously? Why was life so against them today?

Slowly pushing them self out of the chair, they maneuvered around the room, until they were standing directly in front of the nameless classmate. Once more, their lungs seemed to constrict, making breathing a tad difficult. What were they so nervous for? There was no reason. He was just a normal guy―a classmate.

❝ You have number eight, I’m guessing? ❞

Fetching the paper that was resting on top of his closed notebook, he held it up between his pointer and middle finger, showcasing the number.

❝ Yeah, I do. ❞

❝ It’s a pretty bizarre coincidence, wouldn’t you say? ❞

They let out a nervous laugh, eyes diverting elsewhere. God, way to be even more of a loser in front of the guy. However, he didn’t seem to mind. Rather, a smile twitched on his lips, chuckling lightly as blue-grey eyes gazing up towards my face.

❝ A coincidence, or fate? ❞

#btd;#btd oc;#writings;#maybe this is Bad but im kinda here for it

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dustbunny105 · 6 years

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Title: Five More Minutes Fandom: Transformers: More than Meets the Eye Ship: CDRW Word Count: 1166 Rating: PG13 Summary: Conjunx cuddling and xeno kisses. That’s it, that’s the fic. A/N: I’ve seen someone(s?) suggest Chromedome with a bug mouth and I think it’s a super cool idea. But I favor a more crab-like mouth for him, as I’m charmed by how neatly the parts would fold up under his faceplate. This is basically just an excuse for a) that and b) cuddle fluff. I did my best with the descriptions but if you need a visual reference, my primary inspiration was this video and I also consulted these documents. If I messed up any of the terminology, by all means, please do let me know! All that said and done, I enjoyed writing this and I hope someone out there enjoys reading it :D

ETA: Upon reflection, I’m pretty sure this was originally directly inspired by this art by @speedfreak01. So, thank you and sorry I cut back the weirdness a tad.

“Five more minutes,” Chromedome rumbled when Rewind his shifted his weight on his chassis, tightening one arm around him while the other hand stroked along the lines of his body.

“Just five?” Rewind asked, light with amusement. Not that he had planned on getting up anyway, but they’d been taking it in turns to say that since coming out of recharge an hour previous. Rewind again went over his mental to-do list, almost as if a reset button had been pressed, and still found nothing more important to do than cuddle with his conjunx.

He wriggled and tucked himself further under Chromedome’s arm, as had been his intention in the first place, giving his fingers more room to run across Chromedome’s chest over his spark chamber. The plating there rippled and flared under his touch; he walked his fingertips along the seams and skipped across the gaps, balancing on the edge of chaste. He chirred, pleased by the rumbling purr of Chromedome’s engine buzzing through his plating. It was almost but not quite enough to hide the scritching, clicking sound of a Chromedome-style smile hidden away beneath his ever-present faceplate.

Humming, optics still offline, Rewind traced a familiar path up Chromedome’s chest. Those gaps where the plating flared called out to him, invitations writ large by open air over sensitive components, and he was tempted to accept-- if only his fingers didn’t have somewhere to be. He took enough time out of his journey to stroke along the edges, to caress a wire or two, leaving a trail of promises in his wake.

Still, he remained steady on his way, following the sounds of that too-rare smile. He double-checked his camera settings as he tapped twice at Chromedome’s faceplate. Chromedome hesitated, as was his wont, and Rewind trilled a soothing note. He stroked the familiar seams and was gratified after a moment to feel them part to bare Chromedome’s mouthparts to the world.

Or, rather, just to Rewind.

Murmuring his appreciation, Rewind wiggled his fingertips in the scant space of the empty air, relishing it, before he stroked along the seams of Chromedome’s outermost maxillipeds; at rest, they were almost a second faceplate. The smile he’d come after had been hidden away by shyness, but Rewind searched it out by touch and drew it back to the open among a mass of shivers. He purred at the feeling of the slender flagella fluttering.

Even better was when all three sets of maxillipeds folded open, creaking from underuse as they stretched up around Rewind’s fingers. The thought of waiting until he reviewed his footage later to see this was suddenly the most unpleasant he could think of; he brought his optics online and focused just in time to watch the maxillipeds come to the apex of their stretch. The flagella were still shivering, looking almost delicate as they stretched away from the flat, wide expanse of the rest of the structure. The more segmented inner sets wiggled like the legs of some strange insect. Rewind hummed, awed by the sight as ever, as he watched them all fold back down, one set after the other, all stroking over his knuckles as they did.

