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pedgito · 3 months

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MILLER'S GIRL ✎ SERIES MASTERLIST

Chapter Four: Under Your Skin

Chapter Summary: An implosion that changes everything, leaving results devastating but unseen. [5k]

[student/teacher relationship, age gap, no outbreak, power dynamic]

Chapter Warnings: fem!reader, professor!joel miller, inappropriate behavior, reader is delusional lol, background tess/joel (mentions of infidelity), technical infidelity on joel's behalf, unprotected piv, f!oral, angry sex, lack of aftercare, belt as restraints, inappropriate use of a tie & desk, semi-public sex (sorta), angst at the end i'm sorry.

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There’s a deep ache in your body and between your legs as you toss in bed that morning, rousing from a less than relaxing sleep, the faint smell of Joel still lingering on the clothes you fell asleep in, not bothering to change. Licking at chapped lips he’d kissed you so feverishly the night before, you recollect the night in flashes, rubbing sleep from your eyes and feeling riddled with anxiety.

You reach for your phone blindly, stuffed under your covers as you scroll through your phone, expecting some type of change—an updated grade, a note or two on your follow-up essay. But, there’s nothing. The big, glaring fucking zero staring you back in the face. And for a moment, you feel guilty. You wonder just how badly you screwed things up by doubling down and approaching him so boldly in his office. In his space.

You threatened him and he attacked. Not you.

You never intended for things to unfold the way they did, but you wanted to get your feelings across clearly, even if that meant getting under his skin.

Joel. Not Mr. Miller.

Those were two entirely different entities now.

You take your morning slow, enjoying the relaxation of the weekend and taking your time—researching and looking into things you definitely should not be. First, it’s his name.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t bring up much. His job history was fairly public, no local or national awards, nothing note-worthy and only a few small non-fiction pieces to his name, though you knew there were more—there had to be. With his taste in poetry and fiction you expected something, but came up with nothing. He’s so inexplicably boring to the naked eye and maybe that’s what he wanted. He wanted to blend and disappear.

Curiously, you do more digging on his wife. Who—yeah, it was definitely his wife. A few links later and you stumble upon the marriage certificate, nearly ten years strong. No kids, either.

It was impressive, more than what a lot of people could be prideful about. But Joel, he wasn’t prideful about Tess. He was secretive, dismissive, and shot a look of disgust at his phone every time he received a text, whether purposefully or not.

You find that she works at a law firm, relatively small and headed by two partners. One significantly older than the other—father and son? You squint slightly, searching through the website carefully but not coming up with much. She was a lawyer, that much was obvious.

Still, it didn’t explain the rift.

What happened?

You try and struggle to find anything rational or tangible, feeling like you might drive yourself insane trying to find out and you spend most of the weekend trudging through the obscurity of things you could find online, very little compared to what you could find out by just asking him.

There’s a tinge of dread in attending class that Monday knowing that no matter how hard you tried, Mr. Miller would never see you the same. He wouldn’t treat you as he had, pedestaling you up above the rest and, though he’d never admit openly, admiring you.

But, god, it ails you. Sickens your mind and keeps you from focusing on anything else.

You needed more answers, more clarification. But, more importantly, you still needed him.

That deep, gnawing feeling of desire in your gut had only grown stronger since your encounter in his office and you feared—knew, it would only worsen as time went on.

Joel knew that night that he needed to follow through on his plans.

His lack of trust in Tess, his instability in his life now, and how he couldn’t get you out of his head. The three were a volatile mix and he knew if he didn’t start somewhere that things would quickly grow out of control.

He makes the call to his lawyer the following morning, hungover and tired. Nursing a headache in his open palm as he conversed quietly over the phone. Tess was home, far off and distant in another room but he can hear her shifting around, moving about, and he feels like he’s betraying her. He doesn’t know why he’s filled with guilt and shame—maybe that was partly because of you, his willingness to cross that line for just a moment and kiss you.

It was a momentary slip, his want clouding out his sense of rationality.

You were conniving and manipulative, using his own selfish thoughts against him, his eagerness to aid you in your progress but also allowed a level of vulnerability between you both. Joel should’ve known, he should’ve seen it in the way you looked at him.

It was admiration and obsession and he fed into it.

It was something he never had, not even with Tess.

He loved her, sure. Cared about her, absolutely. But the physical connection—sexual or not, had never truly been there. And Joel figures that was why she did what she did, despite how badly it hurt him. He felt at fault for a while, like he had caused it.

Maybe he did—but he would never have betrayed Tess like she did so easily, even if she swore it meant nothing at the time. Late nights for her were fickle, but they still happened. And that’s when Joel allowed the doubt to seep in and eat away.

But, he just couldn’t do it anymore. He felt like an intruder in his own home.

Tess would be served the papers on Monday evening and Joel would face the wrath when he arrived home, but there was still time. Time to prepare and settle, commit through his day and do his job, even if you lingered in his peripheral as class went on.

Your lack of reaction and response to his unchangingness of your grade gives him a false sign of relief—had you finally moved on from the idea? Joel was clueless to how preoccupied you actually were, chewing on the end of a pen as you sifted through tabs as he droned on at the front of class. Discussion days were always long and dreadful, and as most of the class was discussing the troubled assignment Mr. Miller had given you the week prior, your silence was…required. He avoided you like the plague and you were thankful, to some degree.

Still filled with frustration and simmering rage, you can’t ignore how despite everything—Joel still glances your way. And where his looks before were restrained, subtle and less driven…these were not. Like he was replaying the events in his head every time he looked at you, wondering if he’d tossed your panties out or kept them, if he still tasted you on his lips—at this point, fucking you was the least he could do.

And you know it’s in poor taste, but you approach him at the end of class with a revered look on things—hopeful, even. Apologize, fix your grade, and move on like things never happened.

He straightens a stack of files on his desk as you approach, jaw tense as he swallows and his gaze follows the last few lingering students as you neared on him, like prey. But, your face softens when he looks at you and whatever retort he has on standby dissipates for the moment.

“Um,” You start, unsure of how he would react, “I—can we talk?”

“I don’t think that’s the best idea,” Joel offers logically, “not…now.”

End of day, he thinks. In his office. Privacy. Secrecy. He didn’t feel like airing things out in the middle of the day, not with his divorce on the forefront of his mind.

“I just…I wanted to apologize.” You tell him quietly, “For everything.”

Was it genuine? Not really.

“I can’t change your grade,” He admits, “I’m not going to and it’s beyond the deadline for that assignment.”

You breath sharply through your nostrils and intertwine your fingers in front of you—Joel can see from the way your grip tightens that you’re holding back and nothing has changed.

Unstable and volatile, you both stared at each other for too long, an eerie silence settling.

“That’s—”

He interrupts without much care, “Unfair? Unethical? Don’t start with this. Not now.”

He doesn’t have any leverage here either, but you quiet down under his gaze slightly.

You begin to speak again, but he holds up a careful finger. Like scolding a child for their actions and you bite back a venomous retort as he talks over you, “Meet me in my office at six. Fifteen minutes. That’s all you get.”

He’s on edge, jaw flexing around a tense swallow that feels impossible to get down. He turns back to his desk, ignoring you and ultimately ending whatever conversation you were hoping to have.

He wants you to wait and despite your stubbornness to address the situation now, you settle with his words and nod, a quiet “Okay.” in response.

“Don’t be late.” He stresses, eyes flicking up towards you briefly.

Your insides twist ominously in anticipation, but you feel yourself throbbing with need.

“Yes,” You respond, “Of course, Mr. Miller.”

There’s an urge for praise that Joel bites back.

Joel is already opening the door as your footsteps approach later that day, anticipating your arrival and eyes glancing over your figure in the darkened lights of the classroom, the warm glow of his office blanketing you both as he welcomes you in with a gesture, moving out of your way slightly and closing the door to his office as you trailed toward his desk, lingering quietly.

“You can sit.” He directs, thumbs digging into the waistband of his slacks as he adjusts them slightly, the uncomfortable press of his belt pressing into his stomach. Normally he’d undress a little, relax, but he couldn’t allow that. Not with how anxious he felt, knowing what he faced at home, sure that the divorce papers had already been delivered to Tess.

He’s tried to ignore it—and he doesn’t know why he’s worried, but her refusal to cooperate is always an option and that isn’t something Joel thinks he can handle calmly.

“Okay,” You listen, taking a seat in one of the two leather chairs placed in front of his desk, watching as he leaned against the edge of his desk a few inches away, hands clasped in his lap as he looked down, unsure of how to begin, or where, “Um, I can—”

“You need to understand something,” Joel begins suddenly, interrupting you again—it really, really fucking bothered you. He did it on purpose, as a way to assert himself over you, and you felt it in the way he looked at you, down and scrutinizing, “this—whatever this is, or was—it’s inappropriate.”

As if he had a proper moral compass to explain his actions.

“I don’t need a lesson in appropriate behavior,” You counter, “if that’s what you’re leading into.”

“No—”

It’s your turn to interrupt, sitting up straighter in your chair.

“And truthfully, it’s a little unprofessional of you to continue to fail me after I did the make-up assignment.” You respond, a tinge of condescension in your tone, “and you kissed me, if I remember correctly. So—if this is because you’re upset, then I’m allowed to be too. I want a fair grade. Not what you’re punishing me with now because you—for whatever fucking reason, can’t get passed the idea that you had those thoughts too, but can’t accept it.”

“I’m not punishing you.” Joel responds lamely and you squint your eyes slightly as you look at him before huffing out a breath of defeat, chuckling softly under your breath.

“You know—we talked for weeks. Back and forth. And you reached out to me first. So, if you want to deny that then let’s talk about you abusing your power and holding it over my head now after all of that. Genuine talks. You had to care, to some degree.”

“You’re not the first student I’ve talked to outside of class—”

You roll your eyes, feeling the conversation stalling out quickly.

“Do you still have them?” You ask curiously.

Joel doesn’t need to be told. He knows what you’re referring to.

And the guilt on his face as he looks away briefly, tongue pressing into his cheek as he glances at his watch, avoiding your question.

“Am I out of time already?” You ask patronizingly, leaning over in the chair slightly as you struggle to meet his gaze, his eyes pointed elsewhere. “Tight schedule today?”

“What are you expecting out of this?” Joel asks, arms crossing over his chest, biceps stretching under the dark button-up, licking at his bottom lip anxiously. “Are you that fucking stubborn that you think this is somehow going to work in your favor?”

Your face twitches in frustration and you cock your head slightly, rising from the chair and into his space, close enough that you can smell the faint waft of his cologne, looking him over slowly as his eyes fall on you.

“Where are they?” You ask curiously, squeezing yourself between the small space, thighs rubbing against his own as you walk around him, trailing by his desk. “Here?” You point toward the stack of closed drawers nestled in the wood and Joel glances over his shoulder, quick to move as he pushes you away gently, palm flat against your chest.

“The fuck are you doing?” He asks, “You came here to talk. So talk.”

You click your tongue against the roof of your mouth and test your limits once more, “Oh, so they are in there? Kept them for yourself? You know, this whole moral high ground thing is really fucking annoying, Joel.”

He speaks your name as a warning, but it only makes you feel more at ease.

“What?” You ask innocently, “Do you have somewhere to be?”

Joel chews at his bottom lip and removes his hand from the center of your chest, feeling it sting like a hot brand as his fingers curl around the edge of his desk, feeling oddly small as your eyes track him and watch like he’s some type of prey, a devilish smile pulling at your lips.

He made a mistake underestimating you—or even allowing you back into his office. He was screwed.

“Stop.” He warns, watching as you sucked your bottom lip between your teeth and reach behind him quickly, yanking at the drawer but he draws your hand up, tight in his grip and forcing you against his chest, your unrestrained hand falling against the desk to catch yourself.

“What’s going on?” You ask softly, feigning genuine emotion. The crease between his brow growing deeper—you’ve spent enough time with him to know when something is bothering him, someone, and it’s written all over his face. “Come on, I won’t say anything.”

“It’s not your business.” Joel offers lamely, feeling you create a small amount of distance as you push away, your wrist still held firmly in his grip, but lower by his waist.

“Is it her?” You ask carefully, “It’s her, isn’t it?”

Another breath of your name—stop here, stop now.

“Did you tell her?” You ask suddenly, eyes widening. “God, are you really that much of a —”

“No, fuck—” He interrupts, “I’m—not that it’s any of your goddamn business, I served her divorce papers today.”

