#every time he comes across a fragment from the order
Text
Spared
I intended to write a short drabble about Abby being immune to Cordyceps, but alas, it morphed into approximately 5k words right before my very eyes. How does this happen? Anyway. I appreciate your presence, taking the time to read these fragments of my mind. Thank you for being here. I hope you enjoy. This is a darker, more angsty, gore-filled journey and, as always, it’s intended for 18+ audiences only. Violence and sexual themes.
A man on a mission, Dr. Jerry Anderson devoted himself to eradicating the plague that wreaked havoc on the world.
Developing a vaccine against Cordyceps consumed his life.
In their quest for answers, people would come from all corners of the globe, hoping to be included in his trial. Despite undergoing countless procedures and surgeries in a desperate pursuit of a cure, most patients tragically succumbed to the treatments themselves or to their initial infections. As the years passed and resources became scarce, his experiments progressively lost their footing.
Mere weeks before his untimely demise, Dr. Anderson conducted his last trial on a patient. The experiment unfolded in a way he never anticipated.
After receiving the injection, the patient, without previous exposure to the virus, experienced a perplexing mutation, developing far more than immunity to the perils of infection.
She possessed the ability to communicate with it and maneuver through it, like a ghost.
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“You wanted to see me.”
Isaac extends his arm, signaling for you to have a seat at his desk. He swirls a decanter filled with a rich, dark liquid before pouring it between two sturdy glasses.
With a jarring crack against the maple surface, Isaac sets one glass before you.
“I don’t drink,” you say.
As you bring the potion to your nose, the pungent smell of the liquor assaults your senses, and you search for a compliment to give out of courtesy. Hoping to dissuade him from making further gestures of rapport, you decide against it.
“Is this an issue I need to be aware of?” he asks. “I have no patience for drunks.”
Leaning back in his chair, he peers at you intently over his glass.
“No, sir.”
Given the stories you’ve heard about his inebriated escapades, it’s quite ironic to hear such a statement from him.
You feel the uncomfortable burn of his glare, a demand for you to elaborate. Clearing your throat, you offer him a hesitant explanation.
“I prefer to keep my head straight. It’s important in my line of work,” you say.
Unimpressed by your reasoning, he leans forward and flicks your glass, producing a sharp sound that resonates through your chest.
“Do you smell smoke?” he asks.
“No,” you say. “But I’d really rather not—”
Silencing you with a raised hand, he swiftly cuts you off.
“Good. I don’t recall setting a fire. Have a drink,” he orders. “We have matters of discretion to discuss.”
As usual, his matters of discretion connect you to his hidden mercenary, a soldier you have treated multiple times throughout the years unbeknownst to your comrades. She’s Isaac’s most lethal weapon, a secret you wish you didn’t have to protect. What he is doing with her feels cruel, using her impenetrable body for brutal warfare and then leaving her isolated with her injuries, all while she waits for the next assignment.
It takes weeks for the roiling feeling in your gut to subside after meeting with her.
“When do you plan on ending this?” you ask.
Maybe the booze is taking effect, emboldening you beyond your usual self. It’s impossible to bite your tongue, the torment of watching this unfold gnawing at you.
“Excuse me?” he drawls.
“Sir, she’s alone out there. It’s not right,” you say, reluctantly downing the last remnants of the glass before pushing it across the desk. “There are factors you need to consider. Mental decline, her physical limitations. If you’d consider bringing her in, she’d make a promising squad leader.”
Trying to reason with him about her basic human needs will be futile, so as with every other matter, it’s more effective to approach the situation from a tactical standpoint. His perception of human beings as living entities is questionable as is.
“Do not underestimate her faculties,” Isaac says. “She’s built differently. This is the purpose she serves to keep her people safe, and she does it willingly.”
“I hear what you’re saying, but sir, if you’d just give me a minute.”
“Do I need to find someone else to handle this case?” he asks.
It’s a loaded question, a double barrel to your temple. The act of assigning someone else to handle her case doesn’t entitle you to be included in the mission rotation again.
Only you hold the key to the secret of her existence, and it will die with you.
“When do I ship out?” you ask.
“Tonight,” he mutters.
He turns his back to you, and you can hear the faint sound of liquid pouring into his glass. When he dismisses you by consuming it alone, you see yourself out.
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The journey to the prison is a tumultuous one.
The absence of infected is a relief, but the spray-painted rattle snakes garnishing the buildings and the maze of explosives on the roadways dangle ominously in your face. With Bear, your devoted canine companion, you make it as far as the gas station before a spike strip shreds the front tires of your Humvee. The sunken road, slicked by rain and oil, causes the vehicle to lose traction completely, sliding sideways into the long-abandoned propane tank sitting at the edge of the freeway.
Warmth spills through your eyebrows, prompting you to reach up and touch your forehead to locate the source. Your fingers, stained bright red, begin to tremble as you observe Bear—his ears flattened with every dark hair along his spine raised in alarm.
It’s a matter of seconds before a pair of violent hands tear you from the vehicle and toss you into the dirt, jarring rock granules forcing your eyes shut. You blink them away until all you see is a mangled police visor staring down at you, its surface speckled with dried blood, a menacing baton swinging an inch from your nose. Though the mask muffles the voice behind it, there’s a barbed, frigid edge to his tone.
Bear lunges out of the cab, seizing the enemy by his throat and forcing him to the ground. It grants you enough time to scramble to your feet, only to be met with the disturbing view of an infected hoard stumbling toward you from the hillside, chains dragging behind some of them.
Your vision becomes increasingly blurry as nausea ferments in your stomach, twisting you inside out. You pilfer the rifle off your attacker, as a group of his mates emerge from the shadows. You lean against the Humvee, examining the firearm before chambering the only bullet attached to the limp body at your boots.
“Fuck ‘em up,” you command.
Bear is a missile, darting through the rubble, his target set everywhere at once. Next to Isaac’s best kept secret, your dog is a diabolical killing machine.
“Shoot that fucking dog!”
Your eyes narrow in on the enemy poised to strike Bear, and you steady your aim. The roar of your scream lingers in your ears as you fire the only round you’ve got. An aggressive swarm of infected are moving toward the chaos in a cluster of rot and tangled limbs and you’re frozen. A horrific slaughter, surpassing any level of violence you’ve encountered, breaks out in a flash.
The infected shred your attackers apart, ribbons of flesh and shattered bone coating the pavement. The moment you call out for Bear, the sudden noise turns a dozen vacant, pustule eyes on you.
With no weapons at your disposal, you frantically scramble onto the roof of the Humvee, scanning the surroundings for an escape route. A sea of infected pool together like a rancid colony of ants.
Some say that the pain from a Clicker attack is unlike anything else. Perhaps it’s their blind, frenzied hunger that makes them so vicious.
You’re on the brink of discovering it firsthand when the decaying corpse, with its outstretched arms and gnarled fingers, halts mid-motion.
The infected stop in their tracks one by one, haunted marionettes with abruptly yanked strings. Save for the sound of your own blood pumping in your ears, the silence becomes deafening. Their bodies writhe in an eerie synchronicity as you try not to breathe.
In rare form, you squeeze your eyes shut to escape the fear. The sudden weight of a hand on your shoulder causes you to swing violently in its direction, your fist caught by a solid, calloused palm. Your piercing scream permeates the silence before you instinctively clamp your hands over your mouth.
Despite your shock, the lifeless figures remain unaffected, and you squint to make sense of it.
“I don’t understand,” you say.
Through tangled locks of greasy hair, celestial blue eyes stare expectantly. Her intense gaze rakes over you, a familiar pearl-white streak marring only one iris. It’s been a while, but her angular face is a sight you remember well.
“They can’t hurt me?” you ask.
“They can,” she explains, reaching up to examine the gash on your forehead. “But they won’t.”
“Bear,” you blurt.
Using her thumb and forefinger, she turns your chin until you spot your dog at the edge of the hoard. You can feel his confusion as his tail wags anxiously, ready for your next command. The simple act of turning your head sends a tsunami of vertigo crashing over you.
Out of nowhere, your mind becomes a jumbled mess, making it a challenge to string coherent thoughts together. She senses your trepidation, and her hands immediately find your hips, offering stability as you falter.
“I’m dizzy. I need to get down,” you stammer.
Her grip tightens and you try to focus on the sharp sting of her fingertips digging into your skin. The world tilts, the infected shuffling and groaning as they slowly snap out of their trance.
“Breathe,” she says. “Stay with me.”
Darkness cloaks your vision before you can summon the energy to respond.
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As you blink awake, the biting cold hits you first. The source of the unwelcome breeze draws your attention, as the chilly gusts sneak into the room through a slit in the concrete. It’s meant to be a window, but it falls miserably short of the mark.
You’ve spent countless nights inside this prison, mending the wounds of Isaac’s soldier in the dim, flickering light. It’s the first time you’ve landed yourself in her bed.
The blanket, enveloping you like a cocoon, is unpleasantly musty, and you peel it away. Rising from the rigid steel slab, the room spins, deterring you from getting on your feet. Your body feels heavy and sore, a relentless ache pulsating behind your eyes. You give it another shot and stumble to your feet, using the walls as a crutch until you regain your balance.