Chromedome trailed a hand up and rested it lightly at the crook of Rewind’s elbow. At the same time, the external maxillipeds settled down over Rewind’s fingers like another embrace. It wasn’t nearly enough to hold him down but more than enough to hold him in place.

He shivered at the sensations, still so rare, but there was hardly any time to relish them before he was giggling, curling tighter into Chromedome’s side but careful that his hand away kept steady. The two inner sets of maxillipeds tickled his fingers with kisses. The fine rows of spines that lined them were mostly flattened down but still rippled, catching in his seams and tugging him deeper. His fingertips brushed the deeply set maxillae, more mesh than solid metal plating, and he outright snorted into Chromedome’s shoulder.

“Domey, hey,” he said, unable to sound even playfully stern. He flashed his visor up at Chromedome and triple-checked his camera at the look of him-- mischief and affection lighting up a visor too often dull and dour; mouthparts almost never exposed even to him, even in private, clamped shivering around his fingers.

“Yes, what?” Chromedome asked. The words took on an almost muffled quality with Rewind’s fingers there to distort their vibrations through the complex mouthparts. Or maybe it had more to do with the static that Chromedome was trying to hide.

Rewind shimmied out from under Chromedome’s arm and up his body, hand still a willing prisoner, to nuzzle at his neck and then up to his cheek in his own version of a kiss. He said, “You know what,” right where he knew the vibrations would hit a rarely-touched seam just right.

Sure enough, Chromedome gasped, every segment of his mouth twitching. Rewind wiggled his fingers, pressed lightly. The palps of Chromedome’s deep-hidden mandibles jumped under his touch. The spines there didn’t flatten out, like the others could, instead drawing shallow scratches into his plating. Chromedome gasped again, his grip on Rewind’s elbow and side tightening even as his mandibles parted, less an invitation than a suggestion.

It was a suggestion Rewind considered carefully and then set aside for further consideration at a later time. He knew exactly how he could turn up the heat in Chromedome’s field and he knew his own would meet it before long. But he was comfortable, too, with the warmth between and around them, and he could read Chromedome well enough to be sure he wouldn’t be disappointed.

Trilling, Rewind backtracked his fingers from the depths of Chromedome’s mouth, caressing this and that segment as he went, sometimes doubling back when he didn’t recognize this or that bend well enough. Chromedome kissed his fingers goodbye at every turn, sometimes catching them in place to flutter the rows of spines against them. His engine gave a short rev in response to every hiccup of laughter it earned him.

Once they’d parted, Chromedome’s maxillipeds flattened down like a door closing-- but he didn’t close his faceplate, not yet. Rewind showed his appreciation by caressing the maxillipeds, a thin coat of oral lubricant making the contact slick, and by continuing to nuzzle across the expanse. Chromedome’s flagella fluttered as he nuzzled back, a smile and a kiss all in one.

He wrapped both arms around Rewind, shifting him a bit, and pressed those smiling kisses down his neck to his shoulder and up again, slow and steady. He rested his forehead up against Rewind’s and then sighed, turning to glance at their new wall clock, a gift foisted upon them by Whirl, and then back.

Right, it was Rewind’s turn. Humming, he dutifully thought over his to-do list-- and Chromedome’s as far as he knew it, for good measure-- before snuggling down, nuzzling again against those still-exposed maxillipeds and declaring, “Five more minutes.”

#transformers #mtmte #chromedome #rewind #cdrw #my writing

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yaldev · 4 years

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The Fountain (II)