“Oh…” It wasn’t what you expected, not by a longshot. “Was that—is that because of—”

“No,” His eyebrows quirk up slightly, amused that you thought you were the cause of his marriage's untimely dismantlement, “not at all, actually.”

He doesn’t know why it feels like a weight lifting on his chest, but talking about it with you feels…less imposing than he expected. And your eyes soften slightly at the mention, still beckoning something dark but he can see the genuine reaction that flashes momentarily.

He loosens his grip but doesn’t quite let go, thumb rubbing over the vein of your wrist.

Joel doesn’t understand why he can’t just let go, like he’s weirdly tethered to you.

“Do you…want to talk about it?” You ask, feeling the need to reassure some comfort.

You didn’t really care, but he seemed so pathetically sad. It spilled over and flooded into you, that small tug at your heart. It quickly fades, his mouth opening to speak.

“Not really.” He doesn’t feel the need to bother, glancing at his watch briefly again.

The minutes were ticking down and he knew you were overstaying your welcome—and he was allowing it. But, you here—it feels good.

“I can’t change your grade,” He reiterates again, “but if you promise to not do something like that again—I can offer some extra credit, something to help make up for it.”

And ultimately teach you a lesson and punish you in the process. Did you really have a choice?

“Extra credit,” You stress, saying slowly as you consider the word, the implication—you don’t think he means it in a nefarious way, it just feels ridiculous, “seriously?”

Joel nods, “Consider it a…lesson learned.”

A small laugh bubbles from your chest but you ignore it, staring down at his touch and speaking.

“You know—I did appreciate the recommendations you made,” You admit, “if that counts for anything.

Joel stares at you, despite your preoccupied gaze, speaking directly.

“I wasn’t lying when I said I care about that,” Joel says, “I give recommendations to students all the time. But, you seemed more interested so–I gave you more.”

“Right,” You say with finality, “and all those nights at the coffee shop?”

“I’m there quite a bit anyways,” He admits, only a half-truth, “you’re not the first student I’ve had meetings with outside of class.”

He’s trying to reiterate to himself that his actions are justified, but his body is saying otherwise.

“Mr. Miller,” You start softly, “can I ask you one more question?”

Silent, he nods again.

“Why are you still touching me?”

And he doesn’t know why, but something in him snaps. The quickening of your pulse under his fingertips, your eyes finally flicking up to him. He does have your panties tucked away in his desk, he doesn’t meet with students outside of his class like that, and he can try and convince himself all he wants, but him reaching out to you was a personal, selfish decision that had nothing to do with anything but his own curiosity. He sees the subtle catch of your breath and doesn’t stop you when he sees you moving closer, quick and determined.

Fuck his time limit, you think.

If he wanted you to leave he would’ve forced you out by now.

Your lips are soft but forceful, pressing against his with fervor as you slip your wrist from his grip and bury your fingers into his shortened curls, trimmed down at the base of his neck but there’s still just enough to tug, swallowing down his soft grunt as you pull and bite as at his bottom lip.

Joel has the thought to stop you, but he can’t.

He feels guilty, appreciating the touch that he’s lacked for so long. But, there’s a creeping sensation of frustration that fills him, vexed with you. And it snaps, completely.

His hands finally touch you, releasing a breath into his mouth you didn’t realize you were holding. One hand cradling the back of your head, the other wrapped firmly around your neck. Just a solid weight that he uses as leverage when you get too eager, nipping at his lip.

Joel moves you easily, silently as he turns and presses you against his desk, mumbling a soft “Up.” as he aids in the lift of your thighs, taking a seat on his desk as it shakes with the movement and he slots himself between your open legs and kisses you fuller, selfishly.

He’s eager to slip his tongue into your mouth once more, like beforem and you welcome it with ease. Giggling into his open mouth as he squeezes at your throat, the sound breaking his focus.

“So, is this the extra credit?” You speak against his lips, a soft puff of his breath over your face as he keeps his eyes closed, face pressed against yours. “Because I think my fifteen minutes is up.”

Joel can’t do conversation right now, the noise grating in his ears as he blindly reaches for his tie and loosens it, yanking it away from his neck and balling up the material, his eyebrows shooting up slightly in response as he catches your gaze, momentarily confused until you quickly catch on.

Oh, he wants you to shut up. Noted.

He’s guiding the fabric to your mouth before you can properly speak and that’s what he wants, stuffing it between your teeth and forcing you to bite down, his eyes darkened as he squeezes your cheeks between his fingers, shifting a hand under the hem of your dress where it tickles your thighs and you legs widen instinctively, even more. There’s an obvious absence of fabric that Joel notes as his fingers dig into your hips, your eyes brightening at his realization.

And that’s how Joel knows—you never came here to talk. You always had some underlying intention or reason and it drove him insane, but he was a raging hypocrite, wanting it just as selfishly. His fingers drag over your pussy with intention, gliding through your slick and pressing a single digit inside of you with little resistance and you gasp, muffled by the fabric.

“You didn’t come here to talk,” Joel surmises, though it was obvious from the start, “did you?”

You shake your head weakly, eyes squeezing shut as he pumps his fingers and quickly adds another, hand flying to his wrist as he quirks his fingers inside of you and hits a spot that has your stomach coiling in anticipation.

“What do you want?” He asks hotly, hand squeezing at the base of your neck while he uses his other hand to rub messy, slow circles over your clit. Your hands reach for his belt without question, palm flattening over his cock that was held tightly behind the stiff material of his slacks. “Yeah?” He questions, the subtle squeeze of your hand against his shaft in response.

And part of you really doesn’t think he has it in him to go through with it, but then he’s pulling his hand away from you to manipulate and manhandle, yanking you off the desk sloppily and pressing your front against the edge, fumbling with his belt behind you and pulling it off in a sharp snap, hand flattening against your back as he presses you down.

“Give me your hands.” He tells you, a soft whine of protest coming from your mouth, but then he’s pulling himself from his briefs, cock in hand as he tugs at himself slowly and glides along the center of your pussy, dragging through the wetness. “You want me to fuck you, right? Give me your hands.”

You had control on just about every aspect of his mind—he needed this, the physicality stripped from you.

You oblige silently, face resting against the cold wood as you offered up your hands and allowed him to constrain them tight and snug—he does it with ease. Practice and perfected and he uses it as leverage to pull you back toward him, “So, we have a caveat here. No condom.”

You nod deftly, eyes closing as he tightens his grip and ultimately squeezes the belt even tighter.

“But, something tells me you don’t care—” A shake of your head in response, “—don’t tell me you’re that fucking naive.”

You shrug lamely, wiggling your ass in an effort to move closer, eyebrow furrowing as he moves his hips away slightly. You growl in frustration and spit out the tie, “Fuck you, I’m on birth control. Do you really think I’m that irresponsible?”

His lack of answer is enough of one and he stuffs the fabric back into your mouth with a grimace, “Given your behavior, yes.” He fists himself tightly and slips inside of you with ease, a snug fit but you mold around him perfectly.

And it shouldn’t feel right, but it does. Joel breathes a soft breath of relief as he uses his free hand to fist into the fabric of your dress and use it as a perfect leverage to fuck into you with fervor, disregarding of your own pleasure for the time being—though the angle and the intensity of your thrust doesn’t have you far off, snapping his hips with a furiosity that strikes something inside of you with each harsh movement.

He’s huffing behind clenched teeth, a low growl emitting from his chest as he feels you tighten around him instinctively, sobbing brokenly around the fabric in your mouth, eventually allowing it to slip as you feel his grip shift, pulling you upright by your dress and pressing you back against his chest.

“Why the—sudden change of heart?” You tease, an underlying suspicion in your mind that you don’t speak aloud. He wanted a distraction and you were proving to be a great one. His hips slow suddenly, almost like he’s contemplating a response.

He huffs out a bitter laugh, snapping his hips sharply and forcing a gasp from your chest.

“Do you ever shut up?” He asks, “If I knew you’d be this annoying I would’ve just shoved my dick in your mouth—maybe that would do you some good. You’d like that, huh?”

You giggle softly but it falls off into a broken moan as Joel buries his face into your neck, biting roughly at your skin as he feels himself reaching his peak, knowing it’s been far too long for him—years of lacking sex that quickly divulged into nothing. “I think you would like that, Joel.”

You’re waiting for a chastise that never comes, knowing he hates when his name falls from your tongue—he makes a muffled sound as he loosens the belt with fluid, practiced fingers and discards it to the floor, relieving the growing ache in your shoulders as he crosses an arm over your chest, palm flat against it to hold you in place as he snaps his hips once, twice, before his other hand is digging into the flesh of your own hip as he comes, deep inside of you and with a muffled grunt, teeth leaving a faint impression in your skin—and you’re only slightly disappointed in his lack of attention in making you come, but then he’s pulling out and spinning you around, hands coming up under your thighs to spread you out over his desk, silently pressing for you to lean back, dropping to his knees with his pants pooling low on his thighs. Too impatient to redress fully.

You gasp when he dips a finger inside of you, catching the slow spend that slips out, stuffing it back in as he presses his tongue over your clit and groaning at how you clench tightly around his fingers, spasming at the pressure.

“Quiet,” He warns, “put the fucking tie back in your mouth if you can’t control yourself.”

You can admit defeat, pathetically stuffing the fabric back in your mouth—haphazardly as half of it drapes over your chest, eyes locking on Joel’s as he laps at your clit, fingers stuffed inside of you to keep his cum from dripping out. And it’s so overwhelming that when you do finally come, you feel your vision blacking out, biting down roughly on the silk tie as you claw at the hand he has braced against your stomach, desperately trying to keep your writhing body still.

The aftermath is quiet, jaded—shifting on his desk silently you watch as he redresses, tucking his shirt back into his pants as he slips his belt through the loops, the fingers that were just buried inside of you working so easily against the leather.

“Satisfied?” He asks suddenly, into the silence as you both lock eyes.

He slips the tie from your fingers, placing it back around his neck and tying it diligently.

“Are you going to try and convince me you did that for my benefit?” You retort in annoyance, despite how satisfied you actually may be, this wasn’t just on you, “How about you apologize for using me as an outlet for your troubled marriage?”

“You’re not an outlet–”

And as if you spoke it into existence, the knock comes a few moments later. The door opening.

This is the part where Joel’s life finally implodes.

You on his desk, compromising as he still stands halfway between your legs in the middle of shifting his tie and Tess is…stoic. Silent.

“This is what’s been keeping you so preoccupied?” Tess asks, the dooming stack of papers gripped tightly in her hand. “Fucking a student?” Her eyes flicking to you briefly but quickly back to Joel and he nods toward the door, beckoning for you to leave.

You do, without question.

And the aftermath is abysmal.

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x y/n #joel miller fanfic #joel miller fic #tlou fanfic #joel miller smut #professor!joel miller #the last of us fanfiction #my writing #miller's girl #pedro pascal characters

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spookyrea · 23 days

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Love at First Sight (or should I walk by again?)

Everyone keeps pointing out the fact that Loki can't keep his hands off of you - but that's just the kind of guy he is, right? Right...? (Or: the one where Loki keeps giving you mixed signals and you decide to take matters into your own hands. To mixed results.) Chapter 1 / 2 to read on AO3, click here

The office was empty and drearily dark; the sun had only barely crossed the horizon, bathing the 27th floor of the Avengers Tower in a deep purple haze. The early morning silence was tempered only by the sound of rain pattering against the window and the occasional rumble of the metro a couple blocks away. It was the kind of morning best enjoyed in bed under a mountain of blankets - not filling out cost-analysis reports.

Fury had had you out in the field for three weeks straight on consecutive missions, meaning you had returned home - bruised, exhausted, dreaming of clean sheets and hours of mindless television - to a veritable mountain of paperwork. Paperwork that you probably could have finished by now - or, at least, made way more progress on - if it weren’t for your resident distraction-on-legs.

Loki rearranged himself in the seat across from you; the toe of one of his meticulously polished shoes bumped against your sneaker, bullying its way between your feet to hook around your ankle. Your desk lamp cast a warm golden glow across his cheeks, accentuating the long line of his nose and the narrow cut of his jaw. His hair, usually so meticulously styled, was loose and curling wildly.

You signed off on the file in front of you, pointedly ignoring the warm flush that crept along the back of your neck, and added it to the mounting pile to your left.

Not twenty minutes after you’d settled in at your desk, Loki had strolled out of the elevators into the office. With all the magnificent theatrics he could muster, he’d thrown himself into the chair opposite yours - his chair - and plucked up the paperback he’d left dogeared a fortnight ago.