Bear sleeps peacefully at the foot of the bed, his gentle snores filling the room. It’s intriguing how he finds more peace in the prison than in his own home, but he certainly deserves some rest.
The clank of iron plates echoes down the corridor, and you follow the sound. Your bare feet recoil against the chilly ground, and you’re left pondering when exactly you misplaced your boots. The hiss of heavy breathing and the occasional strenuous grunt accompanies your journey from one cell to the next, guiding you down the hallway toward the sound.
You peek around the corner and wild blonde hair appears in your line of sight.
Chances are, she already senses your presence, but you give a gentle warning that you’re approaching just in case.
“How long have I been out?” you ask.
Performing dips on a rusted bench, she maintains her focus, her back turned to you. Muscles flex and bulge with each repetition and you notice she’s adopted fresh scars across her ravaged back since your previous visit. Without a word, she powers through her reps and smoothly transitions into her next set.
It took several visits before she would give you anything more than a frosty response. Despite the feeling of regression, it’s possible she just needs time to adjust.
“I noticed you grabbed my bag,” you say, idly fidgeting with your hands as you linger in the doorway. “Thank you for that—for all of it, really. I’m supposed to be the one taking care of you.”
Her body stiffens into a plank, losing momentum in her push-ups. Beads of sweat roll down her face and drip to the ground, her solid body trembling. She takes a deep breath before releasing it in a huff, continuing her routine without pause.
“Have you eaten? I packed some spices I think you’ll like.”
With a frustrated growl, she shakes her head, trying to dispel the irritation. Your instincts tell you to leave her alone to finish her workout, but for some odd reason, you find yourself unable to hold back the torrent of words.
“I thought it’d be cool to start a garden here. Herbs are nice to cook with, you know? Some for healing, too. There’s a decent spot in the yard for it.”
“What’s next—rose bushes?” she mutters.
“Roses can be great for tinctures,” you explain. “It’s a learning curve, but you get great sunlight for them.”
She props herself up on her elbows mid-push-up and lets out a choppy breath. When she raises her eyes to meet yours, anger fills them to the brim, and the hostility is scalding.
“I want Isaac to stop sending you.”
The pain of the unexpected dagger is far more intense than you could have ever imagined. You often wish that Isaac hadn’t implicated you in his secret, but you’ve grown to care for this wounded soul.
“You might as well take me out back, then,” you chuckle humourlessly. “Because that’s a death sentence.”
“Give me five minutes,” she sneers. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Look, I didn’t ask for this,” you say, a kernel of truth wrapped up in a rather emotional reaction to her painful barb. “I’m his soldier, too.”
Springing up from the ground, she snatches her shirt off a nearby chair and pushes past you. Before she slips the tattered garment over her head, you catch a glimpse of a deep, jagged laceration at the base of her neck.
While you make a mental note of it, you ultimately decide against bringing it up.
Rather than hounding her when she clearly wants to be alone, you decide to hunt for that old claw bathtub, desperate for a soak and maybe a good cry.
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This tomb scatters beauty, but you easily find its seeds.
The copper tub catches the flickering candlelight, and the gleam is otherworldly against the lonely shadows. The moment you step into the hot water, you can feel your skin buzzing with gentle licks of heat and your tired muscles begin to surrender to the relaxation it brings.
You can recall the day she dragged this old bathtub into the prison, the legs of it squeaking across the concrete floor as if the claws belonged to a corporeal animal. Showers alone proved ineffective in hastening her healing process and cleansing her wounds and, surprisingly, despite her initial uncertainty, she took your advice.
The candles differ from the ones you previously left behind, so you assume she still makes use of the hollow luxury when the mood strikes.
Submerging your head, you study the muffled sounds brought about by the density of the water. Everything is disparate beneath the surface, the low-pitched hoots of an owl muted and distant.
“I made food.”
“Jesus Christ!” you choke, body thrashing and creating a chaotic spray of water in every direction.
Your actions soak the woman standing beside the tub and, when she averts her gaze, droplets of water slip from her dirt-slicked lashes.
“Knocking helps!” you say, bracing your arms on the copper ridges.
“Count the doors in here—I’ll wait!”
Her sarcastic wit catches you off guard, and you feel your cheeks sting as confused gaiety tugs at them.
“What’s that face for?” she snaps.
It’s difficult to discern whether she’s asking a genuine question or if she’s in a defensive stance, so you wager it’s a blend of both.
“You’re funny,” you say. “When you’re not being a jerk.”
This time, when her eyes meet yours, the fury dissipates. There’s something soft and temperate where you’ve only ever witnessed the bane of unforgiving steel.
The pads of her fingers are a deep pink hue, and it dawns on you that the porcelain bowl must be extremely hot. You gesture to the side table disguised as a wooden stump and she sets the dish down.
“Can I have a look at that?” you ask, reaching for her hands.
The tub and clever positioning shroud your naked body, but the rest is all about her and her sudden ardent manners. With her face turned away, she offers you her palms first.
“It’s nothing. I’m fine,” she says.
While inspecting the burn and its surrounding wounds, you notice her shoulders dropping.
“You can sit, if you want,” you say.
Upon surveying the area, you’re aware that the number of chairs matches the number of doors, prompting an apologetic chuckle. A tiny smile teases her mouth as she crouches at your side instead.
“You need to run this under cold water, okay? And I should dress these cuts, so they don’t get infected.”
“What about you?” she asks. “I tried to clean it out, but it’s ugly.”
She moves to touch the gash on your forehead, and her quick movements startle you. When you flinch, her hand lingers in the air until she decides to rework her pace, taking a more languid approach.
“It’s been forever since someone called me ugly,” you jest.
“Missed opportunity,” she mumbles, biting her bottom lip to keep her grin at bay.
“You haven’t polished off that honey I brought yet, right?”
Her expression resembles a guilt-ridden thief caught in the act, and you struggle to suppress a burst of laughter.
“I should’ve known better. Maybe you need a hive instead of a garden,” you say.
She snorts at your suggestion before grabbing the cloth hanging on the tub and dunking it into the water. Instinctively, her weathered hands shape the fabric to dab gently at your injury. The surface is bruise-tender and the pain throbs outward in torturous sparks. She cups your jaw with her other hand to keep you from squirming.
“What if I’m allergic to bee stings? Because that’s a death sentence,” she mimics.
“I’ll try not to throw you in then,” you say. “No promises.”
A wide, earnest grin spreads across her tough features, and you forget how to breathe for a spell. She’s filthy and in desperate need of a hairbrush, but she’s still prettier than anyone you’ve met.
“What’s your name?” you ask.
Isaac never refers to her as anything other than his mercenary, and every time you had considered asking her in the past, your better judgement advised against it. Her preference for anonymity is clear, but you have so many unanswered questions.
In a smooth motion, she glides the cool cloth across the bridge of your nose.
“Do you really want to know?” she asks.
Seeking a moment of connection, you grasp her wrist, pausing her ministrations. Her gaze meets yours with a sense of urgency and she doesn’t break eye contact.
Water trickles from your hands, twirling along her wrist and cascading down her forearm. She fights to keep her eyes open, a raspy hum building at the back of her throat until goosebumps skate across your skin.
“I really want to know,” you say.
Her nod is slow and deliberate, contemplating the price she will have to pay for her decision.
“Once you see me,” she warns, and it’s uncertain whether she’s cautioning you or herself. “There’s no going back.”
“I can live with that,” you whisper.
Just when it looks like she’s ready to share, her body tenses up and you can almost touch the impenetrable barrier rising between you.
“Your stew is getting cold,” she says. “I’ll grab you a towel.”
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Away from the stadium lights, midnight is a mesmerizing weave of glistening diamonds spilled across an indigo sky. The sight of the Milky Way reminds you of her. That blemish etched along her iris—a celestial river carving through blue canvas.
You curl up on a bedroll in the tall grass and listen to the melodious ensemble of crickets and frogs, yearning for extra time in the countryside. There’s a sense of security here, with no sign of danger for miles. The tall and formidable walls back home do little to drown out the blood-curdling cries of the infected. Their presence is always looming, close enough to unsettle you, but never close enough to harm. It’s enough to disrupt your sleep, their ruined faces bleeding into your nightmares.
The once spirited and untamed landscape of home now only grows the carefully cultivated visions that Isaac orchestrates, depriving both his plants and his people of freedom.
Prior to Isaac recruiting you for his mission, you contemplated abandoning your ties to the WLF. You didn’t want to spend another moment on this planet living in a perpetual state of war, never knowing when you’d catch a stray arrow.
The peaceful ambiance of birdsong in the early morning tempers the harsh world for you. It’s a reminder that amidst famine and devastation, there must be more.
“You’re not sleeping inside tonight?”
Bear’s collar jingles, bringing you a sense of comfort as the dog keenly explores the prison yard before heading back indoors to nap. Your pup instantly feels at ease with the mysterious woman from the middle of nowhere, and you have no trouble comprehending why.
“I am,” you say. “I just wanted to see the stars first.”
“You don’t see much of that where you’re from?” she asks.
When you pat the ground, she sits cross-legged next to you like an old friend.
“Not really. It’s too bright in the city,” you explain. “I’m going to need to stitch that up—don’t think I haven’t noticed.”