Decadin has never seen a geyser before, but now he’s become instantly fond of them. Dictionary descriptions never did them justice, nor did photographs. It would take seeing one in real life to fully capture the experience, and now he has the pleasure of seeing multiple in close proximity. The Fountain Geysers were first found by some of the earliest Asterian humans, but for the Ascendants' purposes they were discovered by the scout platoon which first ventured to the Northernmost section of the Flux Mountains. With the Wojpieran outlands under control for the time being, conditions were ripe for a new suppression tower to be planted, and Decadin was invited to make final inspections before the monument was activated. He spent five minutes on the routine details he’s checked for dozens of times already before giving his attention to the natural wonders just an upward hike away from the tower site. The holes in the rock burst every few minutes with a short jet of hot water and steam. He wonders why the geysers might do this, and holds a hand out to trace an invisible model in the air. It’s possible there’s a water elemental down there who shoots the substance from the holes in the rock, but that seems unlikely. Maybe there’s exposed magma further down which heats some of the water above to steam temperatures, and that steam rushes upward, carrying some of the water with it. Or maybe mana is the cause? He was never good with geology. The universe is easy to understand. The world, not so much. “Decadin.” He jumps slightly from the sudden voice, turning his neck to see Noof behind him, a silhouette lit up by the lights of the suppression tower behind him. Noof looks down for just a second. “Sorry,” he adds for no particular reason. “You want to activate the tower? Everything’s cleared for safety, power’s linked up, just needs someone to hit the button.” With the last few words he raises a hand toward the tower, then lets it fall back to his side with a muted clap against his leg. “No thanks, I’ve done that enough.” Decadin answers with a smile, recalling the last ceremony from a week and a half ago. Big crowd, everyone insisted he do it, and he couldn’t refuse. No such pressure in the starlit countryside. “You’re the construction manager here, you put all your organization into this wonder.” He turns his face back to the geysers. ”It’s your baby, not mine.” “Suit yourself, boss.” The construction manager shrugs before trudging back to the tower. Decadin has zero authority over Noof, and hadn’t spoken to him before today. He only remembers the guy’s name because of how weird it is. Wojpierans are a strange lot, but it’s hard to deny that they’ve gotten by despite those oddities and come out with a certain can-do character. Three of the geysers burst at once, each releasing a small plume into the air. Some falls back down to the earth, while some diffuses into the cool mountain air. Is it possible that magic is involved in this phenomenon? That the holes in the mountains exist because of ancient mana jetting up from the rock millions of years ago? Maybe new mana still manifests down there and tries to escape, but hits a large mass of subterranean water with enough force to send some flying upward, heating it in the process. After all, it’s quite possible for beam mana to move through rock without physical reaction but still collide with liquid water. Places like this are natural wonders of their own, ones which he never gave thought to while he was occupied with creating artificial ones. A familiar sensation grips Decadin’s head as the suppression tower powers up, giving off a hum too low to hear and a whine too high-pitched for the human ear to register. It catches the mana-repelling aura from a tower many miles away and duplicates it, a spherical barrier like permeable glass spreading out from the newest structure. Nausea wrenches Decadin’s stomach as the barrier extends over him, but the feeling vanishes as quickly as it appeared. He surveys the landscape and notices how the air changes color as trace amounts of mana are forced away from the world, depriving the scene of a slight red tint Decadin hadn’t even noticed until it was gone. He remains still as workers double check various aspects of the tower on Noof’s orders. From the distant discussion his ear picks out isolated words, lingo from his own field of specialty. Seven minutes pass, and the Fountain shows no signs of life.

Yaldev is a fantasy/sci-fi worldbuilding project based on Beeple art. Through a combination of narratives, in-universe documents and stylized loredumps, it reveals the story of a planet in magical pandemonium, the nation which rose to conquer it, this empire’s inevitable collapse and the new world which emerged in its wake. The project has major themes about perspective, imperialism, nationalism, nature’s wrath and the metaphysical battle of law against chaos. For all stories in chronological order, check out the pinned post on the subreddit at r/Yaldev, or this album on the Facebook page!

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peopleandrhythm · 7 years

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S2E4: Hell to the Righteous Ones

Vincent is bent over a work table tucked away in a crypt in the city of the dead. A yellowed map is stretched out before him, with grimoires keeping its edges from curling up. He’s using pebbles to mark various points over the streets of New Orleans, trying to find a pattern.

He’s pulled away from his work by a small knock on the heavy door to the crypt. He looks up in surprise. “Hope.”

“Hey.” Hope leans against the door frame, as if she doesn’t want to actually come inside. “You busy?”

Vincent gestures to the map. “Just trying to solve a vampire’s murder. Like you asked.”

“Yeah.” Hope gives an apologetic smile. “I realize that it’s not…it’s not your responsibility to answer for everything that happens in this city. I was just…”

“Freaked out?”