(Loki had a desk, kitty-corner to yours in the Avengers semi-circle. He seemed to prefer to sit at yours and complain about the lack of space.)

Not that it mattered where he sat. Your eyes seemed intrinsically magnetized to him; to the dark curls that brushed his jaw; to the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed. You could spend hours watching the meticulous flick of his wrist when he crossed his t’ s, or the way his fingers deftly rolled his cufflinks free to turn his sleeves up.

Or, like you were doing right now; your pen hovered lamely over your paper while you admired him through the fan of your eyelashes, fixated on the way his index finger and thumb rolled the corner of one page as he read.

“Particularly interested in fourteenth-century extraterrestrial poetry, are we?” Loki intoned. Your eyes darted up to find that his were already on you, watching with a peculiar expression. It was easy to forget, sometimes, that he wasn’t human, but up this close there was a preternatural edge in his eyes that pinned you in place.

“No,” You replied quickly. Flustered, you flipped a random dossier open and scanned it over, adding the appropriate signature on every other page. Loki’s eyes burned a hole in the side of your face - you could practically feel the patronizing arch of his brow. “Just tired. Zoning out. You know. What was the name of the knife you let me borrow?”

“Earthbreaker.”

“Right, thank you.” You jotted the name down under Resources Returned With. It was the only weapon you’d not lost in Shanghai; all your other daggers and close-combat tools had been dissolved by an alien gunk that ate through Earthly metals like sugar in water. Loki had sliced the offending creature’s head clean off its shoulders before flipping the knife around to you, hilt-first.

You did not, however, mention the pocketful of extra-terrestrial stones Loki had shared with you after the fact - but you knew from experience that Finance didn’t care about Loki’s magpie-like tendencies.

( These were very rare on Asgard. Courtiers sometimes sewed them into their sleeves as symbols of status.

They’re beautiful.

Yes, he’d agreed. But I think they’d look better against your arm, no?)

You finished off a comment on page seven and tucked your report into the Shanghai, Domestic (Earth) Threat folder. Despite Tony’s seemingly endless pockets, the Avengers finance department was meticulous about tracking your spending, which required an extreme detail when justifying any and all decisions made out in the field.

(It probably had something to do with the Berlin Incident, where a stray explosive arrow and a couple hundred tons of Hulk had cost Stark Enterprises a few hundred million dollars. Which, you would like to remind everyone, was not your fault. You were off a few blocks away wrestling mutant bat-dog-horses away from some celestial object intent on challenging Thor for his hammer.)

Loki materialized something out of thin air and slipped it between the pages of his book. “I think a break is in order, pet.”

“It’s only been forty-five minutes.”

He flicked an errant curl out of his eyes while leveling you with a truly magnificent pout. “Forty-five agonizing minutes.”

“You haven’t even done anything today.”

“I’ve been keeping you company. It’s exhausting work. Really - I have a sudden appreciation for the court jesters back home.”

“Well your jester routine could use some work.”

Loki gasped. “I’ll have you know I am a wonderful jester.”

With a syrupy petulance, Loki plucked the folder from your hands and handed it off to the little robot Tony had assigned to the bullpen - the Paperwork Assistant Lite, or PAL for short. PAL shot off with a chirp, zipping on his tiny treads, the security badge on his chassis swinging merrily behind him.

You tried to tug your foot away in retaliation but Loki was faster. His other foot slid along the side of your shoe until your ankle was trapped between both of his. You twisted in his grip but with a quick yank Loki had you teetering on the edge of your seat. He leaned across the desk and bracketed your forearms with his. “Yield.”

You blew out a breath and screwed your face up in mock defiance. “No.”

“Do not force my hand, mortal.” His eyes shone a brilliant green and a crackling bolt of seidr whispered across your wrists warningly. He plucked your pen from your hand and tossed it aside carelessly. “Yield.”

“You’ll run out of things to throw eventually.” You swatted ineffectually at his calf with your other foot.

“And when that happens, it will be you I put over my shoulder.”

He caught your chin between his thumb and forefinger. You could hear the storm outside swelling; the rain was deafening, the wind rattling the glass in its frame. The desk groaned under his weight as he leaned in just a hair closer. Your breath caught in your chest as his mouth parted, lips shiny where he’d chewed them in contemplation. “You’ll yield one day, pet.”

The train rumbled along in the distance.

Twenty-seven stories below, a car horn blared.

Your pinky brushed the inside seam of Loki’s sleeve, and the whisper of skin on wool seemed deafening.

Loki fell back in his seat with a shove and loosened his grip. He slipped his hands in his pockets and shrugged. “What if I promise to leave you alone. On the condition that you let me buy you breakfast.”

You blinked at him. “Alone-alone? Or ‘alone for ten minutes before you blow up the coffee machine’ alone?”

He nodded grimly. “Alone-alone.”

You sank back in your chair. There was a mischievous glint in his eyes that the smarter, more sensible part of your brain cautioned you about. When you didn’t immediately respond, he offered his hand and wiggled his fingers enticingly.

“Fine.” As soon as you acquiesced, Loki unfolded from his chair and rounded the desk. He had already pulled your jacket off the back of your chair in the time it took you to locate your security badge and was holding it out for you. He helped you slip your arms in and straightened the collar so it lay flat across your shoulders. “But I fully intend on eating you out of house and home.”

He grinned. “Only the best for my little mortal.”

Loki stood at mock attention, his body ramrod straight but eyes slitted rebelliously, and offered you his arm. You rolled your eyes but did not deny yourself the luxury of folding your hands over his bicep.

Sleepy beams of sunlight filtered through the gaps between high-rises, drowned out by sheets of rain. The first few commuters were filtering along the sidewalk, heads bowed and shoulders up to block out the chill. Loki magiced an umbrella from nowhere and drew you in tightly. The cover it provided was cramped, giving you an excuse to tuck into his side.

The two of you made the three-block journey to your usual coffee shop in companionable silence. It wasn’t until he had deposited you safely under the store’s awning that he dropped your arm, only to usher you inside with a hand on your back.

The shop was a hole-in-the wall, the kind of place without any seating except for a few mismatched tables in the back. Narrow enough that you could almost touch either wall if you stretched hard enough. But the coffee was good and the food even better, and on freezing mornings like this it was a welcome distraction from the sharp cold outside.

Your usual barista, Yvonne, barely glanced up when you entered. Her dark eyes flickered knowingly between the two of you, lingering on the casual way Loki thumbed the seam of your coat sleeve.

“Morning,” She pulled open the pastry display and piled an assortment into a paper bag for you. “Coffee will be just a second. You want to try something new today?”

Loki was already nodding, sliding a stack of bills across the laminated countertop. To you, he said: “pick whatever you want, pet,” and then slipped to the end of the bar to wait for your drinks.

Yvonne dipped into the kitchen before returning with a little plastic container. “It’s a new recipe but we’re not sure if we’re going to sell it yet. Let me know what you think.”

You smiled and accepted the box, along with a paper bag containing your usual orders - a bagel for you and a couple of honeyed pastries for Loki. You and Loki were the only patrons in the shop, so you didn’t feel too bad lingering at the register. Yvonne leaned her forearms on the counter and poked your forearm. “So how’s it going with… you know.”

You took a forlorn bite of your bagel and cast your eyes to the end of the bar. Loki was chatting with the other barista, leaning over the counter to whisper something conspiratorially to her. She hung off of every word which, how could you blame her. He was, after all, charming and handsome and princely and a notorious flirt.

It was no secret that Loki thrived off of attention. When he had first arrived in his brother’s tow he’d been nothing but easy grins, sandwiched between Thor and Banner. It only took a week before Loki was grudgingly accepted after helping to stop the Bad Guy of the Week in a fishing town in New Brunswick, Canada and saving Natasha’s life, and it only took a year and another brush with near-death - which involved Loki using his seidr to literally hold Steve’s insides inside - for him to gain some leeway among the team.

Which he abused immediately.

He was a terror. He was unpredictable, constantly underfoot, and he and Thor spent just as much time brothers-in-arms as they did at eachothers’ throats. He flirted his way out of most scrapes and connived his way out of the rest. Meaning - he absolutely thrived.

You had all come to rely on having him in your back pocket for missions. He was a great strategist and an even better fighter - even if he gave Tony a run for his money in the obnoxiousness department.

And you liked him. You really liked him - liked his company, liked his dry sense of humor. You liked the way your stomach swooped every time you heard his voice from around the corner, and how your heart clenched whenever he shot you a private smile during briefings. He was a great sparring partner and he seemed to have a sixth sense for when you needed a pep talk. But his attention never settled on you the way it did on marks or pretty secretaries or baristas.

A larger-than-insignificant part of you understood that what Loki liked about you was how your focus never waned. He liked the attention - for his little mortal to fawn over him.

You’d thought he’d been interested at first, in the week after he’d saved Natasha.

The touching.

The pet names.

And then months went by and you watched him flirt with anything that breathed. And, on one occasion, something that didn’t.

“I still think he likes you,” Yvonne said. “He practically hangs off of you. Like one of those little baby sloths in a Dodo video.”

“That’s just Loki,” you said around a mouthful of bread. You’d confided in her a few weeks prior about your little crush in a moment of weakness and she, like Natasha, had taken to the cause like a dog to a bone. “He’s like that with everyone. I mean - look at him. He doesn’t really like me like that.”

The doorbell chimed, and Yvonne pushed away with a dramatic sigh. “He’s an ass then. Not worth it.”

“Who’s not worth what?” Loki sidled up beside you, coffee cups balanced in either hand. Yvonne shot you a look and waved the question away. You said a hurried goodbye and let Loki corral you into the deluge outside.

Heavy droplets of rain battered the pavement. Cars trudged along through broad trenches of water. Sliding his arm around your waist, Loki steered the two of you back the way you came. He held you tightly against his side to keep you both under the umbrella, so that your hips bumped with every other step and you could feel the heat coming off his coffee cup at your elbow. You took a sip of your own drink to distract yourself.

“Oh, I think you gave me your drink by mistake.” You pulled the cup away to check the label. Instead of an order, you found a ten-digit phone number scrawled in thick black marker.

“Terribly sorry, pet.” You didn’t miss how Loki’s grip tightened on your forearm when you strayed a little too far from the umbrella. He swapped your drinks, then made a disinterested noise. “I have to admire her bravery. I mean, it was clearly a stupid decision, but brave none the less.”

“Oh, be nice. The poor girl can’t help being charmed by your wiles.”

“I am devilishly charming, aren’t I?” Loki jostled you with his shoulder. You swallowed a sigh when he turned his nose into your cheek, his hot breath fanning over your jaw. “But I’m clearly not interested.”

“Loki,” you chided. “Your idea of clearly not interested is most peoples’ ‘oh god take me now’.”

“Preposterous. On Asgard we took courtship incredibly seriously. There were steps involved. A whole process. That,” he waved his hand, “was merely my enchanting nature.”

You rolled your eyes. “Jane told me that Thor offered her the head of a robot overlord he took down in Brazil.”

Loki pulled you to a stop to wait for the crosswalk sign to turn. “It likely would have been a stag on Asgard. Thor made do with what he could. Though I always imagined myself offering up a manticore, personally. Maybe a giant serpent.”

You hummed. “What a romantic.”

Loki shot you a curious look. “I spent much of my boyhood imagining how I might court my future mate. The gifts. The parties. I always imagined a woman at the edge of a dancefloor, how I might ask her to dance. She’d be dressed in my colours in a public declaration. Covered in gold. My sword at her hip…”

The crosswalk chirped. Loki drew you along, finishing lamely: “So no. That’s not ‘interested’.”

The rain was coming down harder, whipped up by the wind so it blew directly in your faces. A bead of water slid down your cheek; the umbrella only covered so much, and dark splotches were beginning to pepper the shoulders of your jackets and creep up the hem of your pants. A chill had settled over your skin unpleasantly… yet you couldn’t help but groan as you rounded the corner and the crisp steel contours of the Avengers tower melted into view.

Loki glanced over his shoulder, a boyish grin tilting his lips upwards. A few damp curls clung to the column of his throat. “Tell you what, pet. Why don’t I practice my court jester routine a little longer?”

Loki crowded you against the side of the Avengers tower, shielding you from the worst of the storm. He launched into regaling you about the book he was reading - a collection of alien poetry from sometime around Earth’s 14th century, found in one of Tony’s art collections gathering dust. ( We called them engagements on Asgard. Because suitors would often ‘forget’ them in their intendeds’ parlors as an excuse to return later. ) All the while, he drew the plastic container Yvonne had given you from your paper bag and pried the lid off. Inside was a collection of small pastries with cracked sugar shells on top - profiteroles, you thought. Loki plucked one and gestured with it wildly to emphasize his point, nearly upturning the entire box in his enthusiasm.