While shooting you a disapproving look, she absentmindedly traces the cut near her collarbone before leaning back on her rugged arms. She tilts her head to study the cloudless sky, and it draws your attention to the neat braid resting at the nape of her neck.
A fresh and woody scent emanates from her, with a subtle hint of pine carried to you by the wind.
“I’ve always wondered why there are no infected here,” you say. “You keep them away when I’m around, don’t you?”
You know it’s her, the one responsible for it all, but you’re still in the dark about her methods. The extent of its impact on her remains elusive to you, but you’ve witnessed her increasing exhaustion. Her strength and abilities set her apart, but they also have the power to decimate her reserves.
“They’re closer than you think,” she says.
“If I get up right now and walk out those gates, am I in danger?” you ask.
“Yes,” she says, a look of agony flashing across her features. “But not for the reasons you think. I can’t—it’s people I can’t control.”
“I wasn’t imagining things, then?”
Her teeth grind in apprehension, as she plucks blades of grass from the ground to build a small mound above the laces of her leather boots. You let the gears turn, patiently waiting for her to come to her own conclusions. The struggle lies in wanting her to confide in you, wanting to divide the burdens that shackle her.
“I’m here,” you say. “Whenever you’re ready to talk.”
“What if I can’t?”
“I’ll still listen,” you say.
When she turns her head to face you, fragile threads of trust blur her stern demeanour, a courageous step taken in silence. She lumbers from the ground until she finds her feet.
“Where are you going?” you chuckle lightly. “You need rest.”
Brushing the dirt off her pants, she makes her way to the perimeter fence, beckoning you to follow.
Left untended, the field beyond it is a forgotten acreage of towering weeds, sun-stretched wildflowers wilting beneath the somber moon. The ringing chorus of quick, guttural frog croaks fades as a Runner emerges clumsily from the treeline.
Your heart skips as her rough fingers intertwine with your own, a bolt of sweet lightning cleaving through your chest. You can feel the strength in her grip as she guides your joined hands to the chain-link. She squeezes, pressing the tips of your fingers around the galvanized wire.
You’re left bewildered, staring at her, before she gestures towards the field with a subtle tilt of her chin. The writhing, infected body creeps nearer and your heart pounds. With every graceless step the creature makes, nervous vibrations fuse between your ribs. It stumbles, festering limbs lunging forward, and it takes every ounce of self control to keep from screaming.
The warm body at your side inches closer to ease your erratic breathing. Her composure is remarkable, as if she has performed this action countless times, a mastery of the dead—a striking juxtaposition to your tight, hard swallow resonating through the lonesome field.
Behind the disease-ridden shell, the faint traces of a woman’s features start to emerge as the battered body reaches the other side of the fence. The infected woman is so close to you that you can see the intricate network of veins in her eyes, and the red, inflamed rims of her eyelids where her eyelashes once were. Every muscle in your body freezes, not daring to twitch or even let out a breath.
The septic woman pushes her forehead to the fence, head tilting at an unnatural angle, seeming to study every detail of your face. The putrid odour hits your nostrils with such force that it’s impossible not to recoil. As terror grips you, it spreads like wildfire.
“How?” you rasp, your voice so faint, it’s barely a whisper. “Why isn’t she attacking me—doesn’t she want to?”
“It’s all she wants.”
Your attention falls to the soldier whom Isaac has bound you to restore, and you notice she is rapidly losing strength, her skin growing paler as the life force ebbs away.
“Okay, that’s enough. Make it stop,” you order, panic rising as her nose trickles a thin stream of red. “You know what? Fuck it!”
Without hesitation, you reach for the knife holstered on her thigh, sliding the sharp blade through the fence, until the spindly body collapses to meld with the soil.
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Your hands move with care as you suture the wound above her collarbone, the heat of her breath fanning your face. Positioned behind her is a mural she painted, featuring a serene beach and a shipwrecked boat nestled against the coastline. Decorated with kelp and dappled with rust, the sailboat’s intricate detailing is striking.
“I’ve never been to the beach,” you say.
Her blue eyes, wide with curiosity, lock onto yours, and a huff of quiet laughter escapes her parted lips.
“What’s so funny?” you ask.
“I’ve never been, either,” she admits.
You take a step back to observe her, noticing the lines etched on her face that tell stories of resilience. There is a captivating depth that makes you long to delve further.
“Well, you had me fooled,” you say, reaching for the scissors on the surgical tray. “You’re a talented painter—I’m sorry I hadn’t noticed sooner.”
With a dismissive shrug, she makes it seem like transforming a gloomy prison into a magnificent cathedral of art is a piece of cake. Her artwork is so impressive that you would never guess she has spent little time at the beach.
“Nah, it wasn’t here last time,” she says, adjusting her stance and widening the space between her thighs to provide you with more room to work. “I thought I’d try something new. We’ll see if it sticks.”
You lean in closer, gently tending to the cuts and scrapes that have gathered along her shoulders and neck. Her skin, adorned with freckles, is a beautiful mosaic of its own. Some strands of her braid have unraveled, perhaps because of a lack of practice, but the untidiness complements her.
“I’ve always wanted to learn to braid hair,” you say, pondering for a moment if, for her, it’s a self-taught skill or something guided by someone more experienced. Her mother maybe. “It suits you.”
Her nose wrinkles skeptically as she lifts her hand from her lap, her fingers carefully tucking your hair behind your ear.
“Why aren’t you afraid of me?” she asks.
Given the antics outside, it’s a valid question. You can’t think of a scenario that sent chills down your spine quite like that one. But with her by your side, you felt an unspoken sense of protection. She nudges you with her knee, her eyes narrowing in anticipation of a response.
“I think I am,” you confess, pulling the steel cart to the other side of her brawny frame to better access the supplies you need.
“And yet, you stay,” she asserts. “I guess you don’t have much of a choice.”
“I always have a choice.”
While you meticulously inspect her newest scars, cleansing the wounds that besiege them, she takes hold of your hand, motioning for you to stop.
“Abigail,” she says, worrying her bottom lip. “My name—if you still want it.”
In an instant, your inquisitiveness peaks, keen to uncover both her origin and the path that led her to this place. All in good time, you suppose.
“Abigail,” you say, appreciating how smoothly it rolls off your tongue. “That’s a really pretty name.”
You watch in awe as a blush creeps up her cheeks, giving her a rosy glow.
“Thanks,” she murmurs. “It doesn’t feel like it belongs to me anymore.”
“Maybe we can change that,” you whisper.
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SHAKES SW CANON. QUINLAN IS ALIVE!!!!!! ALIVE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
#personal#the horror of being a psychometric jedi surrounded by the bones of your culture!!!!!!#touching the ghosts of those that were through a connection he can never turn off!!#THE AGONY OF KNOWING YOU ARE ONE OF THE LAST BASTIONS OF AN ERA SLAUGHTERED BEFORE ITS TIME#FEELING UNWORTHY OF BEING ONE OF THE FEW TO SURVIVE#KNOWING AS HE DOES THAT HE TOO ONCE FELL INTO THAT YAWNING VOID AND ONLY CLAWED BACK INTO THE LIGHT DUE TO THE SUPPORT#OF HIS FELLOW JEDI#SMUGGLING YOUNGLINGS TO SAFETY BC WHAT ELSE IS A SHADOW TO DO BUT TO HIDE THE FLICKERING EMBERS OF LIGHT BEFORE THEY CAN BE SNUFFED OUT BY#THE DARK#I'M SHAKING AND SCREAMING. I HATE IT HERE!!!!!!!!!!!!#KENOBI SPOILERS#thinking about quinlan dealing with aayla's death FEELING HER DIE and having to just go on#every time he comes across a fragment from the order#perhaps a downed fighter. a broken piece of armor. god forbid he get a hold of a lightsaber#feeling them die over and over and over again i HATE IT HERE#i'm sliding off my chair and DISSOLVING INTO ATOMS
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An angel and a demon walk into a bar.
It sounds like the beginning of a joke, one that would have annoyed Crowley greatly before- before. Maybe it would have been mildly amusing, were it not for the fact that it is a pub, not a bar (a mere technicality that somehow still mattered), and it is the first time in seven months that he is looking Aziraphale right in the face.
He chose the place, walked right out of the bookshop and across the street the second Aziraphale looked at him with his stupid purple eyes and opened his mouth. Same table, same drinks. New silence.
A demon leads an angel into a pub so he does not kiss him again.
Less of a joke, more like the beginning of a nightmare he has had every single time he tried to sleep, woken by whispered words either confirming his worst fears or greatest desires; both incite fear, one way or another.
The low table between them is enough of a barrier to prevent a repeat of their last interaction, it has to be, although this time Aziraphale is looking at him with violet-coloured longing and an apology on his lips, no longer pleading, no longer angry. He is asking for forgiveness, and if that isn't a deeply ironic twist of fate.
Before either of them says a single word, Crowley finishes his drink and raises his hand to order another one, clinging to the familiar sting of alcohol in his throat to burn away the questions lingering on his tongue.
An angel followed a demon into a pub because he loves him.
Aziraphale wishes he could tell himself Crowley looks like he did seven months ago, that he hasn't changed, but he is done lying to himself, to either of them. Behind his shades, dark, darker if that is even possible, he can feel his golden gaze heavy on his face, familiar and the answer to an empty longing in his chest.