Hope shrugs. “Freaked out. Pissed off. Guilty. You know, I agreed to be…whatever I am because I thought I could make things better. But now a witch and a vampire are dead, and the wolves are stuck between here and the bayou, and…” She sighs. “This is harder than I thought it’d be.”

“Maybe we put too much on the shoulders of an eighteen-year-old.”

“My father would agree,” she says dryly. “But I can do this. I just…I just need time.”

Vincent gives a wry smile. “I don’t know how much time we can give you, kid. Seems like any day now things are gonna get real ugly.”

“Well, if you could get the witches to stand down, and if Marcel could keep the vampires in check, that would go a long way to keep things civil in the Quarter.”

With a laugh, Vincent says, “No promises.”

Hope rolls her eyes and turns to leave, but then stops and turns back. “So you really don’t know who killed that vampire in the alley?”

Vincent looks her right in the eye. “I really don’t know who killed him.”

Nodding, Hope says, “Okay,” and then leaves Vincent to his work.

There’s a place in the warehouse district, a couple of shipping containers welded together into an industrial nightclub that hosts almost nightly raves right out on the water. Freya walks through the wide open doors into an aurora of neon lights, pulsing to a techno beat spun by the DJ up on a raised platform. She makes her way through the mass of undulating bodies to the long, lit bar, where she finds Amaya, curvaceous in a skintight dress, with a drink in her hand. “Hi!” Freya shouts over the noise.

Amaya spins around, face alight. “Hey!” She jiggles her glass. “I’d’ve ordered you a bourbon, but I didn’t know if you wanted something different.”

“I’ll have what you’re having.” Freya hasn’t even seen what Amaya’s having, but that’s hardly the point. Amaya waves down one of the bartenders, and Freya calls, “You look…” She trails off, suddenly unsure.

“Yeah,” Amaya returns with a smirk. “You too.”

An old fashioned appears on the bar, and Freya picks it up. The women toast to each other and take long pulls. Then Amaya leans close and asks, “So how’d you sneak away from your giant family?”

Freya shrugs mischievously. “What they don’t know won’t hurt them.”

“That’s the spirit.” Amaya finishes the rest of her drink and slams the glass down onto the bartop. “C’mon.” She grabs Freya’s hand. “Let’s dance.”

Freya barely manages to knock her own drink back and abandon it beside Amaya’s before she’s being dragged onto the dance floor, the thrum of the bass shuddering in their ribcages.

There’s an open market in Jackson Square, and Hayley and Elijah are perusing the stalls, weaving between fruit vendors and artists peddling their wares from open trunks. They walk beside each other, Elijah’s hand on the small of her back, almost absentmindedly, like that’s just where it belongs. She picks up a pluot and shows it to him, and he shrugs, takes it, and places it in the canvas bag he’s carrying.

As they wait for the seller to be available so they can pay him, Elijah murmurs, “I’m surprised you agreed to come out with me.”

Hayley gives a half-smile. “Well, Hope told me that if I didn’t get out of the house, she was going to throw me out and put up a boundary spell so I can’t get back in.”

Elijah laughs. “You have been a little…close since Hope was injured.”

Digging through her wallet for cash, she says shortly, “Someone put an arrow through my daughter stomach’s in our own home, so if I’m a little hesitant to leave her alone—”

“No, no, I understand. But she’s also right in that too much time cooped up inside isn’t good for you. I’m just…glad you’re out and about.”

Once their produce is paid for, they make their way down the alley of stalls, scored by various fiddlers and bluegrass troupes tucked away between fortunetellers and men with rows of barbecued meat. Out of the corner of her eye, Hayley spots a table where a tiny old man is selling art supplies, and, eager to get something for Hope, steps to the side to inspect the materials. She accidentally bumps into someone, and immediately apologizes. “Sorry, I—Joel?”

The man she’d bumped into turns, and his face blooms with surprise. “Hayley?”

Hayley’s mouth opens and closes a few times as she searches for what to say next. “I didn’t expect to see you here. How are you?”

“I’m good, I’m good. Yeah I just moved to the city a few weeks ago. My sister’s a grad student at Tulane.” His eyes flick up as he notices Elijah for the first time. “Oh, hey.”