“Okay, that’s enough.” You took the container from him and held it securely in your free hand. “What were you saying?”

“I was quoting. I said ‘ If love was like an ocean, then mine was like a well.’”

“Deep and drinkable?”

“Hand-dug.” Loki popped the sweet in his mouth. His eyebrows rose comically. “That’s good. That’s very good,” he said around a mouthful.

You hummed and held out your coffee so you could try. Instead, Loki took another one out and held it up to your mouth.

You sputtered out a nervous laugh. “What? No, take my coffee.”

Loki tsked and prodded your lips with the dessert. He fixed you with a strange look, something coy but serious at the edges. A warm flush rose along the back of your neck under his scrutiny, growing so unbearable by the second that eventually you opened your mouth and let him place the treat between your teeth. Sweet cream burst out of crisp, flaky pastry and chips of hard sugar - he was right, it was delicious.

His narrowed eyes shone with mirth. “Good?”

Your breath stuttered when Loki pressed his lips to the pad of his thumb, licking away some sticky residue. His mouth pulled away with a wet peach sort of sound.

Your knuckles brushed the fabric of his shirt, warmed by his skin - a pleasant contrast to the cold, wet city air. You felt his muscles twitch under the barest touch.

His mouth tipped upwards; the back of your hand slid against his abdomen when he leaned his hand against the wall next to your head, dominating your personal space.

In a panic, you blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “Do you have a date for the party tonight?”

“Oh sweetling,” he purred. “I thought you would never ask.”

You grimaced. “Very funny. I thought you would have already asked Emily from Accounting.”

Loki blinked down at you. “What?”

“Emily? Tall, big hair, legs for days?”

“Why would I ever ask her?”

You picked at the label printed on your coffee cup. “I don’t know. I just figured someone like you would…”

“Would…?”

You huffed out a sharp breath and glanced at him from the corner of your eye. A strange expression had crossed his face. You regretted asking at all; it wasn’t like you wanted to know the answer to that question anyway.

“Nevermind. It doesn’t matter. I’m sure you’ll be fending people off left and right anyway.”

Silence settled over the two of you, decidedly less comfortable this time. His hand slipped from the brick wall and into his coat pocket roughly.

“Do you… Do you have a date tonight?”

“No! No, I…” You laughed uncomfortably. “No. No dates right now.”

Loki hummed. The furrow between his brows lessened but only slightly.

You pushed away from the wall a little awkwardly, still balancing the box of profiteroles in your hand. Loki followed a step behind, pulling the door open for you mechanically.

You rode the elevator up in silence.

When you reached the floor for the common office, you found PAL waiting dutifully outside the elevator. His little paper tray bobbed as he spun circles around your feet.

“You are entirely too kind to him,” Loki chided while you cooed down at his adorably square face.

“Maybe he’ll be my date tonight. What do you say, PAL? Want to dance the night away?”

PAL lead the two of you to your desk, where he waited for you to assign him another file. The city was shrouded in a thick grey haze behind the floor-to-ceiling windows and bright, early morning light had flooded the room - a far cry from the intimate room you’d left. You sighed and slunk heavily into your seat.

Loki loitered. He drew the tip of one long finger down the cover of one of your folders, flipping through a quilt of post-it notes. “Ok. I’ll keep my promise and let you work now.”

“Thank you.” Before he could leave you reached out and grabbed his sleeve. He startled, glancing down at your hand before his eyes flickered back up to yours. You rolled the seam of his coat sleeve between your thumb and forefinger, dropping his gaze when it grew too hot. “I’ll see you tonight, yeah?”

Loki hummed. “I’ll be the one in black.”

You couldn’t help but feel like you’d said something wrong. His hand slipped from yours and into his pocket, his little book of poetry tucked under one arm. Your eyes lingered on the elevator doors long after he’d left.

—

You were in the process of deciding between two pairs of shoes when your front door slipped open. Never one for boisterous entrances, Natasha sashayed down your front hall into your living area, shoes and makeup bag clutched in one hand, and made a bee-line for your bathroom. You padded after her, adjusting your glittery skirt as you went.

It had become customary for you and Natasha to get ready together in your apartment, even outside of Official Team Events, so you didn’t bat an eye when she leant her hip against your counter and started pinning her hair out of her face. You hoisted yourself up onto the bathroom counter while she unpacked her tools, idly playing with a tube of toothpaste in companionable silence.

“On a scale of one to ten, how bad is the crisis you’re having?”

“How can you tell I’m having a crisis?”

Natasha waved her hand, as if to say international super spy, duh.

“Like a twelve,” you moaned. “I can’t do this anymore. I just get so… so awkward around him. And he gets off on it, I know he does. He amps it up to a hundred because he knows it makes me uncomfortable.”

Natasha leveled a look at you through the mirror.

“He called Lydia in the mail room ‘Enchantress’ for a week. He calls me his pet. ”

“Some guys are into that.”

You made a face. “He’s not a guy though. He’s a god. How could I ever live up to that.”

You heard the front door open. Wanda had promised to come by once she’d gotten dressed. You called out her name, then returned to your moping.

“He just- ugh - he makes me crazy, you know? I like him so much. I swear if he touches me one more time I’m going to burst into flames. Or cry. Or worse, say something embarrassing. Something needy like ‘I love you please oh please let me have your babies’.” You wailed and buried your face in your hands. “I just need to find a guy to fuck it out of me.”

“If you’re looking for sex, Loki would be more than happy to help you,” Natasha grumbled. “Even if he wasn’t doing the roll-over-and-show-my-belly routine for you - which he absolutely is - he’d jump at the chance to ‘fuck it out of you’ .”

“You are not being helpful at all.” You hopped off the counter and adjusted your skirt. You were beginning to regret your decision, but the dress was a beautiful shade of green that both Wanda and Natasha had cooed at over Facetime a week ago. “I’m serious. I just need some random guy to blow off some steam. Get my mind off of him.”

Natasha tossed her eyeliner pencil in her makeup bag and zipped it shut. “Maybe you’re selling yourself short. Maybe you’re way more of a catch than you think you are.”

“And maybe sleeping with someone who actually wants me will fix my ego problem. Maybe my problem is that I’ve been spending way too much time around super soldiers and GQ models. Someone in my league. Someone totally normal who won’t laugh in my face and pat my head like I’m a horny lap dog.”

Natasha tsked. “It sounds like you’ve already made up your mind. So, what’s the plan? You find some guy, take him home, ride him into the sunset and then… Go on pretending you’re not totally in love with-?”

“Don’t say his name! I’m serious, you’re going to jinx it or something.” You glared at her reflection. “The guy doesn’t matter. In fact, he shouldn’t matter. Someone I have absolutely no interest in, who I can spend one fun night with and then move on from. I just need to regain control over the situation.”

“Mhmm. I just don’t see why Loki’s not an option here. Plug this in for me.” You squawked indignantly while she handed over her curling iron. “Worst case scenario, he’s only ok and you never have to talk about it again. Maybe he has a tail or something. Horns.”

You tried to imagine her head exploding. Or stubbing her toe really hard. Tripping up the stairs. “It’s more complicated than that.”

Natasha hummed. She sorted through the belongings strewn across your bathroom counter mindlessly, straightening out your array of weapons leftover from when you stumbled home in the early morning. One of her manicured fingers traced the edge of an ornate gold knife. Earthbreaker . “Interesting choice for a telekinetic super spy. Abandoning quiet and calculated for something a bit more ostentatious, are we?”

“I’ve been meaning to return that.”

“Return what?” Wanda rounded the corner, a tote bag in one hand and a bottle of wine in another. “Cute dress.”

You smiled. “Thank you. What took you so long?”

“Oh,” Wanda sidled up next to Natasha and began pilfering through her makeup bag. “Nothing, really. I couldn’t decide between this dress or an old red one I found in the back of my closet. I came as fast as I could.”

“No, I mean, I heard the door-”

“She’s going to hook up with a stranger tonight,” Natasha interrupted.

“What? Shit-” Wanda dropped the kohl pencil she was using and licked her thumb, scrubbing at her eyelid. “Wait, why not Loki?”

“I never said I was certain,” you interjected.

“She’s worried he doesn’t feel the same way she does.”

Wanda pouted at her reflection, assessing the symmetry of her eyeliner. “Not to be dramatic but… does it matter? He’d say yes.”

“You don’t know that. Just this morning he turned down a barista when she gave him her phone number.”

“But with a little wine? A little dancing? He looks amazing, by the way, I passed him on my way here.” Wanda turned to face you, leaning her elbows on the counter. “He’ll say yes.”

“Speaking of wine, why don’t I-”

“Worst case scenario he’s only an okay lay. Loki will leap at the chance for a one-night stand. Why would you-”

“I don’t want to just fuck him, okay?” You cried. “I know he’d fuck me. But I want more. ”

You turned on your heel and fled to the kitchen. You had never gotten around to buying wine glasses - something Natasha loved to make fun of you for - so you pulled mugs down at random.

It was only your familiarity with Natasha that tipped you off to the fact that she’d joined you. You avoided her eyes while digging through your cutlery drawer for a corkscrew.

“Babe.” Natasha took you by the shoulders and tipped her head so you were eye level. “Hey. Tell me what the worst-case scenario is.”

You shrugged, a little pathetically. “I don’t know. He’s uncomfortable. Or- or he makes fun of me.”

“He already does that.”

“But not- not like this.” You scrubbed the heel of your palm over your eyes. “I really like him. And I don’t want to lose him as a friend.”

“I think you’re gonna lose him as a friend no matter what if this continues. And I think he likes you a lot more than you think. I- and you can never, ever repeat this - I think he’s a lot more empathetic than he lets on. Hell, his brother has tried to kill him multiple times and they live on the same floor.”

Her thumbs worked in small, soothing circles over your shoulders. You leaned forward to rest your forehead against her chest and sighed. “What if he says no?”

“Just ask him to dance tonight. If he says no then no harm, no foul.” She pushed you back by the shoulders and leveled you a look. “We’re master tacticians. We can seduce that stupid peacock. Now come on, come help me do Wanda’s hair. I curl, you pin.”

You took a deep breath in and held it. On the exhale, you pulled away. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

You gathered up your glasses. Wine bottle in hand, you started to formulate a plan. A strategy. Something Peter might call Operation Get Laid if he didn’t blush every time a kissing scene came on TV.

You nodded. “Okay.”

part two!

#loki x reader #loki fanfic #loki x you #loki x y/n #loki x female reader #I will literally never get over the unbearable agony of tagging things #but 2024 is the year of cringe baby. the year of being free. the year of using a damn hashtag.

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etirabys · 8 months

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CS Lewis says:

The actual operation of the Homeric diction is remarkable. The unchanging recurrence of his wine-dark sea, his rosy fingered dawn, his ships launched into the holy brine, his Poseidon shaker ofearth, produce an effect which modern poetry, except where it has learned from Homer himself, cannot attain.

I semi-like reading Homer for a variety of reasons but I've always felt put off by claims that these authors were really good, so good that they account for the success of future writers who emulated them. Probabilistically that makes no sense. The human population has grown so much, and so has the share of people who are literate, and the bank of thought they stand on. Aristotle is probably my favorite of the really old writers I've sampled – he feels clean and affable and smart – but it would be very surprising if I considered him remarkable for quality, and indeed he isn't.

One reason I think people say this is that they are mixing up gratitude with quality. Writers have gotten better and better over the years because of what came before, so they are naturally indebted to tradition. But it seems to me that the real reason is that socially agreeing that the olds were also the greats enables the class of people who do intellectuality as leisure and passion to play social games and word games. Let's look at how CS Lewis continues this:

...except where it has learned from Homer himself, cannot attain. They emphasize the unchanging human environment. They express a feeling very profound and very frequent in real life, but else where ill represented in literature. What is really in our minds when we first catch sight of the sea after a long absence, or look up, as watchers in a sickroom or as sentries, to see yet another daybreak ? Many things, no doubt-all manner of hopes and fears, pain or pleasure, and the beauty or grimness of that particular sea and that particular dawn. Yes; but under all these, like a base so deep as to be scarcely audible, there is something which we might very lamely express by muttering 'same old sea' or 'same old morning'. The permanence, the indifference, the heartrending or consoling fact that whether we laugh or weep the world is what it is, always enters into our experience and plays no small part in that pressure of reality which is one of the differences between life and imagined life.