His drink goes untouched as Crowley downs one, then another, and it is after the third that he finally begins to talk.
"What do you want?"
Bitter, sharp, spit at his feet with an anger he expected and yet doesn't know how to react to. Underneath it is pain—more pain than any being should ever have to experience—and instead of trying to carry some of it for him, he only added to it.
"I want to apologise."
"Fine." Crowley shoves his empty glass away and gets up. "I don't forgive you."
Reflexively, Aziraphale reaches out and curls his fingers around his wrist when Crowley tries to walk past him, blinking up at him with eyes the colour of dying Myosotis.
Forget-me-nots.
They both freeze, the point of contact a crack in the walls they have spent centuries building and seven months rebuilding, and he knows he has made a mistake immediately.
Crowley stares at him, still as stone, until he suddenly rips his arm out of his grasp, almost cradling it against his chest. With dawning horror, Aziraphale realises he is shaking, tremors running through him like waves breaking apart on a rocky shore.
"Don't you dare touch me." Panic, not anger. Pure, unfiltered panic blooming beside a mountain of fear that could outlast an eternity.
"I-" He doesn't know what he wants to say, what he is trying to say, what he needs to say to make him stay. Oh, the irony of it all.
Crowley leaves the pub, and the Supreme Archangel stays behind.
Not a demon anymore, not technically, he is done with sides, and deeds, and choices; he never makes the right ones anyway. His wrist hurts with the ghost of a kiss, and he cannot get the glint of purple where summer sky blue should be out of his head.
The Bentley is waiting for him, providing an escape from the noise, the people, him.
Apologies instead of I'm coming back.
A sickening aura of holiness tinged with the burn of ozone instead of books and dust and soft, silly angel.
Seven months of waiting, of pleading with God, of cursing Her, cursing him, cursing the entire fucking world for taking and taking and taking from him without pause, without even a fragment of mercy.
For this.
An angel returns to heaven. Crowley curses the stars and cries.
#alex writes good omens#good omens#ineffable husbands#crowley#aziraphale#good omens season 2#go2#aziracrow#crowley x aziraphale#ineffable divorce#emptying out my tumblr drafts which are usually full of posts that weren't worth posting#but this one was actually fun to finish#sorry no more fluff back to the angst#this is 700 words long my god i have issues#one short tumblr post and i end up with a fic#anyway#shoutout to the people that get the bojack horseman reference
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taste of heaven
Joel Miller x F!Reader [smut]
Summary: You and Joel leave the quarantine zone in search of some medicine, when you come across a variant of the Cordyceps, taking life in the form of a pretty red flower. Whilst exposure to this mutated fungus doesn’t prove fatal, it does have some lasting effects.
Warnings: explicit, no minors. Sex pollen fic, exhibitionism, f!masturbation, fingering, tit play, degradation, jealousy, lots of begging, yearning/pining, implied age gap, mention of drugs/reader being drugged, cursing
Authors note: Please reblog to spread this fic around and it’s not showing up in tags! My requests & commissions are officially OPEN again! If you have any questions drop me a private message.
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'Nature vs. nurture' has been a discussion which had dominated centuries of wonder, and even in the year 2023, when the world had been wiped clean from humanity and only the hardened walked the streets, it was something that still preyed on your mind. The theory could be applied in many aspects; but one that you couldn’t quite navigate no matter how hard you tried, was how you had lasted this long living in a war-torn world. You often reflected on how you had kept yourself so clean and away from infected and bad people. You figured that for the first few years you had just gotten lucky. Your state was notified of the Cordyceps Infection before it hit and so you were given the opportunity to escape your city early. They were already building Quarantine Zone’s and conscripting Fedra military in August.
Until Christmas 2003, you stuck by your family. They were with you, alive, for the first three months of the outbreak. By this point, the Cordyceps infection wasn’t exactly seen as a ‘permanent’ thing and the government had yet to give up on finding a cure. One by one you lost your parents, grandparents and siblings, but not before you found solitude in a Quarantine Zone northwest of Rhode Island.
Those fragments of peace and liberty lasted a whole three years before Fedra wiped the town clean, and you had no choice but to evacuate. You headed towards Massachusetts, stopping by different QZ's, meeting new folk along your way.
But nothing was permanent. Ten years ago you found a home in Boston Quarantine Zone.
It wasn't a nice place, full of selfish people doing what they needed to do to get by. Rats on every corner, literal and personified, and so you did your best to stay out of trouble.
You’d take on little jobs and run errands to earn ration cards, and you would follow Fedra's orders to a tee. If there was such thing as a 'golden girl' in this world... well, that would be you.
And then you met Joel.
Joel wasn't a good guy, and he made sure you knew that when you first laid eyes on him. He was ruthless; a killer, and the type of person you should’ve stayed away from. You’d survived this long by keeping away from guys like him and yet, you found yourself drawn to him. There was something about his rugged handsomeness and dedication to survival that appealed to you. When you first met him, you noted that he was a man of a few words. He rarely offered you even a glance and if he did give care to give you his time of day, it would be nothing less than to mumble a warning to you.
It took Joel a while to warm up to you. The man seemed more than satisfied with his partner, Tess, than to even want to give you even just a bit of the minimal attention that you craved. You were unsure of Tess. She was very beautiful, with shoulder-length wavy hair and bright green eyes. You wondered if she and Joel were anything serious, or if they were merely just friends, or perhaps something in between. The pair were inseparable and often participated in smuggling runs together, or were hired as bounty hunters.
It was a smokey grey morning when Joel entered the makeshift QZ pharmacy where Fedra had you working. His dark eyes appeared sunken in and tired, a deep frown crossed his lips.
“I need fentanyl, morphine, oxycodone... something to take away pain.”
He was avoidant of eye contact, looking uncomfortable to even have to ask you of this.
Your jaw slackened slightly and you furrowed your eyebrows together at the man's request. “Are you- are you okay?”
Joel scoffed and rolled his tongue over his lower lip. “It’s not for me.” He snapped back, already becoming irritated that you were questioning his request. It had nothing to do with you.
Unamused by his attitude, you decided on shutting him down immediately. “I don't. We don't sell opioids here.” you glanced away from the man, feeling your cheeks become hot under his stern gaze. Now he was making eye contact and he knew exactly how to intimidate you. If Joel was anything, he was determined and if Joel wanted something he made sure he’d get it, no matter the means or consequences.
“Fedra don't permit anything as... strong as that to be traded in the QZ.”
Joel grunted and slammed his fists on the cashier desk. “Don't play coy with me, girl,” he sneered, hissing through his teeth. “can’t have been the first person to come in and ask for this. You have to know where I can get it from.”
You swallowed, looking around the empty pharmacy for answers. “I know someone,” you said timidly. “Well, know of someone.”
“Take me to them.” Joel demanded, without missing a beat. His desperation was becoming clear.
Seeing your hesitation, Joel brought his fingers down to the pistol that he'd stuffed in the back of his jeans, having been used to being able to make a sufficient threat. But then, before making any rash judgement, he stopped himself and placed a hand on the desk in front of you. He couldn't hold you at gunpoint. You were sweet, kind, and soft. In the many years of knowing him, you had been nothing but nice to Joel. It would be wrong to scare you like that.
Adjusting his composure, Joel took a deep breath and let his body relax. He could ease up around you. You wouldn't even hurt a fly; let alone pull any stunts on someone like him.
“Please." he said quietly, his brown eyes now appearing to be more pleasing than harsh. He could read you like an open book and he knew exactly how to wrap himself around you. You huffed out a sigh and contemplated giving him the information that he so desired.
“There's a guy I've heard Simone talk about. He's housed up on the outskirts of Boston, about a three-hour hike from here. He's her dealer. He'll have what you're looking for, but Joel…" you reluctantly placed your hand down on top of the desk, next to his. “It's in Fairmount. But I don't feel comfortable leaving the QZ. I could get in trouble. And if this is for you— or your own personal dealing, then—”
And for the first time in weeks, Joel's lips curled into a small smile. He moved his hand over yours and gave it a gentle squeeze.
“You'll be okay,” he promised, and from the longing look in his eyes, you believed him.
“Can I ask, who is the medicine for?” you interrogated shyly after a few moments of silence. Joel's rough hands were still atop yours.
Joel broke eye contact with you. If he wanted you to be fully on board, then he had to start being honest. “Tess.”
“Is she okay?” you became alarmed, moving your hand away from Joel and already beginning to grab your supplies for the journey.
“She got into a fight with Robert and his men, she's badly beaten up. She just needs something strong to help her fight through it. She'll be okay. She's tough.” Joel wanted to curse himself for offering you so much information, knowing that Tess would've been mortified if she'd learned that he was telling you all of this. But he really needed your help.
“We best get going then,” you said, grabbing your rucksack from behind the countertop.
For a brief second, Joel admired your dedication to helping Tess. It bewildered him a little, knowing that Tess didn't exactly care enough about you to help you the same. Tess often muttered snide words about your inability to shoot a gun or your law-abiding attitude. She hated the way you would sink under authority, but Joel understood it. He understood that everyone had their different ways of surviving, and as long as it was working, then he wasn't one to judge. But right now, that didn't matter. Joel was just thankful that you'd agreed to go with him.