Hayley starts, like she’s just remembered Elijah is there. “Oh, Joel this is my…this is Elijah. Elijah, this is Joel. We met in…”

“Tennessee.”

“Tennessee. Right.”

Elijah sticks his hand out for Joel to shake. “Very nice to meet you.”

“You too.” Joel sticks his hands back into the pockets of his leather jacket, his collar turned up against the unseasonably cool breeze. “You getting some paints?”

“Yeah. They’re, um.” Hayley pauses. “They’re for my daughter.”

Joel freezes. “Your…daughter.”

Elijah gives Hayley a curious look, but she doesn’t acknowledge him. “Yeah. She’s a little annoyed with me at the moment, so I thought I’d bring her something. You know how teenagers are.”

When he hears teenagers, Joel’s shoulders relax, and the relief rolls off of him in waves. “I see.” He smiles. “Well I should get going. This zucchini isn’t going to bake itself.” His smile softens. “It was nice seeing you again.”

“You too.” And then she watches as he disappears into the crowd of shoppers. Hayley watches him until a voice interrupts her reverie. “Old friend?”

She turns abruptly to Elijah, who is watching her carefully. “Yeah. Old friend. I met him while on the hunt for the cure. Didn’t know him long.”

Elijah hums, and then presses into her back to ease them into the flow of foot traffic, in the opposite direction of Joel.

They’re invisible in the sea of bodies, a rippling canvas of glitter and body paint. Amaya pulls her close by the hips, and Freya’s arms drape naturally over her shoulders. The base is unreal, the tremors so violent in their chests it’s a wonder they don’t shatter into dust.

Amaya’s fingers trail softly up Freya’s spine, leaving a rash of gooseflesh in their wake. Freya tosses her head back, and Amaya presses her face into the exposed skin. Their bodies move as one, hips and shoulders and legs in line as they inch closer and closer.

Breath coming heavy, Freya says in her ear, “You feel amazing.”

“You look amazing,” Amaya replies, shouting over the music. “You smell amazing, too. What is that?”

“Sage and ginger.”

“What?”

Freya smiles. “Nothing.”

The beat never ends, even when the songs change. They dance through countless beat drops and key changes, the blood pulsing in their veins as they get impossibly closer, closer. Finally, when they’re four drinks in but drunk on each other’s touch, Amaya presses her lips to Freya’s ear and whispers, “Do you want to come back to my place?”

Pupils wide, Freya nods.

The door to Amaya’s bedroom bursts open and Freya stumbles through. Lips locked with Amaya’s, she reaches around to pull on the zipper of her dress, but after a few failed attempts, she spins her around. Face pressed into the crook of her neck, Freya slowly unzips the dress, revealing her smooth, warm skin inch by inch. When the zip reaches the small of her back, Amaya reaches up to slide the dress off. Suddenly, she’s in her lacy underwear and heels, and Freya just might be on fire.

Amaya turns again, a wicked grin on her face. She gently pressed Freya onto the bed, settling a leg on either side of her. She takes Freya’s face in her hands and kisses her hard. Freya places her own hands on the curve of her waist after Amaya reaches down to pull off Freya’s shirt in one deft tug. Her fingertips dance up the newly-exposed skin, sending shivers up Freya’s spine until her own fingers curl into Amaya’s skin and she’s pulling her down on top of her, tangling their limbs together.

Hope pads quietly past the kitchen, where she overhears voices from within. “It’s can’t be that hard to do it,” Rebekah insists, her high heels clacking sharply against the floor.

Hope can hear River’s heels thump against the cabinets as they swing, her fingers drumming against the countertop she’s sitting on. “To fry a chicken? Have you ever even held a chicken?”

“Excuse you, I grew up right around the corner from a slaughterhouse.”

“Yeah, a thousand years ago.”

Hope silently moves on, sneaking around until she’s at the entrance to the tunnels. Circumspect, she looks over both shoulders before slipping through the door and descending into the belly of New Orleans. The tunnels are just as winding as she remembers, and she takes countless turns, plunging in and out of darkness, with only her cell phone flashlight for assistance. She walks for what must be over a mile, backtracking when she takes a wrong turn, and coming to numerous dead ends, before finally she banks a right and is faced with a steep, rickety, wooden staircase. Huffing out a sigh of relief, she makes her way up. Every few steps, she has to snatch her foot up when the wood groans under her weight, worried she might fall through. But at last, she reaches a nondescript metal door, and pushes it open.