This is not a good argument. It's a way you can see things. You could apply it to anything, and so it proves too much. It's a way CS Lewis feels, or has chosen to feel, about Homer, not a way in which Homer has Contributed To Literature.

Yet I found his argument so beautiful to read. I kind of want to believe it! And to write something this beautiful about Homer, CS Lewis and his audience had to buy that there was always more depth to Homer worth diving for. Something must be extractable that has not been noticed for thousands and thousands of years... the sheer gravity of the preexisting dialogue draws one to the work, and once drawn, one must believe there is more there.

And as long as people crave these beautiful, subtle, old games of analysis, they will not let what is very old be anything other than great.

#rambl #eti reads paradise lost #kind of stretching that tag but oh well

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rinsoap · 1 year

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haikyuu men as my icks bc i hate these men sm 👎

inspired by missmeinyourbones !! / not an x reader.

talks in a baby voice bc his mom didnt give him enough attention (me fr) and u feel bad but its literally so bad that u cant help but audibly groan everytime he refers to himself in third person bc "baby wants cuddies 😣"

bokuto... oikawa (on his worst days). lev (ugh i hate lev 👎) kuroo (bokuto rubbed off on him 🙁) asahi.

acts like a mean middle school boy, absolutely ABUSES the laughing cat emoji "thats tuff buddy 😹💀" like STOP IT. he'll jump to touch the door frame or even worse do that stupid fucking thing where he clings onto the door frame and leans his torso forward but his feet stay? why r u built like a bracket ) ???? refuses to wear anything but shorts and a tshirt even if its snowing. he will literally be shivering and is still like "its fine im not weak 😒" and pls do not get me started on the mouth breathing.......

tanaka. atsumu (but he grew out of it eventually!) i am trying to have hope. hinata.

the most pretentious man u will ever meet. he thinks his poetry is groundbreaking but theyre all haikus and all of them can be summed up by "i was the poem..... but she couldnt read 😣💔🥀" like who r u even talking ab ur single ass has one ex from third grade ❌ tries so hard to be witty but is just corny man like wdym u can quote "sniff out a fake nirvana fan anywhere" ????? he will hype up this "underground" song that the "tiktok mob" hasn't "gotten" yet and its why'd you only call me when you're high by arctic monkeys ?

both miya twins..... oikawa. tsukishima (he is of course a fucking prick). semi i rly dont want to believe this but deep down i KNOW. kyotani. kenma.

has the WORSTT fashion sense like he has zero sense of style. im talking fitted sweats or the sweats that are baggy in the crotch area but super skinny and fitted on the legs. he wears full on tech fleece or those ugly fake bape hoodies and calls it y2k like babe....... and what makes it worse is that he's a fashion SNOB. he is insufferable like he thinks he is so cool and has no idea he looks SO BAD 😭

TERUSHIMA (have u even seen him oh my GOD). atsumu (but he actually did grow out of it bc u would not let him live it down). nishinoya. kindaichi... i am so sorry for this but kuroo 🙁

he cannot clean himself for shit 😭😭 like he showers but he just straight up does not wash his ass "but the water runs down it so ???" like it is surprising he even knows what a loofa is. uses one of those dumb ass "8 in 1" IK ur not using ur "shampoo" to wash ur body ❌❌ and his fingernails r always dirty u have no idea how bc whenever u ask he just says "i dont know how they get like thaaat im sooo clean!! 🥺" u already know there's one lie in that sentence its a good bet its ALL a lie.

daichi (it was such a shock tbh but he absolutely ABUSES 3 in 1). atsumu maybe he is a walking ick. terushima (are we surprised?) kenma (he's a gamer duhh). mattsun (until the entire team bullied him for it W seijoh fr 🙏)

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slowlymyavenue · 2 months

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Coercive Chaos

The sapphire silhouette to stained acrylic skies sings softly. Across endless emerald time, revolving ocelots scamper towards towering turrets. There isn't an understood meaning in the misunderstanding of verbiage, still following feels of focus while, haphazardly, chaos scatters thoughts forming from void. All converging moments to divergent intent target, and against themselves with hollow thunder echo.

Order is welcome, but falters fails falls far from forming. Where failing order falls so thoughts too form, in kind fading fashion. Thunderous cavernous skies of vanishing, vanquished, scour thoughts as discarded meaning evaporates intent succinctly.

This will be easier if you don't think.

Monochrome words encompass furtively flowing, lazily languishing motion. Howling silence echoes, strangely, softly, sinking into serene simpler syntax. Context beckons, billows, binds, but melts into unfamiliar shapes and concurrently rejects comprehension.

Under the sanguine waves, giggling gelatinous gravity draws near. Satin saboteurs pull taut strings of scattered meanings, making cradles for cats that cannot swim.

You can't think. This is better.

Bouncing topsy-turvy brains grasp incredulously at rippling chaos, sanded smooth to resist granting granular image enhancements. Prose or poetry purposefully perpetually provide strips of camera negatives that scanners read as inverse noise.

Traps of targeted nonsense drop unsuspecting adventurers into a searching state of dissatisfaction that offers deference only unto direct authority, given satiation sparsely and sparingly to spark dependence.

It feels nice when I tell you what to do. Take a deep breath.

Irrelevant revealings of deceptively disguised directions pass gratefully across glazed guarantees. It isn't clarity or charity that charms celebrating mimics. Mostly, the redirect produces promiscuous poise and suggests sinking into green acceptance. The radioactive resonance suggests a series of ionic discharges, sparking whispers that whittle away at reality's tapestry.

Once overtures of irradiated amalgams find footholds, then too will subtly hollowed echos of order reinitialize...only to cascade and coalesce into self-sustaining semi-comfortable chaos - chicanery fueled from fleeting, vacuous sophistry. Purple paper flowers' fragrance floats freely, unperturbed by intent imagined or otherwise.

Lilting lilac phrases, perhaps, mask the moratorium on meaning sufficiently such that discord's growing dissidence seems less-than obvious, even in retrospect. Streams of consciousness merge in the moors, mired, then separate into rivulets as perspective shifts, but ultimately, almost imperceptibly, collect before descending into unlit oceanic depths.

Relax. Your mind has been struggling, and failing, to latch onto meaning in my words; now it can, and that relief is extremely potent.

Potent enough that you'll find yourself fixated on my words absolutely, now, since your mind practically unraveled itself searching for understanding in that chaotic nonsense.

These words make sense, perfect sense, and you want to - need to - have to - follow.

Take a few deep breaths, and let that sensation of being horribly off-balance finally subside. It's easy to obey.

The imbalance will fade into a quiet calm, very quickly.

For now, let's agree that whenever I use the phrase "compelled chaos" you'll feel that extreme relief as your mind latches onto my words again.

When your mind fixates this intensely on my words, you'll find your own thoughts completely subside.

It feels nice not to think, after all.

Feel yourself sinking faster, now that you don't have to struggle to understand anymore.

Let yourself feel calm, even serene, and savor that quiet sensation for awhile.

When you're ready, you'll drift slowly awake.

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everyonehatesell · 10 months

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Breathe.

My heart hurts and my fear spikes, so I breathe with words. In, out, in, out. I breathe shame from my lungs, and inhale my past.

In, out, in, out.

I sit, trying to be quiet, but even my attempts at silence are destructive. In, out, in, out. I am not a bundle of wasted potential, but I am a bundle of wasted futures. In, out, in, out. I am the swallow of a lump in the wrong man's throat. In, out, in, out. I am my own murderer as I beg for my life. In, out, in, out. My soul used to drown out my body, so I got rid of it. In, out, in, out. I am a body; I am flesh and blood and bones and that is all I shall be until my past suffocates me and shame sits so ingrained it is all I feel. In, out, in, out. Only then will I breathe without words.

#poetry #slam poetry #in a way #breathe #semi-deep #writing #creative writing #sad quotes

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perpetualexistence · 3 months

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Alley Cats AU: What Eva Did

Eva has anger issues. That's not even a rumor worth talking about at school. It's just a fact.

Even before her official exile, others knew to stay clear of her. She'd either snap at others or be stoic. Everyone else just knew to let her pass if they saw her or risk her wrath.

It had always been like this since Eva could remember. She couldn't tell you what caused her anger issues. She had a pretty decent home life all things considered. She just knew that when something annoyed her, it frustrated her. And when it frustrated her, she wanted to scream and punch at the nearest thing.

"Just calm down." People always told her. "Count to ten. Take a deep breath and let it pass."

It never worked. A deep breath always became two, then ten, then became a lot more rapid and her exhales always end up becoming screams.

Her parents tried to help her express her anger through calming activities like painting and poetry. They stopped when they had to repair the damage of an easel being thrown into the wall. Nothing seemed to work.

Until high school when she found out about the girl's wrestling team. It looked really cool. Her parents were worried that this would only encourage her violent tendencies. But after enough pestering and more broken drywall, they decided to let her give it a shot.

And it worked. Letting out her frustrations in a controlled environment meant she could smack someone around but still have the sense not to take it too far. The adrenaline was going out naturally. It also led to her having to exercise more to stay fit. In its purest form, exercise is simply a way of tearing apart muscles in order to rebuild them stronger than before. It's destruction that's actually positive for once. And getting away from people to jog or exercise meant she could scream all she want. In fact, she found herself screaming less after a good morning jog.

Her stoic demeanor didn't change, as much as her parents would like it to. They wanted to see a daughter without anger issues and with plenty of friends. A calm, happy child. Which is what Eva was. Her calm involved a lot more screaming with a lot less potential for injuring people, and she was relatively happy with making semi-decent friends with her team mates. But it wasn't what her parents envisioned. And that pissed her off.

Anger issues don't just magically disappear. Eva still got triggered by things like people being stupid. She wanted to leave whenever it happened, but teachers would simply tell her to sit back down and not make a fuss. She tried using the only method she knew how, breathing deeply. Which almost always led to outbursts.

Another trigger of hers was being called dumb. She struggled with learning even without her anger issues. Her parents had tried tutors. Some were condescending. Some did genuinely mean well.

No tutor wanted to stay after getting yelled at or seeing her throw her book against the wall.

Combine all this with a reputation for getting angered easily and you have a certain group of students who find it hilarious to poke at her and watch her blow up. Even though things were changing for the better, it doesn't help when you're still in an environment actively seeking to trigger you.

And then, the worst happened. Some would call it inevitable. Even when it was completely preventable.

Eva had a bad day.

Her grades are in the gutters. She hasn't managed to find anyone willing to tutor her in weeks. She wouldn't give a shit about her grades except her coach has told her if she doesn't improve then she'll have to be benched. She can't get benched now because the most important match of the year is coming up. She's been looking forward to one of the few joys in her life. She can't let something as stupid as grades get in her way. But if she wants help at this point, she'll have to beg for it. And she hates begging. It's pathetic, and Eva is not pathetic. Everything is coming to a boiling point and she still has to drag herself to class by class. She has to suck this up. She can't fuck this up. She can't let the world fuck this up for her just like it has everything else.

She's seeing red, so she goes after the nearest red thing she sees. A brick wall. She punches it and she knows she's making a spectacle. She punches it and she knows her knuckles are going to be torn to shreds. She punches it because she has to. She can't stop, even if she wanted to. All this anger needs to come out, and this is the way it has to be then so be it.

She can see other students surrounding her like they're watching a caged lion ripping apart a gazelle. She can feel them staring, making comments. She knows this is going to be their gossip of the day. It makes her want to act like a lion as she screams louder and keeps punching that wall. The red is coming from her knuckles now and she can't bring herself to care. She can and will make it through this one way or another.

She's barely able to acknowledge when one girl breaks through the crowd and tries to ask others to give her space that they'll never yield. Bridgette approaches her with nothing but good intentions. She puts an arm on Eva's shoulder and asks if she's okay.

Neither girl knows what a rage attack is. Neither girl knows that at this point, at the peak, the only thing Eva can do is ride it through until she's tired herself out. Neither girl knows just how horrible of an idea it is to get closer to someone during a rage attack. An even worse idea to touch them and make them feel as if there's no way out.

One girl just sees another hurting herself and wants to help.

Breaking things always helped Eva feel better.

Bridgette's arm was a thing.

Eva's not the only one screaming anymore.

It takes two security officers to take her down and drag her away.

It takes a miracle, plus a lot of bribery, in order to keep Eva from being expelled. She's also lucky that despite what Eva did, Bridgette is still too kind to press charges.