———
Somewhere along the journey, you noticed a shrub peppered with four-petaled flours, painted red with golden pollen in the centre. You’d never seen anything like them before, and you had studied horticulture a few years back in Rhode Island QZ. You found yourself magnetised by their beauty, and with Joel a few yards back from you, you decided to take some time to analyse the plant. Picking one from the bush, you rubbed the soft petals between your fingers and let the grains of pollen sink into your skin. When Joel got nearer, you stuffed the flower in your jacket pocket and continued walking alongside him.
You were about an hour away from Fairmount when you started to get dizzy. You weren’t hallucinating but your perception of your surroundings had certainly changed. The road ahead seemed short and thick and upon the horizon was a glowing pink line.
“Do you see that?” You asked Joel, squinting your eyes as you extended your hand to point to the horizon.
Joel tried following your moving index finger but shook his head. “You’re pointing at everything and nothing. C’mon let's keep going.”
It started out with a burning sensation, your loins ignited and blazed inside of you. You tried to regulate your breathing and found yourself slowly losing concentration on whatever Joel was saying. You wanted to pay attention, you really did. You loved his voice, it was like honey and velvet and there was something about that damned Texan accent of his… you didn’t notice it before, but you were certainly noticing it now. Your nipples felt tender as they hardened and poked out from underneath your shirt and you silently prayed that they weren’t visible through your denim jacket. The air around you was suddenly humid and thick and moist. Moist… you let out a small whimper and stopped dead in your tracks.
Joel stopped too. “Are you okay?” he asked, observing your sudden reaction to the forbidden flower.
“I just need a second to catch my breath.” You exhaled, closing your eyes and desperately trying to cling onto oxygen. Joel glanced back at the trail you’d both been walking along. There had hardly been an incline.
Joel gave you a few moments and when you finally opened your eyes, you offered him a queasy yet confident smile.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Mhm,” you mumbled. “Let’s keep going. Nearly there now. What were you saying about the—ah, fuck.” You stopped again, feeling a sudden wetness in your panties. Bolts of electricity were shooting up and down your body and within just a matter of seconds, you felt the primal need for something to fill you.
You looked at Joel and then looked away.
Joel said your name softly, drawled it out slowly like he was trying not to spook you. You refused to make eye contact with him, looking down at your feet.
“Don’t lie to me,” Joel said. He placed a hand on your arm and you flinched away from him. “What’s going on?”
You bit your lip, pressing your thighs together hoping for some kind of relief to the ache between your legs. You’re looked around your surroundings, finding a large rock just a few acres away. Ignoring Joel, you sat down and he followed you on your tail.
This was embarrassing. This was so embarrassing.
“I don’t know what’s going on,” you admitted, dabbing at the beads of sweat that laced your hairline. “I feel hot and heavy and it’s hard to breathe, I feel like my clothes are constraining me and I’m… I feel…”
Joel crooked his head to one side.
“Joel,” you whispered. “Fuck Joel, fuck…” you hissed through your teeth. “Joel, Joel…” you panted his name like it was a sacred prayer. Joel would’ve been lying if he said hearing you chant his name like that didn’t turn him on.
Extending your arms, you reached out towards the man. He obliged, coming closer and kneeling down in front of you. He placed both of his hands on your thighs to illustrate comfort and gazed into your eyes.
“What is it?” he quizzed further.
You nervously swallowed and reached into the pocket of your denim jacket before bringing out the now crumpled-up flower you’d picked earlier. The pale yellow pollen slipped between your fingers and you dropped the flower on the floor. Upon seeing it, Joel’s dark eyes widened and he leaned away from you.
“No, no, no,” you begged him, opening your legs and pulling him back into you, this time holding him as close as could be. “Fuck Joel, I— I don’t know— I don’t know what’s happening,” you squeaked, tears filling your eyes.
“Oh, sweet girl,” he shushed, but there was no denying the slight air of worry sprawled across his face. “What have you done?”
“I think it’s the flower… I just picked it up earlier because I thought it was pretty and, figured I could make a hair clip out of it or—“
“I’ve heard stories about those flowers,” Joel shook his head. “They’re a mutated form of Cordyceps… a variant that’s been growing like ordinary fungus, in environments, masking themselves as plants. I’ve never seen them before but… that’s what I’ve heard they look like.”
“Holy shit,” you whispered. “Am I infected?”
“No! No, no girl. You’re fine. You’re gonna be fine. These plants… they’re known to have a primal effect on their host. They want their host to reproduce so they release endorphins and, I… don’t know the science behind it but,”
“Joel,” you whispered. “Joel…” your voice trailed off, bringing your hands up to his cheeks as you cradled his face. Your thumbs brushed over his stubble which adorned his jaw and you admired the little missing patch of hair there that you’d never noticed before. “I’m fucking horny.” you breathed into admittance.
If you weren’t so worked up right now, you would’ve barked out a laugh at how ridiculous those words sounded leaving your lips. Joel swallowed, his adam’s apple bopping up and down in his throat. You licked your lips and waited for him to say something— anything. But he stayed quiet, only the slightest movement in his hand as he brought it to the inside of your thigh.
You tossed your head back at the gesture and Joel felt his cock throb in his pants at the sight of you coming undone over him. He noted the vein in your neck and the way your perfect lips parted in an O shape as he trailed his other hand up your waist and along your torso to the hem of your jacket.
“We don’t have to do anything, we don’t have to… I’ll be okay if you just give me some privacy and I can… I can… you know,”
“You need me and you know it,” Joel said gruffly, peeling back your jacket and letting it pool into a discarded pile on the floor. You already felt an air of relief wash over you as you lost an item of clothing. You hummed and leaned in closer to him, pressing your breasts which were now tight against your shirt into his face. “Say it.”
“I need you Joel,” you obliged. “Fuck, I need you so bad.”
“Tell me what exactly you need, baby girl,” Joel requested, bringing his hand to your breasts and massaging them through the material of your shirt. He pinched his finger over your protruding nipples and circled around them. He imagined nibbling it and sucking on them, and his mouth began to water.
“I need you, need your cock to fill me up. I want to wrap myself around you, tight, oh God, please,” you begged, grinding on the rock beneath you. The friction between the rock and jeans have you something, but it wasn’t enough. Joel discarded his jacket and unbuttoned his flannel shirt, throwing them to one side on the floor.
“You want me that bad huh?” Joel chuckled, reaching down to his belt and unbuckling it. With a clink, that was on the floor too.
“Need,” you corrected him. “This— this is fucking— fuck— I should be embarrassed.”
“But you’re not, because behind that sweet, good girl persona, you’re just a dirty, unfulfilled whore.” Joel seethed. If you didn’t know any better, you might’ve thought that was an insult, but his degradation only spurred you on more and you let out a moan.
“Your whore,” you told him with a smile. You stood up and pulled down your jeans so you were now sat on the rock wearing nothing but your t-shirt and panties. Your legs still open, you dropped your hand to your crotch and started to rub yourself through the material of your panties.
“Ah-ah,” Joel chastised, taking your hand away from your aching pussy and interlocking his fingers with yours. “Look how wet you are. From now on, only I’m allowed to touch you, okay?”
“Mm, sounds like you want me just as much as I want you,” you teased him, even surprising yourself at that little comment which escaped your lips.
“I do,” Joel answered, bringing your hand down to his own crotch, allowing you to feel his bulge that was straining through his jeans. As if that wasn’t proof enough.
“What about Tess?” you couldn’t help but ask. Even while you were in heat, you found yourself thinking about what Joel and Tess got up to. What exactly their ‘partnership’ amounted to.
Joel smirked and pressed a kiss into the crook of your neck. “You jealous?” he mumbled against your skin. The low octave of his voice sent vibrations through your body. He licked a stripe down to your collar bone.
“Nuh-uh,” you shook your head.
Every touch of his left a stain of fire.
“I think you are,” Joel teased. “You get jealous thinking about me fucking Tess— bending her over and taking her from behind.”
You groaned. “Fuck you,” you whined, running your fingers through his greying brown hair.
“Wouldn’t you like that?” Joel chuckled.
Then, something caught your attention. You were drugged— ‘under the influence’— if you wanted a nicer way to put it. You wanted Joel but you had that damn mutated flower to blame, and yet Joel… this was raw. This was all him. He had nothing to blame other than himself because the truth is, he’s wanted you from the moment he laid eyes on you.
“I fuck Tess,” he announced and you felt your face sour at his declaration. “But I wish it was you every damn time.”
You huffed as you let him take off your t-shirt. His eyes widened when he saw you weren’t even wearing a bra.
“Somehow I doubt that,” you muttered with a roll of your eyes.
“Let me prove it to you.” Joel replied, this time his words holding the utmost meaning.
Joel unzipped his jeans and pulled them down to his knees, alongside his boxer shorts, revealing his long, thick cock. It was perfect, the dark pink head already leaking with milky white trails of precum.
“You’re huge.” you couldn’t help but gasp out, making Joel laugh. You immediately eased at the sound of his chuckle. It wasn’t teasing or fake, but it was genuine and authentic. Dare you say, cute.