She stumbles into the lobby of a motel, its dappled gray carpet peeling up from the edges, water stains all along the baseboards. She passes the moldy couches and the front desk blanketed in a thick layer of dust and walks outside into the empty parking lot, lit only by the single blackletter L still working in the sign that reads London Lodge. She crosses the cracked pavement, head turning at a honking car as it blurs past, and stops at white door labelled 14. Her eyes flick down; the thick salt line is still intact, as is the circular sigil drawn in chicken blood on the door. She grabs the handle, bows her head, and, a few moments later, hears a click. Without knocking, Hope pushes the door open.

There’s a low creak as the door swings wide, and the motel room is shrouded in darkness. Hope stands just before the salt line, and peers into the black. “Hello?”

Silence. Almost a minute passes, and then, quietly, “Hope Mikaelson.” A face appears, half-lit by the flickering L. “Never expected you to come around here.”

Hope straightens herself. “I need your help, Theo.”

Freya wakes slowly, a wayward trumpeter crossing beneath Amaya’s bedroom window. She twists her head to see her, breathing slowly, fast asleep. She watches her, the way her chest moves, the spill of her dark hair over the white pillowcase, and very suddenly, it’s all too much. As gently as she can, Freya pulls the sheet back and lets her feet fall to the floor. She swipes her clothes up from the ground and climbs into them, hopping on one foot as she yanks on a boot. Once she’s dressed, she spies a yellow notepad on the desk crammed into a corner, and snatches it up, along with a pen. She begins, Amaya, and pauses. What do you say when you’re leaving in the middle of the night? She starts half a dozen different sentences, crossing each out when they sound progressively more awkward. Eventually she gives up, tearing off the top sheet of the notepad and shoving it into her pocket.

Instead, she pads to Amaya’s side and gently pulls the sheet up so it’s better covering her. Amaya shifts slightly, then lets out a low sigh. Freya bends down and presses a kiss to her forehead, before backing away and closing the door behind her.

Once in the small living room, Freya turns, and then freezes. She’s face-to-face with a man wearing a white t-shirt and gray sweatpants. They both start, each startled by the other. “Hi,” Freya whispers, hoping not to wake Amaya.

“Hi,” the man replies, eyes wide. He nods to the door behind her. “Friend of Amaya’s?”

“Yeah.” Freya’s head tilts to the side. “Are you?”

“Well, actually…” The man trails off as Freya’s eyes suddenly go very wide. She staring at the side of his neck, where she sees a long, curved scar—exactly like the one River mentioned while describing the person who shot Hope.

Theo’s flicked the lights of her motel room on, revealing its rundown, moldy interior, and now she’s seated on the bed, pose relaxed, as if she doesn’t have a care in the world. “Why on earth would I help you? You trapped me in this hellhole.” She huffs. “Can’t get out, can’t do magic, and there’re bedbugs.”

Still standing outside the door, Hope snaps, “You kidnapped both my girlfriend and her mother and tried to kill me for my powers. How exactly did you think you were going to get away with that?”

“Call me confident.”

“I prefer arrogant.”

“You would. You’re a Mikaelson.”

Hope runs her tongue over her teeth, willing herself to keep calm. “I understand why you’re angry with me. Why you’re angry with my entire family. But I was hoping that your desire to help New Orleans would…supersede that.”

“I thought I made it perfectly clear that I’m not interested in a peace that doesn’t involve the witches running the show.”

Hope leans against the doorframe, crossing her arms. “Well, you’ve certainly made it clear that you don’t understand the point of a peace.”

“And how is your peace going, Queen?” Theo pushes herself off of the bed and lopes forward. “I have a feeling that things aren’t quite as easy as Marcel and Vincent sold you on, are they?”

Hope’s eyes flick up. “No. They’re not.” She sighs. “A vampire killed a witch in…just, just a messy situation, and I sent him here.”

“Yeah I heard him. He still hollers up a storm sometimes.”

“Right. Well, then someone shot me—”

“Someone shot you?” Theo can’t keep the glee out of her voice. “Wow. I never considered playing dirty like that, but hey, to each their own.”