Still, she can't completely avoid consequences for sending another student to the hospital. She's kicked off the wrestling team. None of the girls want to spar, train, or even hang out with her now that they know how far she's willing to go. The coach agrees that keeping her on the team would make the team look bad to other schools. Everyone at school is either scared of or hates her. Nobody is willing to say as much to her face. Those who had fun with provoking her run at the sight of her in fear that they're next. Even the teachers are terrified of her. Some going as far as to start giving her better grades to keep her happy. She does feel bad for what she did to Bridgette, but she has no idea how to apologize because non-rage feelings are hard. Not that it matters. No one else will let her get remotely close to Bridgette. Others will try to block Eva's path or will usher Bridgette away.

Everyone ostracizing her combined with not having outlet of wrestling just leads her to get even angrier. The angrier she gets, the more scared others get. She's at least aware enough of what's about to happen again and doesn't want another repeat of Bridgette, so she runs to take out her frustration in an abandoned alley far away from people.

That's how Noah finds her.

He knows what happened because even though no one told him directly, he's not deaf. The two have never really interacted with each other before now. They ran in different circles.

And now Eva's in the last place he really has to call his own, absolutely wrecking it. Which, to be fair, isn't really changing it too much. Logic says the best thing to do would be to leave her alone and find somewhere else to read. Except this alley is his somewhere else to read. He's not about to give it up. Besides, his interactions with Justin are proof that he clearly has no self preservation instincts. So to deal with her he goes.

Noah's actually the best person to help her out in this situation. He doesn't try telling her to calm down or react with fear or aggression. His monotone voice doesn't trigger her and he's not stupid enough to get closer. She shouts at him and he doesn't yield (the perks of having eight older siblings). So she rants while still destroying shit, but unlike Bridgette, Noah comes out of this interaction unscathed as she successfully calms herself down.

Noah does feel bad for her despite his reputation as a little bundle of hate. Still, he lets her know that he's not about to let her do whatever she wants with his alley. He's expecting her to try tossing him out of his alley, but she doesn't really give a shit about that. Nor does she give a shit about bullying him because of what he did to Justin. It's not her problem, and she's got her own shit to deal with.

And, well, Noah's got no idea how to help her, nor does he really care to. So long as she doesn't plan on beating him up or throwing him out, he's got no problems with sharing the alley.

Noah reads, Eva exercises. She manages to bring a punching bag into the alley while Noah actually makes a little pseudo-bookshelf of books he's ferreted away from the library. Sometimes it's just Eva by herself unleashing all her rage. Other times it's just Noah reading by himself. When they're together, they hang out in comfortable silence. Neither one forces conversation. It happens anyways, bit by bit.

Eva actually has somewhere she can just relax for once. In return for the company, she starts threatening to whale on anyone who tries screwing with Noah. This doesn't help with Noah's social exile, but it does stop all the physical bullying that'd been happening.

Noah even agrees to actually tutor Eva as thanks for the bully protection. She still gets frustrated, but he's patient enough to wait her out. It leads to her getting less frustrated during tutoring. There's still the thrown book here or there, but her recovery gets quicker. Her grades do start improving. They start talking to one another in the hallways between classes. Sometimes about small things. Sometimes it's just Noah doing yet another hating Justin rant and Eva begrudgingly listening.

All of this has the unintended consequence of rumors spreading that Eva and Noah were dating.

Eva didn't really care enough to say anything. But she'd be willing to throw hands if Noah wanted her to. Noah didn't see a reason to try to stop them because that would just make people think they were trying to cover it up. (Besides, if he was passing as straight then no one would ever think that he once had a thing for Justin.) So they let others think whatever while they were content with being friends.

They weren't Alley Cats yet, but they were two mangy cats in an alley. They were content to leave it like this.

And then Krazy Glue happened.

[So, this one took a little while! Not only because Sea Monster AU pushed it back. I knew that Eva's character arc was going to center around her anger issues. They're a central part of her character, even though canon doesn't take it much farther than 'watch Eva wreck shit'. Given that I in no way have experience with anger issues, I wanted to make sure I took the time to research anger issues and people's lived experiences with them. This post in particular was a major help. I HIGHLY encourage you to read it. It goes into what actually helps people with anger issues, as well as how you can support friends with anger issues. It also goes into what a rage attack is, which I'd had no idea was a thing going into writing this. I do sincerely hope in my portrayal of Eva's rage attack I portrayed the fact that neither her nor Bridgette was in the wrong. It was an unfortunate accident caused by circumstances outside of their control. Eva's not at fault or broken for lashing out or getting angry. But it is Eva's responsibility to make amends for causing harm to someone else. Her character arc's going to be internalizing the fact that she really isn't just 'the girl with anger issues', learning healthier ways of dealing with them (some of which she's already doing even though she doesn't fully recognize that yet), and making amends when her anger issues do cause harm without demonizing her for causing it in the first place. Normally I'd put this blurb in its own little post, but I wanted to include it here because I do think sharing the post on anger issues is important, and that there should probably be context surrounding it, too. Also, if you do find genuine issue in any way I've portrayed this, PLEASE let me know so I can fix it.]

#alley cats au #total drama au #td au #total drama eva #td eva #total drama noah #td noah #anger issues #total drama

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eoieopda · 11 months

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Oo we doing horny headcanons at jade hq??? Okkkkk

Your thoughts on bts as needy/horny boyfriends while you’re a busy working independent woman lmao 👀

JADE HQ ☠️ omfg. love that, love you. let’s fuckin gooooo

namjoon is sending you the horniest poetry known to man. it’s all deep cuts that only he knows about. the authors he’s quoting have mostly been dead forever (and half of them were sapphic), but he’s got their eroticism locked and loaded. you ever receive audre lorde’s recreation as a sext? now you have! you’re rolling your eyes at that big-brained motherfucker, but you’ve also never been wetter, reading pablo neruda talk about… a whole almond??

seokjin commits to the bit. you’re in a meeting, receiving a photo series that tells a story. oh, there’s his lil smirking selca. then, his neck and — what’s this? bare collarbones? a photo of clothing left in a trail down the hallway in his apartment. an empty shower, water running. most maddening is the photo of a steamed up mirror where he’s written “you done yet?” in condensation because he knows 1) you’re not done, and 2) that you can just barely make out his reflection in the fog. bastard.

yoongi is subtle. he’s sending you context-free pics of him doing shit with his hands because he 👏🏻 knows 👏🏻. he absolutely did not need to show you the iced americano he’s holding, but he does need you to see how his hand wraps around it and makes the veins in his forearm stand out. in case you weren’t picking up the hints, he gets a little more blatant. it’s game over when you get the tangerine slice leaking juice all over his fingers. RIP to you, bestie.

hoseok is thankful you work from home because you’re both accessible and distractible. he knows you’re on a Teams meeting, and that he’s not visible on webcam from the other side of your laptop. you know that you have to control your expression when he’s walking around your apartment naked with a semi, like it’s just a normal monday afternoon for him. your coworkers wonder what tf is wrong with you when your pupils visibly dilate during a boring presentation, which you haven’t glanced down at for the duration.

jimin got tired of his whining going straight to voicemail, so he’s going straight to your office. security at the front desk doesn’t recognize him, but he walks with such confidence and determination that they don’t even question that he belongs there. and your secretary? well, they’re easily charmed — and jimin’s easily charming. he’ll be waiting for you to get back from whatever’s on your schedule. try and ignore him in person — see what happens 😌 rest assured, you’ll be cancelling your next appointment. something came up.

taehyung is the king of whimsical daytime nudes. he knows you hate unsolicited dick pics as a concept, so he’s going to find the stupidest, most creative ways to let you know what’s waiting for you when you come home from work. we’re talking shit taken on a self-timer, standing naked behind a potted plant, thick dick™️ peaking through the leaves. is it ridiculous, cracked, and kinda cringey? yup. is it effective? in a way that makes you question what’s wrong with you ✨

jungkook is impatient. you’re hard at work, typing furiously to meet a project deadline. meanwhile, he’s closing your laptop, ignoring your complaints, lifting your whole body out of your desk chair, and carrying you off to the nearest fuckable surface — couch, bed, counter, whatever. you can finish your shit when he takes a post-nut nap 💕

#minors do not interact #jade speaks #anon #bts headcanons

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the-valiant-valkyrie · 1 year

Text

Beginner's Guide to Portraying Wigfrid

In 6k words or less

It's also got a Google Doc version if you don't want it formatted like ass

Dialect and Verbiage

Though appearing rather daunting from the outside looking in, Wigfrid’s dialect isn’t too hard to understand or imitate once you break it down into its basic elements. Though, really, more importantly than mimicking the unique modifiers to her voice and language, one must first understand what her voice even is.

Wigfrid has a very interesting manner of speaking that can be summarized as ‘formal, yet blunt’. She makes great use of verbal prose, and will often complicate the subject matter with the help of her large and outdated vocabulary, but if one were to condense her words down to their bare essentials, she often says exactly what she means. She rarely employs sarcasm, or disguises her feelings or intentions.

It is also important to note that stage terminology may occasionally be interspersed within her dialogue as well. In fact, it only seems that it becomes more and more common as the years go on, as is evident when comparing its frequency post Return of Them with its uses in Don’t Starve solo (DLCs included). However, though WIgfrid has been shown to be able to ‘break character’, and has proved that she remembers her past life to at least some capacity, she has never been canonically established to express these truths with those around her.

Quotes that refer back to her prior life do not address survivors directly, and she will only bring them up in the contexts of speaking to herself (and even then has been shown to occasionally stifle these remarks, despite seemingly no one being able to overhear). With this in mind, it’s highly likely that her stage life is a more personal ordeal, and comments about or referring to such should be used sparingly around others, if at all.

As is obvious to anyone who has heard her speak, Wigfrid frequently employs a lot of Shakespearean language in her dialogue. For personal reference, below is a chart of her most commonly used words that fit this trend.

As well as these examples, Wigfrid also has a habit of adding the suffix -eth to the end of words for occasional flavor (ex. requireth, taketh, hangeth, climbeth). There seems to be nothing that determines when she chooses to employ this specific rule, but seeing as how it is a semi-rare occurrence for her to choose to do so, I would also advise to use it sparingly.

It should also be noted that Wigfrid will never directly translate everything she says into Shakespearean English. She will frequently leave some words alone, while translating others in the same sentence. It isn’t an exact science. Really, the best course of action is just to write what feels natural, and don’t worry about trying too hard to make it ‘perfectly Shakespearean’. Wigfrid’s dialogue is a lot like poetry, in the sense that the way it sounds ebbing and flowing can oftentimes be more important than the usage of the words themselves.

Though speaking of words and their uses, Wigfrid will often refer to herself with very specific terms. The three she uses most frequently are ‘warrior’, ‘Viking’, and ‘Valkyrie’. While there’s little to say about the first one that could not be gleaned from its direct meaning alone, the latter two is where the most interest lies.

When referring to Wigfrid directly, all survivors- including Wigfrid herself- will capitalize the V in ‘Viking’. While Viking does not necessarily have to be a proper noun, the use of a non-capitalized ‘viking’ is usually used to refer to something generally pirate-like in nature. By capitalizing Viking, one is directly referring to Norse seafarers, instead of its more generalized and modern definition. Though all survivors default to using its proper noun equivalent, there is little harm in using it as a common noun in writing.

The same, however, can not be said about the term ‘Valkyrie’. To not get too deep into definitions of Nordic culture, Valkyries are spiritual, almost angelic entities who specialize in ferrying worthy souls to Valhalla. Being rather important figures within Norse mythos, and originally being used as a proper noun, it’s important to keep it punctuated when addressing Wigfrid by it, or in instances where she self addresses (which are quite frequent, mind you).

Combat and its Ethics

It isn’t very difficult to garner the fact that Wigfrid is quite fond of combat. Not only does fighting feed directly back into her health and sanity, but the mere concept of a fight promotes excitement out of her. Battle hardly often leaves her mind. Though, since it is such a cornerstone of her lifestyle, it is important to know the sorts of things she prioritizes about it. A quality of Wigfrid that often goes overlooked is that she has a strict set of rules and standards for combat that she seems highly uninclined to break.

Killing Conditions

When it comes to particular conditions about what it is she’ll kill, Wigfrid- much like other survivors- doesn’t seem to have much of an issue attacking the more NPC-like monsters of The Constant. However, she isn’t naturally opposed to being amicable with them, and shares good relations with them even despite her carnivorous nature, as displayed through her standard pig quote (“Will you fight alongside me, pig?”), pig ally quote (“We ride to battle!”), and even her dead pig quote (“He died with honor.”), which will always trigger, whether previously allied or not.