But the little butterflies that fluttered in the pit of your stomach were short-lived. Your loins ached even more just at the mere sight of him and you eagerly ditched your panties within seconds. Leaning back, you made yourself as comfortable as you could be atop of the rock and spread your legs for him. What a sight to behold, you were.
Joel admired your glistening folds as he eye-fucked your entire naked body. You brought your hands to your tits and began to play with them as you let him observe you.
“Please Joel,” you begged. “Let me feel you.”
Joel hovered over you and pressed his cock between your folds, rubbing the tip up and down, separating you. Obscene and lewd wet noises filled the quiet atmosphere as Joel gathered your juices on his manhood.
“Such a pretty pussy,” Joel sighed, before bringing a thumb to your clit. He began to draw circles over the bundle of nerves, causing your body to jolt with the overbearing rush of pleasure. You knew you wouldn’t last long and you could feel your orgasm begin to creep upon you. But you needed more.
“Fuck me Joel, I need you inside of me.”
“Like this?” Joel asked and with one smooth motion, Joel thrusted his cock inside of you, your wet walls squeezing around him. “Oh shit.” he croaked out, taking a moment to adjust himself to the ethereal feeling of you wrapped around him.
“Yes, just like that,” you praised. “Move now, please.”
For the first time, Joel followed your instruction without any tormenting or teasing. He’d wanted this just as bad as you did. Joel rocked his hips into you, building up a rhythm that you just couldn’t resist. His movements began to set out a pace but in time he quickened himself, focusing on getting closer to his high as he felt your own body quiver and shake underneath him. You knew he was close when his thrusts became sloppy and he chanted your name under his breath.
Joel delved his face into your neck and you screamed as your climax came crushing down. Joel felt it too— the effect of your orgasm and what it had done to your body. Without any warning, Joel shot ropes of his cum into your pussy before slowly pulling out of you. The warmth of his seed painting your walls was enough to help you come down from your high.
Joel rolled off you and laid next to you, atop of the rock.
The sky was growing dark now and nightfall was approaching.
“Thank you.” you whispered when you regained your breath. You let yourself have a few moments to try and come to terms with what had just happened. By far, the best experience of your life.
Joel leaned over onto his side and looked at you, feeling completely enamoured with your beauty. You were still flushed and sweating but the effects of the flower had worn off now, and you were doing much better.
“Before, when I said I thought of you when I was with Tess… I wasn’t lying,” Joel admitted. “I don’t want you to think…”
You smiled, tangling your fingers into his hair and pushing his face down to meet yours. You offered him a soft, tranquil kiss and Joel moaned at the affection. Your lips were so soft, exactly how he’d imagined. If he could, he’d kiss them forever.
“Is she your girlfriend?” you asked after pulling away.
“It’s not like that at all,” Joel replied. “We just… we’re there when we need each other, y’know?”
You nodded your head silently.
“I don’t want this to be a one-time thing,” Joel announced, feeling a rush of nerves and anxiety race through his body. “I mean, not the Cordyceps flower. And not just the sex. But I want to see you again, after today. And I understand if you don’t feel the same way— I know, we’re so different and I ain’t a good guy. Maybe a girl like you would be better on your own, but damn it, I like you and—“
“I like you too,” you cut him off. “Maybe when we get back to Boston, you can take me out on a date?”
Joel grinned, a dimple appearing in his right cheek. There was those butterflies again.
“Alrighty then.” Joel beamed and you pressed another kiss to his lips. “It’s a date.”
-------
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#pedro pascal#joel miller#the last of us#pedro pascal x reader#joel miller x reader#joel miller x you#pedro pascal x you#smut#tlou
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Our Minds Entwined-----------------------
ch 1, ch 2, ch 3, ch 4, ch 5, ch 6, ch 7, ch 8, ch 9, ch 10, ch 11
MDNI-----------------------------------------------------------------
pairings: aaron hotchner x oc x spencer reid
summary: in which jason gideon's daughter joins the fbi as the newest, youngest member
warnings: wet dream between 2 men, evelyn needs to be spayed or smth, fainting, creepy men
A/N: hiiiii gorgeous, lovely, beautiful human beings thank you so much for the support on this fic, I LOVE YOU ALL!!!! <3 let me know if you want to be adding to the tag list
ALSOOOOOO my requests are open for aaron hotchner and spencer reid!!! I would love to write some drabbles/one shots so shoot me a message! <3
HAPPY READING!
Chapter Ten:
Gasping for air, Evelyn emerged from the depths of her dream, the vividness of it lingering like a second reality. She swiftly pressed her back against the headboard, her fingers weaving through her sweat-soaked hair. The dream's details were smeared in her memory, but the visceral ache it left behind was crystal clear. Hotch and Spencer--their hands that were insistent upon her, their mouths that explored every inch of her. She scolded herself for the image--what is wrong with her? She felt like a pervert, imagining both men in such a way.
Her legs brushed against the fabric of the sheets, her actions freezing as she became aware of the dampness enveloping between her legs. Her mind turned to Spencer--his hair a soft curtain on her skin. His hands, always in motion, leaving no fragment of her unexplored. His mouth, the way his tongue felt inside her.
Evelyn's fingers instinctively started to play with the waist band of her pajama shorts, moving closer to the swollen bundle of nerves. Her thoughts drifted to Hotch--his shoulders and build, how easy it would be for him to overpower her, and she secretly wished he would. This was crazy, she thought. Despite her mind's protests, her fingers continue to wander, tracing gentle circle against her clit.
She let out a puff of air, her back arching slightly off the mattress as light began to seep into the room. She thought of Hotch positioned behind her, showing her no mercy, finally pounding her attitude out of her. She pictured Spencer before her, his cock working its way into her mouth. Her fingers pushed into her gently, her gasps coming out short and desperate as she pictured her own fingers being replaced by Hotch's.
The imagine coaxed a moan from her, a sound that seemed too loud in her own ears. The knock at the door was abrupt, freezing her in place, feeling like a deer caught in headlights. Evelyn's heart hammered against her ribs, panic seizing her as she scrambled out of bed. Her feet barely touched the carpet as she rushed to the door, flinging it open with a force that echoed through the silent hallway.
Hotch, a study in precision, stood there--impeccable in a charcoal-gray suit that made her want to drool. And his tie, a navy silk affair that lay flat against the white shirt, hinted at meticulous order. But it was his face that betrayed him--a subtle furrow of his brow, the pinch of annoyance around his mouth that suggested he'd been waiting longer than he card to admit.
Evelyn's heart did a clumsy somersault, her cheeks betraying her, turning a shade that rivaled a traffic light. One-half of her fantasy--or rather, the less enthusiastic version--stood there. "Hotch," she managed, "what are you doing here? And, um, what time is it?"
Evelyn's heart-shaped pajamas clung to her, the soft fabric revealing more than it concealed. Her cheeks flushed with urgency, mirrored to disarray of her hair. The hallway light caught the faint smattering of freckles across her nose, delicate constellations that bloomed when she eschewed makeup.
Hotch's annoyance ebbed, replaced by a reluctant fondness. What had she been doing? Hotch's gaze lingered on her--no makeup, no artifice--just raw, unfiltered beauty. He was unsettled by how much the sight affected him. The flush in her cheeks, the softness in her eyes.
Hotch willed his demeanor to snap back into place, his voice clipped. "Evelyn," he said, each syllable a warning. "I've called you five times. We need to be downstairs in 15 minutes."
Her pulse raced, and her tongue tripped over her words. "Oh, shoot, sorry," she blurted out, her voice echoing in the narrow hallway. The disheveled room behind her seemed to mock her--sheets tangled, alarm clock blinking accusatorily. "My alarm must've never gone off." She gestured toward the half-open door. "Do you want to come in and wait? I promise I'll be super speedy."
Evelyn's cheeks were ablaze, a canvas of mortification. She could feel Hotch's scrutiny lingering, a laser beam that could dissect her every flaw. She ushered him inside, the hallway suddenly too narrow, too confining. She slipped into the bathroom and shed the pajamas. Her fingers waged a silent war with buttons and zippers, a clumsy ballet of haste. Each click and snap was a resounding echo of the dream that clung to her thoughts. She tried to shove the images aside, to bury them under layers of fabric, but it seemed inescapable. Because now, he stood outside, annoyance etched in every line of his impeccable suit.
"Hotch," she began as she waved at the alarm clock, its digital numbers blinking like a guilty accomplice. She pulled her hair into a hasty ponytail, the elastic snapping against her skin. "I'm convinced my alarm clock is broken." The words tumbled out, a desperate attempt at distraction. "But hey," she continued, her eyes meeting his, "I think I just won that bet--the one where the team bet you'd never get mad at me." Her lips curved into a half-teasing smile, her nose scrunching at the action. "Soft spot, my friend."
Hotch said nothing as his gaze followed the hurried sway of her movements. Stepping closer, he surveyed the bed's solitary disarray amidst the room's order. The blankets lay in a tangle of turmoil. How much does she move in her sleep? he wondered. His eyes honed in on a small corner of fabric peeking out from under the pillows.
There, nestled among the tangled sheets, sat a small teddy bear, its pink bow a splash of color against the tan. Hotch's expression softened as he lifted the plush toy, turning it over in his hands, a smile tugging at his lips. Of course she slept with a stuffed animal.