Unfazed, Hope continues, “The witches were understandably upset, and then a vampire ended up dead. Both sides are…about half an inch from declaring all-out war on the other, and I’m trapped in the middle…losing my mind.”

Theo’s brows knit together. “What do you mean?”

Hope gestures vaguely toward her head. “The voices. The ancestors. It takes all of my energy to keep those voices—all eight million of them—out of my head. They’re always talking, talking, talking.” She looks Theo in the eye. “I know you wanted this. The Advocacy. But you don’t. Trust me.”

Straightening her back, Theo insists, “You’re just not strong enough to handle it, I suppose.”

“I’m stronger than you, Theo,” Hope says with a roll of her eyes. “I’m a Mikaelson witch and the child of a vampire. If I can’t handle this, there’s no way in hell you could.”

“Then why did you stop by? To insult me?”

Hope takes a deep breath. “No. I just…what do you know? About the Advocacy? The New Orleans covens have never done something like this before, so you must have learned about it from somewhere. Did you know the risks, the way it drives the Advocate insane—”

“I knew the risk.” Theo shrugs. “I didn’t care. I wanted—” She cuts herself off.

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” Hope says. “You wanted the power.”

“Fine. I wanted the power. I wanted direct and unfettered access to the ancestors. I wanted to call the shots in this city.”

“Where did you get your information?”

A wicked smile spreads lazily across Theo’s face. “I’m not going to just give you the answers, Hope Mikaelson. Where’s the fun in that?”

“Fun? This is serious, Theo, people are dying, and I can’t help them if—”

“You can’t help them period. You have no idea what you’re doing. God, you Mikaelsons are all so arrogant. You think you can come into this city, with centuries of history that you couldn’t even begin to imagine, and know all the right things to do, all the right things to say?” Theo scoffs. “This is the reality you signed up for, Queen. Time to face the music.”

Hope swallows, eyes unblinking, as the truth of Theo’s words sink in. Despite the pounding in her head, one thought rings clear: I’m screwed.

Before Freya can even open her mouth, the man marches to the front door of the apartment, wrenches it open, and points to the hall, a clear indicator for Freya to come outside. Hesitant, she glances back at Amaya’s bedroom door, and then acquiesces. She glares at the man as she passes him. Once they’re both in the hallway, he closes the door, and she lights into him. “You son of a bitch—”

The man watches her hand twist, clearly about to start a spell, and he says, “Whoa, whoa, are you really going to kill me while my sister’s asleep inside?”

Freya freezes. “Your sister?”

He nods. “I’m Amaya’s brother, Joel. She doesn’t know.”

“Doesn’t know?”

“What I am.”

Freya’s eyebrows shoot up. “Someone who shoots teenage girls?”

His eyes narrow. “A vampire hunter.”

“Nice hunting,” she snarls. “You nearly murdered my niece.”

“I didn’t—I didn’t know!” He takes a deep breath, and says more quietly, “I didn’t know she wasn’t a vampire. I thought everyone who lived in there was.”

“Well she wasn’t, and she could have died.”

“And I’m sorry for that, but it’s my job to kill vampires, and when I found out a nest of them lived in the old mansion in the Quarter, I didn’t ask any questions.”

Freya tilts her head. “You’re…not from New Orleans, are you?”

He shakes his head. “We just got to town. Amaya was starting school, and since New Orleans is a hotbed of vampire activity, I figured…”

“You figured you’d come and wipe out a population of people trying to live their lives. Yeah, I got that.”

He grits his teeth. “Look, I’m sorry about your niece, okay, I just—”

“It’s not just my niece!” Freya interjects. “It’s my entire family, you put all of them in danger—”

“Oh, I know all about putting family in danger,” he scoffs. “Vampires wiped my family out.”

Freya goes very still. “What?”

“Bet Amaya never told you that. Well how could she? She has no idea.”

Confused, Freya asks, “How…?”

Joel looks down. “Told her it was a house fire. I was eighteen, she was twelve. Off at sleepaway camp. I came home from a friend’s to find our parents, our abuela, and our brother Adrian dead. Blood drained out of them.” Freya looks away, eyes shiny. “That’s when a band of vampire hunters showed up.” That piques Freya’s attention. “They assessed the situation and burned the house to cover it up. Since then, it’s been me and ‘Maya, and on the side, I’ve been hunting vampires.”