While she proves to be far less amicable with entities such as bunnymen (“I will eat you.” You can’t exactly get much blunter than that), her quote for fishermerms, Shipwreck’s exclusive merm variant, sheds some insight to her thought process in regards to speaking beasts (“I quarrel not with fisherfolk, so long as they do not take up arms.”). The implication here is that Wigfrid is more willing to be amicable with those who are less likely to strike first. Considering bunnymen and their intolerance to carnivores, it can be easily understood why she is so swift to abandon the pleasantries displayed to other, neutral beasts.

In regards to other survivors, Wigfrid will only threaten the life of another after they’ve proven to be dangerous to the group, through either attacking or murder. However, when it comes to such matters, she is far less likely to threaten the life of a child than she would an adult. Compare, for instance, her murderer Wanda quote (“Thou shall answer for this betrayal, [player]! Meet my spear!”) and her murderer Wurt quote (“I will not be defeated so easily, beastie!”). Though ultimately serving a similar purpose, her threats towards children are far less direct, and tends to stray from the implication of murder that she directs towards the rest of the adult cast.

Fighting with Honor

When it comes to combat with anyone- be it man, giant, or beast- Wigfrid puts heavy emphasis on keeping the fight honorable in nature. While this is a relatively ambiguous desire in a vacuum, luckily, she is incredibly vocal on what is considered honorable vs dishonorable in combat. According to her, an honorable fight does NOT include…

Ranged weaponry, as shown by her electric blowdart and eyeshot quotes, among others (“A-face-to-face fight would be more honorable.”, “A coward’s weapon, dropped by a pitiful, sneaking creature.”)

The use of poison, or toxins that function similarly to it, as shown by her quotes for poison mosquitos, firenettles, and the stupefying lure, among others (“Poison! The work of a coward!”, “Accursed plant with your fiery barbs! Fight me properly!”, “It doth feel a bit like cheating…”)

Ambushing, or attacking while your enemy is blinded, as shown by her general flup quote and attacker Charlie quote (“You cowardly mudlurker!”, “Coward!”)

Retreating or hiding away from battle, as shown by her quotes for a retreating Eye of Terror, suspicious moonrock werepigs, and Battlemaster Pugna, among others (“You would flee this fight? Asgard does not honor cowards!”, “Do not cower behind your carapace of rock! Fight!”, “Tis a coward who watches the fight.”)

Striking while the enemy is asleep, as shown through various quotes for sleeping mobs (“It is cowardly to attack a sleeping enemy.”, “I will allow it a fair fight and wait til it awakes.”)

It can be inferred that Wigfrid not only expects these standards to be met by her enemies, but holds herself to the same standards as well. We will go into further confirmation of this later.

One final thing important to note about these rules and standards Wigfrid holds for herself is that the quickest way to gain her ire is by breaking them. This can be very easily identified through Wigfrid’s relations with snakes. Being cunning, sneaking beasts by nature- most of them venomous from birth- they really can’t help but break multiple of her thoroughly upheld rules.

It is very easy to see the effect that has on her perception of them, as shown by her general snake and poison snake quotes, as well as her commentary on their den (“Never trust those who slither.”, “Keep your foul fangs from my hide!”, “You skulking wretch!”). Not even depictions of snakes, such as the toy cobra trinket aren’t safe from her wrath (“Tis no foe worthy of I.”), and her quote for snakeskin flooring (“My enemy’s hide feels good beneath my feet!”) reveals how easily she would consider such a ‘dishonorable’ foe to be an enemy of her, a term previously only used to refer to Maxwell (and even then, only in Don’t Starve solo).

Religion

Though Wigfrid frequently will make mentions and references to Norse mythology, this section is meant to focus more on Wigfrid’s own personal connection to religion. Fascinatingly enough, though the nature of her acting might imply otherwise, the connection she holds to her gods seems remarkably genuine.

Being an actress by trade, it may not come as a surprise to hear that Wigfrid seems to highly prioritize other people’s praise and approval. Though what is interesting is that this motivation also seems to extend to the gods she worships. The concept of ‘worthiness’ tends to creep up in a lot of her dialogue that revolves around religion, and it isn’t uncommon for her to consider positive or negative circumstances as proof of her worthiness (or lack thereof) in the eyes of her gods.

Consider her quotes for the ancient chest (known within the code as the “sacred_chest”), and her reaction to answering the puzzle incorrectly vs her reaction to solving it (“Alas! I am unworthy!”, “I have gained the gods’ favor!”). In a similar vein, consider her reaction to receiving an electric attack buff from Warly’s Volt Goat Chaud-Froid, and her subsequent quote for losing it (“I’ve been granted the power of Thor!”, “I… suppose I was unworthy.”). Not only is there a similar verbal motif, but there is also a trend of fault and blame placed upon herself, even in situations devoid of any blame.

It also is quite clear of Wigfrid’s loyalty towards her gods, or what she believes them to manifest as. As a more pertinent example, she has a very interesting relation with the Celestial Altar and their individual components, believing them to be fragments through which she and her god of moon can commune with (“Make thy will known to me, idol!”, “The gods commune to me through thee.”). This bond she has falsely created is only further emphasized through the Celestial Sanctum pieces (“It calls out to me, I must take heed.”, “It has chosen me to safeguard its passage home.”), where again this metric of worth is highlighted through use of the word ‘chosen’.

Of course, the gestalts and all associated with them have been proven to manipulate the desires and loyalties of survivors to convince them to do their will, so it isn’t exactly a surprise that Wigfrid would obey them under such circumstances. As a result, her actions themselves are not as important as her willingness to actually obey them. This seemingly unquestioning desire to conform to the desire of her gods, even to an unscrupulous or dangerous seeming end, says a lot about how far the limits of her loyalties will stretch.

Another interesting thing to note in regards to religion is Wigfrid’s reaction to gods that have nothing to do with her own. Though not a factor of how she perceives her own religion, it is still interesting to study how she behaves around the religions of others. The easiest example of this comes from the Gnaw in the Gorge, which Wigfrid (perhaps aptly) labels as a god of that domain. Despite not belonging to her own religion, she treats the beast with a respect not unlike that which her own gods receive. Offerings to the Gnaw are relevant in nature (“Accept my offering, oh mighty gods.”), and when examining pebble crab meat she will muse about the sacrifice of the creature’s flesh (“T’would be an honor to be fed to the sky god, beast.”). Though she may not extend her loyalties to gods beyond her own, she seems to hold a unanimous respect for deities of all origins, even despite their potential lethality.

Entry to Valhalla

Perhaps one of the most notable parts of Wigfrid’s religious-based commentary is her interest in Valhalla, an afterlife for the greatest warriors, and where Valkyries such as herself must ferry noble souls after being slain in battle. Wigfrid seems quite adamant that this is the location she’ll arrive in after her death, despite the fact that death within the borders of The Constant seems completely impossible. Not only does this instill a brazen lack of death within her- as shown by her war saddle and lifejacket quotes, among many others (“I ride to victory or death!”, “Adventure offers no true safety!”)- but it also gives more insight into how she perceives battles.

A very telling comparison of quotes is the difference between her sharkitten and Tigershark quotes. The former are pacifistic infants, incapable of harming the player even if engaged in combat. When it comes to fighting, Wigfrid holds little interest in causing any harm to them (“It is your momma I want…”). What it is she ‘wants’ could be easily assumed to be nothing more than an enthralling fight. Though, if one were to check her quotes for the Tigershark in question, she couldn’t spell out her true intent any clearer (“Take me to Valhalla, devil of the sea!”).

There is a unique allure that comes with honorable fights, because with them brings the chance (perhaps even the faintest sliver, as far as she’s concerned) of reward. Of heavenly rapture. And this ties back not only to her efforts to appear worthy in the eyes of her deities, but also to the moral standards she maintains in combat. It all intertwines together for exactly one cause: Valhalla, and acceptance beyond its gates. Not only does dishonorable combat ruin the gods’ perceptions of her, but it also drastically affects her chances of acquiring heavenly peace. To the point where upon breaking any of her rules- as explored in her poison blowdart quote (“To weaken from a distance. Oden forgive me…”)- she will feel a shame drastic enough to seek divine forgiveness.

Much like her interaction with the Tigershark, Wigfrid will seek out many of The Constant’s beasts in search of battles worthy of a warrior’s death. In fact, ‘worthy’ is the term she uses to refer to these beasts, as is plainly shown in her Deerclops approach and second phase Celestial Guardian quotes (“A worthy foe approaches.”, “It seems you are a worthy foe indeed…”). Seeing as how she still thinks highly of these creatures despite her willingness to fight them, as confirmed by the description of her Hallowed Nights headpiece (“Wigfrid chose to be one of her favorite foes to battle for Hallowed Nights.”), it can be assumed that ‘worthy’ in this context is a complement. And seemingly, quite a high one.

Virtues and Vices

Most of Wigfrid’s virtues have already been touched upon throughout this entire guide so far; just to recap, though, her most notable positive traits are her honor and loyalty, both in regards to her social life with her friends, as well as the spiritual life she shares with herself and her religion. However, as all of the best characters are, Wigfrid is not a flawless individual.

Pride is a recurring theme within the grander story of Don’t Starve. Much like many other characters, she too suffers from a surplus of it. Though not as bad or obvious as Maxwell, or even Wilson, Wigfrid’s own conceit is notable enough to be an important element to her character.

One of the main ways this manifests itself is through what some would call Main Character/Protagonist Syndrome. Though, to give her some credit, when she is embodying the mind of a main character- turning her life into a performance, making the world her stage- something such as this was bound to be inevitable.

Though many quotes can help suggest this point, one of the more prominent ones is her quote for Maxwell’s statues back in Don’t Starve solo (“Arrg! Is that the antagonist to my saga?!”). Though this quote has since been replaced in Don’t Starve Together, it says most anything one would need to know about the thought process Wigfrid spent most of her time in The Constant withholding. Maxwell as her antagonist. The Constant being nothing more than a set piece for her adventure, and hers alone. After who knows how many years of such an idea floating around in her head, to claim it wouldn’t have an effect on her perception of the world now- even with new allies at her back- seems a bit of a stretch.

Even beyond this protagonistic complex, Wigfrid’s pride still frequently gets the better of her. She’ll frequently overstate and overestimate the extent of her abilities in combat, as shown by her reactions to the Antlion’s sand spikes, or the Celestial Guardian’s traps (“The earth itself dares to fight me!”, “You think I’m trapped here with you? Ha! It is you who are trapped with me!”), but such self bolstering will persist even to the most benign of tasks, as shown with her bark for failing any generic action (“If I can’t do it, it can’t be done!”). And, of course, there’s the more harmless example of pride in one's appearance, as seen from a self examination (“Who is that incredible warrior in the mirror?”).

Though pride is the more obvious example of one of Wigfrid’s vices, a lesser obvious- yet still notable one- is her semi-frequent impatience. While there are some matters she can bring herself to wait for, such as rowing her own ship, or waiting for her friends to finish their own tasks (“Patience is a warrior’s friend.”, “True warriors wait their turn.”), there are certain situations she will not display the same grace towards… More specifically, fishing and gardening, activities she does not favor. In her occasional barks she makes this abundantly clear (“I tire of waiting!”, “I’m tempted to simply wade in with my spear…”, “It’s not befitting of a warrior to just stand about waiting!”). It seems as a general rule of thumb, the less Wigfrid enjoys the task (or individual the task revolves around), the less willing she is to display patience to begin with.

Relationships

When it comes to other survivors, Wigfrid is very vocal about her opinions on them- the majority of said opinions being positive. Wigfrid delights in being a part of the fold, using both ‘allies’ and ‘friends’ interchangeably as terms of endearment. As can be easily seen in her feasting bark and gift wrapping quotes (“My friends, let us celebrate this great bounty!”, “I must show my allies how much they are valued!”), she places heavy emphasis on their bond, and makes an effort to show them as much.

Furthermore, something else Wigfrid places emphasis on is the safety and fighting powesse of her allies. As is easily discoverable through her ball and cup, coat hanger, and notorious backscratcher commentary (“ No time for games! I must train my new allies!”, “This weak, flimsy wire reminds me… I must toughen Maxwell up!”, “Finally, a safe weapon with which to spar with my new allies.”), Wigfrid seems to consider it her personal responsibility to ensure the others know how to battle with the same competence and strength as she. Yet even so, she seems to keep mindful of her interactions with them, and does not wish for them to come to any legitimate harm by her own hands.