The warmth of mortification spread across Evelyn's face. "Oh, um," she mumbled with a forced chuckle, plucking the bear from Hotch's grasp. "That's my... strategic sleep ally. Because, you know, every good agent needs a backup. Totally standard-issue."
"We'll circle back to your... bedtime tactics," he said with a hint of a smirk. "For now, conference room. Let's go."
Evelyn and Hotch made their way down to the conference area. The room hummed with anticipation, bathed in the soft glow of fluorescent lights. Rows of round tables faced a raised stage, where a large screen displayed the conference logo. Agents in crisp suits mingled with academics in tweed jackets. Some wore glasses, other carried tablets or leather-bound notebooks.
A spark of excitement ignited within Evelyn, her gaze darting from face to face, recognizing those who were like celebrities of their field.
"Hotch, do you see who that is?" Evelyn's voice was on of awe as she nudged Hotch, her gaze fixed on the figure across the room.
Hotch's eyes followed her line of sight and landed on a distinguished-looking woman who, upon noticing Hotch, raised her hand in a casual wave. "I do," Hotch confirmed with a nod, acknowledging the silent greeting with a subtle nod of his head.
Evelyn's mouth fell open slightly. "You're actually so cool," she said, the words slipping out before she could filter them, a smile spreading across her face.
Hotch's mouth twitched in a semblance of a smile. "I'm going to choose to not take that as an insult," he replied, his eyebrow arching in mock offense. "Stay here, I'm going to check us in."
Evelyn acknowledged Hotch's departure with a quick nod and an 'okay boss'. She was still orienting herself in the conference's bustling atmosphere when two familiar faces approached from the crowed. Mr. Weller, his suit a bit worn at the elbows, pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose with a practiced gesture. Dr. Reeves, his hair slightly disheveled, was animatedly discussing some policy change in data privacy. He quickly roped Evelyn into the conversation who listened intently, interjecting only with thoughtful nods.
Evelyn's muscles relaxed slightly as Hotch returned to her side. His hand rested momentarily on her back, a professional gesture by all accounts, but Evelyn couldn't help but feel a spark of awareness ignite. She fastened the name tag he handed her with fingers that suddenly seemed less steady, the metal's chill doing little to dispel the soft heat that had settled between her shoulder blades.
As Professor Lewis swept in, she bypassed Evelyn's attempted greeting as if it and her were invisible. The professor's laser focus cut her off with surgical precision as it landed on Hotch.
Her voice carried an urgent edge as she addressed Hotch. "Aaron, can I pick you brain about something?"
Evelyn's greeting hung suspended, and a familiar twinge of frustration pricked at her--the kind that came from being eclipsed again by the professor's selective attention. With a quick nod, Hotch vanished into the crowd with Professor Lewis, leaving Evelyn grappling with a sudden, unsettling sensation in her chest. She exchanged pleasantries with the two men before her, their words weaving through her consciousness without taking hold.
Her gaze, however, was glued to the sight of Hotch and the professor, their heads bowed in earnest conversation. A surge of jealously, uninvited and irrational, twisted inside her. It was a confusing betrayal of emotion, given her casual relationship with Spencer. But she realized if it was Spencer in that Hotch's position, she'd feel the same about the professor, if not worse. The dream from last night was the culprit, she decided.
Left alone as Dr. Reeves and Mr. Weller departed, Evelyn sank into the chair at her table. The sight of Professor Lewis, so at ease with Hotch, gnawed at her. Why did it bother her so much? Maybe she just needed a nap.
As if summoned by the sheer force of her thoughts, Hotch appeared, his presence a sudden weight beside her. The question erupted from Evelyn before she could stop herself. "What did she want?"
His eyes took on a discerning quality, the subtle narrowing revealing his assessment. "She asked for my opinion on a theory."
"Hmm," came a soft murmur from Evelyn, her lips briefly pressing together in contemplation.
Hotch's gaze drilled into hers, probing. "What?"
"Nothing," Evelyn dismissed, her shoulders lifting in an indifferent shrug.
The morning's panel had unfolded with a deceptive ease, allowing Evelyn to shelve her simmering jealously. Yet, as the shadows shifted to signal the afternoon's approach, her anxiety crept back, an unwelcome companion.
In a separate room, she paced, her fingers tracing over her notes, each word etched into memory. "You've got this, Evelyn," she murmured, a mantra against the fatigue that seemed to drape over her. "You are prepared. You are intelligent."
Evelyn's grasp to the chair became white-knuckled as a sudden dizziness swept over her, unannounced and unwelcome. The room swirled into a blur, the ground beneath her seemingly shifting as her breathing became uneven and rapid. She looked up to see Hotch. Caught mid-affirmation and near-collapse, a rush of warmth flooded Evelyn's face. She righted herself with a silent plea, willing the black dots to vanish from her vision.
His eyes locked onto hers with a piercing intensity, studying her--the subtle shift in her posture, the way her hands trembled. "Evelyn," he said, reaching out to steady her with a firm hand. "What's wrong?"
Her words stumbled out, a clumsy cascade of denial. "Just nerves," she claimed, offering a faltering smile and a brittle laugh to conceal the tightening in her throat. Hotch's steady, searching gaze didn't waver, his disbelief hanging silently in the air.
His voice held a note of insistence. "Have you eaten today?"
Evelyn blinked, realization dawning. "It slipped my mind," she admitted.
Hotch's next words were lost on her as darkness seeped into her field of view. She felt the world tilt, her knees buckling as she was swiftly cradled in a secure, urgent grasp. Blinking away the disorientation, Evelyn found herself cradled in Hotch's panic-stricken gaze. His eyes were wide with alarm, his cool facade shattered as his hand hovered over 911.
"Hotch," she managed, her voice soft but her sarcasm intact. "Impeccable timing as always."
There was a softening in Hotch's gaze, a subtle shift from concern to mild exasperation. "Evelyn," he chided softly, his finger's tap on her hip a punctuation to his words. "You're anemic. You can't just skip meals like they're optional."
Evelyn's effort to sit up sent the room into a dizzying tailspin, each movement threatening to yank her back down. They found themselves grounded in an intimate proximity--she, half-laying in a disoriented haze, and he, crouching by her side, arms wrapped around her in a secure hold, one hand cupping her head to shield her from the hard ground, the other laid upon her waist.
"Didn't event cross my mind," she confessed, her voice a fragile thread. "Been so busy."
Hotch's hand emerged from his pocket, clutching a compact, foil-wrapped package. "Here," he urged, extending the snack towards her with a gentle authority. "It's good for anemia."
She squinted at the package. "Do you always carry this around?" she questioned, her voice tinged with genuine surprise.
He nodded, no-nonsense. "Yes."
Inside, her heart did an unexpected leap, touched by his silent care.
"You're a sap, Hotch," she teased, her voice light. "Who knew? I bet you've got a whole stash in that suit."
His eyes bore into hers, and for a moment, the room dissolved and the air thickened. And despite her playful words, Evelyn's fingertips tingled, her skin hyper-aware of every pore. The anemia-induced weakness faded into insignificance all because of a stupid snack he carried around. A snack he had thought to carry for her, based on a single, fleeting confession.
"Stop talking and eat."
And so, she did.
Evelyn's body protested with each step towards her room. She'd argued, of course--pleaded about missing her speech, about the importance of being present. But Hotch, with his hands guided her with a careful touch, wore an expression that left no room for debate. The lines of his face were drawn tight, a clear reflection of the worry that silenced her objections.
"Rest," was a firm directive, and though Evelyn balked, she ultimately yielded to his authoritative concern. Promptly, room service materialized at her door, courtesy of her favorite unit chief. The tray was abundant with foods rich in iron, and she'd devoured it with an eagerness, only pausing for sips of water.
As the sun made its descent beyond the horizon, its lingering rays casted a golden spotlight on the outdoor hot tub. Evelyn's silhouette blurred against the steam rising from the water, her skin kissed by the fading light. Her hair, a cascade of disobedient curls, crowned her head and softened the contours of her face. The night air nipped playfully at her heated skin, a refreshing counterpoint to the liquid warmth that welcomed her as she dipped into the water.
As her gaze lifted, her room came into view--the curtains drawn, the soft glow of lamplight seeping through. But then she turned her head, and there he was.
Hotch stood on his balcony, his gaze fixed on her. His expression was inscrutable, and for a moment, Evelyn's heart raced. She could sense it--the unspoken command that she should be in her room resting. But her half-wave was genuine, a flicker of happiness at seeing him. He acknowledged her with a curt nod. Evelyn's gaze returned to her book, her fingers tracing the book's creases, her focus slipping.
A stranger's appearance disrupted her quietude. He had a tailored physique, the kind that hinted at gym memberships and expensive cologne. His eyes, though--too probing--made her uneasy. "Mind if I join you?" he asked, easing into the water.
Evelyn's responses were polite, but she kept her distance. Yet, he persisted, inching closer with every comment. Evelyn's spine prickled, a frosty warning that crawled from nape to tailbone. The book now lay abandoned on the tub's edge. The distant city lights blurred as she feigned interest, but his nearness--his breath, his questions--made her skin crawl.