Freya takes a long while to answer. “I’m sorry for what happened to you. To Amaya. But that doesn’t change the fact that you came into my home and almost killed my eighteen-year-old niece. Not to mention…” Realization dawns over her face. “It’s been you the whole time. You shot Hope, set off the witches, and then…you killed the vampire in the alley.”

He shrugs. “So what?”

Glowering, Freya hisses, “You need to stop this crusade, now. You’re going to set a bomb off in this city. There will be war in the streets, people will die—”

Joel throws up his hands. “I’m here to take care of my sister and to kill vampires. That’s what I do.”

Freya’s hands curl into fists. “Not if I stop you.” She lifts a hand, fingers twisting upward, but Joel takes a step back and holds a hand out in caution. “You don’t want to do this.”

“You’re a threat to my family. I don’t have a choice.”

“And I’m all the family ‘Maya has left.” Freya swallows thickly. “Are you really going to take her brother from her?”

Freya’s hand remains raised, but her eyes are brimming. She knows what it means to be alone, truly alone, to have your family stolen from you by unknown forces in the night. She knows it’s her responsibility to protect her family—she’s the big sister, she’s the one who makes the hard choices, the sacrifices no one else should have to make. But when Amaya looks at her…for the first time in a thousand years, she feels seen. She’s not Freya Mikaelson, ageless witch of the most brutal undead family in history, but a woman, a person with wishes and feelings and a life outside of her wayward siblings.

She swallows thickly. “Don’t use her like that.”

“But it’s true. Listen, if I swear to you that I will never go near another member of your family, will you let me live with ‘Maya in peace?”

No, Freya’s better judgement cautions, but despite herself, she nods. Still, she warns, “If you come for them…” Her eyes flash. “…even Amaya won’t recognize your body.” Then she turns and stalks off, desperate to be anywhere else.

It’s late by the time Hope sneaks back into the compound. She hears voices from the courtyard, so she ducks behind pillars so that it appears she’s entering from the kitchen. As she approaches her family, she clocks that her mother is standing unusually far from Elijah, who’s on a stone bench with a glass of bourbon in his hands. Her father paces in front of the fountain. “Some great threat from outside the city,” he growls. “As if this city weren’t crawling with enough threats of its own.”

“Leave it to our mother to be as nonspecific as possible,” Elijah says, sipping his drink.

“I don’t believe this isn’t a trick,” Klaus blusters. “How are we to know that Esther isn’t concocting another grand scheme to kill us all? It wouldn’t be a stretch.”

“I thought she found peace.” Hayley’s voice is quiet. “When she died…I thought she found peace with Dahlia.” She looks back and forth between the two men. “If she’s back, is Dahlia? What if she comes back for—”

Elijah clears his throat, and suddenly all three of them are staring directly at Hope. Her eyes go wide. “Uh. Hi.”

“Hope.” Klaus goes quiet. “What are you doing?”

She jerks a thumb over her shoulder. “I was gonna get something to eat, heard the powwow. Still trying to figure out Esther’s warning?”

“We need more information,” Elijah insists. “Her vagueness is going to get someone killed.”

“Ask…” All heads turn toward the entrance, where an unexpected figure stands with a familiar smirk. “…and ye shall receive.”

“Uncle Kol?” Hope’s jaw slackens. “What’re you doing here?”

Kol lets his backpack slip off of his shoulder and onto the stone floor with a thwack. “I come bearing gifts. Well. I come bearing information.”

Elijah stands up. “Information about what, exactly?”

“Well, I don’t know what’s going on with Esther. That’s a mystery I’d prefer to stay far away from. I’ve spent the past few months trekking across half of the eastern hemisphere trying to find another coven of witches that practices ancestral magic.” That piques Hope’s interest even further. “And after all my efforts, I finally have answers.”

“Answers about what, Kol?” Klaus asks impatiently.

“The Advocacy. And how it’s going to kill our littlest Mikaelson.”

And slowly, very slowly, all heads turn once more to stare at Hope, who stares back, wide-eyed and pale.

#the originals #originals #tvd #tvd fic #originals fic #people and rhythm #pr 2x04

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