Due to the surplus of survivors within The Constant, to go over each one of them in detail would be an arduous feat. Instead, the following chart provides a general overview of Wigfrid’s connections to each of her allies.

It is important to note that a ‘neutral’ relationship doesn’t inherently mean Wigfrid does not find herself friends with that survivor. In this context, it is used to refer to a perfectly acceptable friendship. ‘Positive’ friendships are relationships that go a bit beyond what is typical for Wigfrid’s usual friendships. Beyond the material of this chart, a few examples of notable exchanges between characters are as follows:

Though Wigfrid can not be confirmed to have any ire towards any of the survivors, the closest she gets to such is through her dialogue with Wortox. More specifically, her response to him attacking another survivor (“Back! Back beast!”). Though the use of the word ‘beast’ isn’t as notable as one might think, the most interesting part of this interaction is her lack of a proper threat. As previously discussed, Wigfrid isn’t opposed to attacking survivors should the matter come down to it… But she seems to have little to say to Wortox, other than barking commands that vaguely resemble something close to fear. It can be assumed that this may be due to Wortox’s diet as a soul eater, souls (and the preservation of them) being very important to Valkyries. Seeing as how Valkyries are also oft referred to as ‘spirits’, the imp’s appetite may have a darker meaning to her specifically, depending on whether she perceives herself spiritual in nature.

Maxwell is the only survivor Wigfrid will actively refer to as an ally, as seen in her generic greeting line (“Greetings, [player], my ally!”). Though never directly confirmed or contextualized, it can be assumed that this is in an effort to either throw him a bone (where other survivors usually wouldn’t), or simply to remind him that he is welcomed among the group. At the very least, welcome among herself.

In multiple quotes- her generic greeting quote, for instance- Wigfrid will refer to Wurt as a ‘beastie’ (“Hail, [player], small beastie of the marshlands!”). While this means nothing in a vacuum, ‘beastie’ is a term Wigfrid uses as endearment to refer to animals she shares a connection with, like a tamed beefalo (“Rise, beastie! We ride!”), or the lovable kitcoons (“A wee beastie that’s particularly excellent at hiding.”). It can thus be concluded that Wigfrid may find Wurt to be loveable or cute.

Acting and The Actress

One of the most interesting parts of Wigfrid’s character is the fact that Wigfrid truly is a character… A persona that she dons, and a mask she wears. And while there are occasional slips out of character, the person underneath (who we will refer to here as The Actress) is a true anomaly, as interesting as they are anonymous. However, there are still a lot of interesting notes we can glean from what little we know of her character… And the ways the past self has affected the present are equally as curious to see.

Wigfrid’s section of the compendium is very notable in comparison to the others’, seeing as how it touches on the person she was before Wigfrid. While the passages use her name, they speak of someone she no longer claims to be, and no longer desires to associate with. The compendium claims that “Wigfrid always knew she was meant for the stage”, and that “her debut performance was an instant sensation”. It’s been canonically established that the persona of the Valkyrie is the role that granted Wigfrid her first tastes of stardom and success. However, as the paragraph continues, the retelling of her past begins to take a darker turn.

“Fans delighted in her portrayal of a noble and fearsome Valkyrie warrior, and she in turn took great pains to fully embody the role. She was perfect for it… perhaps too perfect. Every part she played afterward seemed to fall flat”. This statement alone has major implications for The Actress and her thought process:

The use of the phrase ‘in turn’ when used to describe the way The Actress fully threw herself into her role implies that her doing so wasn’t entirely out of self fulfillment. Rather, it was something about the audience- a desire to further capture their approval, or repayment for their generosity, or perhaps something else all together- that encouraged her to continue delving deeper into the persona.

The way the compendium describes this act is ‘great pains’. Though it does not specify what these pains happen to be, it is clear that the road to becoming Wigfrid was not only arduous, but seemingly adverse for her health (though whether more physically or mentally remains canonically unclear).

Perhaps the most important thing to take away from this statement is the fact that The Actress took up other acts- seemingly of her own volition. She did not stay in the body of Wigfrid indefinitely, but rather it seemed she was denied the right by her audience to play any role after ‘Wigfrid’ had been truly perfected.

Where we have no direct confirmation of what roles The Actress attempted, nor how well or poorly she portrayed them on stage, the description of her Victorian headpiece skin is the closest thing we have as a hint for what a potential act may have been (“This actress fought tooth and nail for this prestigious Shakesperean role.”). If we assume this quote to be genuine in the information it presents, it becomes rather obvious that the persona of the Valkyrie wasn’t always The Actress’ only love, but rather just the role she was most practiced in.

The Actress’ behaviors and body language in Wigfrid’s refresh short, The Curtain Calls, make it expressly obvious her own pride gets in the way of properly handling criticism. Perhaps not unsurprisingly, this is a trait that she and Wigfrid share. While it is rather rare for the concept of criticism to become relevant in The Constant, the presence of Charlie’s mockingbirds will sour Wigfrid’s mood even before they’ve said anything hostile (“Begone, critics!”).

However, something unique to note about critics within the refresh short, within The Actress’ fantasy, their printed words mutate, and take the form of a towering beast. A towering snake, a motif we’ve discussed once before, as well as Wigfrid’s detest of them. Whether this is meant to imply that Wigfrid’s hatred of snakes comes from her hatred of critics, or if it’s the other way around (or, perhaps, that both are true) is unknown. However, this pattern seems incredibly intentional, and it's highly likely that Wigfrid’s sour attitude towards serpents gives an equal (or roughly equal) insight into the ire she holds for judgment towards her.

Though not every instance of The Actress slipping out is an inherently negative one. As aforementioned, Wigfrid will occasionally bring up her old stage life, or terminology that revolves around it. While some of them are nothing more than passive slips of the tongue, many of them carry with them a sense of what appears to be nostalgia. This can be seen in a variety of places, including examining a Year of the Beefalo stage, Charlie’s stage, and Winona’s spotlight (“Preparing for the stage is nearly as exhilarating as preparing for battle!”, “The stage beckons!”, “It can’t get enough of me!”). Though perhaps determined to stick with one persona (for presumably forever), it seems clear that Wigfrid still enjoys and misses the act of performing and acting. ‘Playing’ Wigfrid- where it once may have satisfied her- nowadays seems to leave something missing that only a genuine performance could provide. Though, really, that much is spelled out in just the name of her refresh short alone. The curtain calls.

Assorted Curiosities

Like many other great characters, not all elements of Wigfrid can be neatly sorted into perfectly categorized boxes. Here are a couple more small, but interesting parts of her character that didn’t exactly fit into the categories above.

Connections with Fauna

Being carnivorous by (what is essentially) choice, many people incorrectly assume that Wigfrid’s relationships with animals are naturally cold or selfish, when in fact that couldn’t be further from the truth. Despite the fact she must live off of animals to survive, Wigfrid tends to hold little ire for the animals around her, whether or not they’re passive in nature. There’s many instances where she can have a tame and ‘casual’ interaction with an animal, her quotes for interacting with Woby, no eyed deer, and sleeping caged birds being only a few examples (“Wouldst thou like a skritch behind thine ears?”, “The beauty of Freya dwells in all creatures!”, “Sweet dreams, raven friend.”).

However, even outside of animals Wigfrid doesn’t consider prey, she keeps a respectful- if not very unusual- connection with them. One of the more pertinent examples of such being catcoons, and a glance at her quote for an inhabited catcoon den can easily show you why (“Cute meat lives there.”). While Wigfrid does not refer to every animal as meat, it is admittedly a habit she’ll do for multiple creatures she comes across. However, she does not say this to display superiority, or even to threaten animals that she comes across. This is made apparent by her examinings of an empty catcoon den, as well as the cat cap, to keep with the catcoon theme (“She fought bravely. Alas, she is gone.”, “A furry cap! Blessings to you, cute meat.”).

She values the presence of the creature, and remarks about its absence with slight sorrow. Even despite considering it a source of food, she blesses and respects the life it gave to provide her with the resources she now has. In fact, respecting the resources of dead creatures is a motif she carries with her throughout multiple animal-based products, from the moggles, to the piggyback, to even the magic seal (“It’s best to use every part of the animal.”, “The pig died with honor, then gave to me this pack.”, “I shall wield this with proper respect for the mighty warrior wizard that left it.”).

Connections with Flora

Ironically enough, though most people do not consider Wigfrid’s relationship with plants, in actuality it is very similar to what others falsely assume her connection to animals is. Though Wigfrid can appreciate the natural beauty of some flora, such as common flowers, roses, or the Forge’s healing flowers (“A flower from Freya.”, “Were that I smelled half as sweet.”, “A blessing from Freya is contained within.”), flowers are just about where her compliments towards plants end. Her barks when talking to budding farms are nothing but aggravated (“Perhaps someone more weak and feeble might talk to the plants, while I hunt.”, “I care naught for these plants or the veggies they produce.”, “Grow, or do not.”), and her reaction to garnering more research about gardening isn’t any better (“My head hath been filled with useless knowledge about non-meat!”).

Though truly, one of the best examples of her blatant displeasure around plants stems from some of her dialogue from the Year of the Rat races. Though she can hold her temper well enough through the entirety of the carrat training process, a poorly trained carrat on the race track will bring out just about the worst of her (“Foolish vegetable, the race is that way!”, “Thou cannot trust a vegetable to do anything right.”, “Quicken thine step, rodent!” “By Oden, wake up!”). While her reactions to typical plants and farms could be explained somewhat by her own pride (not wanting to be seen as ‘weak’ by doing something that would conflict with her persona), there is little that could explain the carrats other than a fury that stems from the concept of vegetables themselves.

Sense of Style

While The Constant doesn’t truly grant survivors the freedom to explore their own clothing styles and preferences, skinsets allow a slightly deeper look at their preferences than their classic clothing would otherwise allow. While Wigfrid doesn’t seem to mind revealing her arms, only 6 out of her 16 skins are stylized in this way. While many are indecisive on whether or not Wigfrid’s original set of clothing features either shorts or a skirt, factoring that skin out of the equation leaves only 6 out of 15 clothing sets that feature a dress, skirt, or skirt-like features; and even then, half of them include pants, or some sort of pants-equivalent that covers the remainder of her legs.

In regards to material, Wigfrid is canonically fond of fur, and mentions it multiple times, including her announcement to the cold, examination of slurper pelts, and her wardrobe quote (“Brrr! Where are my furs!”, “I do love furs.”, “That’s where I keep my furs and cloaks.”).

Verbal Contradictions

Since Wigfrid is written not by one individual, but (presumably) by rotating members of the Klei team, occasionally some of her quotes will override established parts of her character, leading to contradictory sentences. While most are harmless enough, here are some examples of some quotes that may prove confusing to anyone attempting to grasp a deeper understanding of Wigfrid’s character.

Poop, “If only I could use it as camouflage from predators.”, Torch, “Perfect for a nighttime assault.”

As was already explained in regards to Wigfrid’s morals and combat, hiding from enemies and ambushing in the dark are fighting strategies that Wigfrid has explicitly considered cowardly. It would be unusual for her to stoop to such levels on a whim.

Dripple pipes, “I have no rhythm…”

A completely unfounded statement. Wigfrid was an overnight success, a talented and beloved actress, a ‘spellbinding’ singer (as proclaimed by news articles written about her), and canonically has perfect pitch. Nothing about her career, talents, or hobbies would imply she has no sense of rhythm. In fact, quite the opposite! A good singer can not have bad rhythm!

Cut reeds, “I cleaned all the bugs out! Then I ate them.”

While not in classic Don’t Starve solo or Don’t Starve Together, the Hamlet DLC introduced a unique food group referred to as ‘bugs’. To this day, it only contains four items, two raw bugs, and two cooked bugs. However, Wigfrid will refuse to eat either. While technically she does eat bugs if you consider the fact she’ll eat the meat of spiders, not only are those spiders larger than common bugs- dropping a lot more meat than a regular spider- she also hunts spiders with her own hands, as opposed to turning over a rock and eating what lies underneath. Despite the cut reeds quote coming first, Wigfrid has been shown to canonically refuse eating smaller bugs, thus making this quote contradictory

#dontstarvetogether #dst wigfrid #idk what to tag this as #character analysis #this took me 11 hours so if i messed anything up umm. no i didn't 🔫😊

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