Evelyn's eyes scanned the balcony, hoping to see the reassuring figure of her unit chief. But it was empty--the moon's glow casting eerie shadows on the tiles.
And then, as if summoned, he materialized. Hotch stood there, his expression unreadable. The moon's glow painted his features--sharp jawline, a hint of stubble. But it was the swimsuit--a sinuous second skin--that stole her breath. The fabric of his shorts traced every contour, leaving little to imagination. Evelyn's gaze lingered on his chest, the hair that spread across of it, the rugged masculinity that defied office walls. Her mouth went dry, pulse racing.
"There you are, babe," she murmured, her tone laced with artificial sweetness. Her pulse raced, her eyes seeking Hotch's with an intensity that begged him to read between the lines.
Confusion creased Hotch's forehead as he processed the scene, his eyes flitting from Evelyn to the stranger, the gears turning. "Sorry honey," he said, his voice a low rumble as he approached the water's edge. "Had to take a call. Work stuff."
The word 'honey' lingered in the air, sweet and potent, leaving Evelyn lightheaded. She felt a flutter in her chest, a realization dawning that with the use of such a word, she'd gladly drawn in paperwork if he asked.
With Hotch's arrival, the water created ripples that reached Evelyn. His eyes, deep and searching, locked onto hers with an immediacy that bridged the distance between them. As he settled next to her, the subtle heat of his presence enveloped her. She nestled against him, her whispered explanation cut off by his lips grazing her ear.
"I know," he murmured, his breath sending shivers down her spine. Evelyn's heart stumbled over itself, a drumbeat out of sync. "You look so good tonight, honey," he announced, ensuring the words reached beyond their intimate circle. His eyes darted to the supple swell of her breasts on display, a quick, silent exchange that left her heart fluttering wildly, even as her mind reminded her it was just an act.
The man's eyes widened, bouncing from Evelyn and Hotch like a pinball. "Oh," he stuttered, a hint of embarrassment coloring his tone, "I didn't realize you were with someone."
"Yeah," Evelyn said, her voice a soft murmur as she settled into the curve of Hotch's lap, her ass planted firmly against his front. The warmth of his body seeped through the thin veil of her bathing suit, causing her cheeks to set flame. Her heart skipped, reveling in the proximity she knew was off-limits. Hotch's arms, both protective and dangerously intimate, encircled her waist.
"This is my husband," she introduced, the word foreign on her tongue. "Aaron, meet...?" His first name rolled of her tongue, a sweet liberty taken in a moment of pretense, as she left the space open for the stranger to introduce himself.
The barest hint of a smile threatened to disrupt the stoic lines of Hotch's mouth, a silent admission of pleasure of the sound of his name from Evelyn's lips. The intimacy of the act, hidden behind the guise of necessity, wasn't lost on him. He should have been irked by the ruse, yet he found himself savoring the moment. He cleared his throat, a quiet struggle for detachment, even as her voice echoed in his ears.
"Nathan."
Hotch extended his hand with a blend of authority and subtle warning, introducing himself, "nice to meet you," with a tone that cloaked none of his conviction.
Meanwhile, Evelyn's touch traced a path over his chest, a touch that betrayed the unfamiliarity of the act. Her other hand tangled gently in the hair at his nape, a tender exploration that drew an involuntary shiver from him.
Hotch's voice was hushed against her ear. "You're laying it on thick," he murmured, his breath a warm caress that belied the sternness of his words. His grip on her hip tightened imperceptibly.
Evelyn's lips quirked, a silent acknowledgement of her tactic. "Necessary," she whispered back, her voice a playful lilt. "For my safety."
Nathan persisted, undeterred. "So, what are you two down here for?"
Hotch's face remained impassive. "A work conference," he stated, the intensity of his eyes fixed on Evelyn.
"So you both work together?" Nathan asked, his tone probing. "Is that how you met?"
Evelyn's smile unfurled like a victory flag. "Oh, yes," she purred, his voice dripping with faux innocence. "He's my boss actually--totally inappropriate, I know. But bless him, the poor man never stood a chance from the moment he laid eyes on me. He just couldn't help himself. It was a HR disaster, of course, but it all worked out."
Hotch's brow furrowed in disapproval, but the corners of his mouth betrayed him, curling into a reluctant grin. "That's true," he conceded, his voice gruff. "She's... something else, a handful to say the least."
"That's what hands are for!"
Nathan fidgeted uncomfortably as he gave the couple a tight-lipped smile. "Well, I ought to head out," he declared, darting glances between Evelyn and Hotch. "Aaron, you've hit the jackpot, my man."
Hotch's voice was tight, barely containing his exasperation. "No doubt," he managed, "I'm living the dream."
Once Nathan had disappeared, Evelyn leaned closer, her voice a soft, playful murmur. "Guess I owe you one," she teased. "You really sold that doting husband role."
Hotch's response was a single raised brow, his face a mask of feigned solemnity. "Necessary," he echoed, the word rolling of his tongue with a hint of irony. "For your safety."
"You caught the weird vibes he was giving off, right?" she prodded, her elbow gently jabbing his side. "I mean, talk about strange, huh?"
"You're like a magnet for guys like that," Hotch observed, his mouth curving into a half-smile "but, yes, you made the right call."
Her grin was infectious. "Always do," she said with a wink. "You know we make a pretty good team, don't you think? Maybe we should look into undercover work."
"A good team, yes," Hotch agreed, his tone dry. "But undercover? I'd have to start practicing my 'shushing' gestures now."
"Aaron Hotchner, did you just make a joke? Where's my notebook?" Evelyn's giggle rang out, loud and unrestrained as she clutched his shoulders. "And if I talk too much, it's only to balance out your brooding silence."
Her laughter was a living thing, wrapping around Hotch, nudging at the corners of his usually impassive facade. The sheer delight in her voice, planted a seed of contemplation in Hotch, a consideration that maybe, just maybe, a joke here and there wouldn't be such a bad thing, especially if it elicited such a reaction from her.
For a fleeting moment, a genuine, toothy smile flashed across Hotch's face, an uncommon display that he quickly concealed with a downward shake of his head, not wanting to boost her ego any more than necessary.
"You know, aren't you supposed to be resting up in your room?"
Evelyn's gaze lingered on him, savoring the rarity of his wide smile. She couldn't help but marvel at the sight and it stirred in her an urge to see it again and again.
"I don't know, Hotch," Evelyn replied, her voice as light as the air around them. A stray lock of hair drifted across her face, and she huffed it away with a puff of breath. "I'm quite content right here."
Hotch raised an eyebrow, disbelief playing on his words. "Oh, really?"
Suddenly, Evelyn's casual demeanor crumbled, replaced by a flustered clarity as she realized her position, perched unceremoniously upon his lap. "Oh, um," she murmured, her voice trailing off into a stammer as a warm flush of embarrassment spread across her face. "I mean, not in an inappropriate way! That came out wrong, sir. I just meant the hot tub is relaxing--like a warm hug for my muscles. Not that I'm hugging you. I mean, I am, but not intentionally. It's just the--"
The shrill ring of Hotch's phone sliced through the air, a timely interruption to Evelyn's frenzied monologue. He leaned subtly to the side, his hand extending towards the intrusive device, his movements fluid and composed. Meanwhile, Evelyn's departure from his lap was anything but graceful; her cheeks burned with a fiery blush as she mumbled an apology, her limbs betraying her as she hastily disentangled herself.
"Sorry," she stammered, her words trailing off into the chaos of her movement. "I'll just--"
With a simple lift of his hand, Hotch stilled her spiraling apologies, his attention shifting seamlessly to the caller on the line. Evelyn perched beside him, her cheeks still painted with the flush of embarrassment, feeling the residual heat from their embrace. His voice was the epitome of calm and control, his gaze lingering on her as he spoke into the phone.
"Hotchner," he announced into the phone, his voice a steady command. Evelyn breath steadied, her hands playing at her bikini strings as she willed calm to wash over her. The call ended with a decisive click, and she tensed anticipating his next words. "We have a case. We're going to meet the team in Somerville, Massachusetts."
NEXT
taglist: @aceofspades190 @nonamevenus @lukesaprince @doigettokeepyou @tequilya
#aaron hotchner#aaron hotchner x original character#spencer reid#aaron hotchner x reader#criminal minds fanfic#spencer reid smut#spencer reid x reader#spencer reid x original character#aaron hotchner x reader x spencer reid#criminal minds smut#criminal minds fic#aaron hotchner fic#aaron hotch x reader#hotch#hotchner#criminal minds#aaron hotchner x original character x spencer reid#spencer reid x oc#dr spencer reid#mgg#aaron hotchner x oc#Spotify
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anyways domestic & romantic MXES headcanons bc I love him. good evening.
MXES x gn! Reader
• So for funsies, let's say he acquires a way for him to exist in the physical world. That can be a robotic body, or another physical manifestation. How you interpret how that came to be, or how he exists irl is up to you. You think he's attractive regardless got dam <3
• He's more sentient than you realized at first. The longer you're with him, the more he reveals his emotions to you.
• He is overwhelmed upon seeing the natural world. Every plant or bug or creature he comes across is met with intense curiosity, and he researches everything he discovers. Everything is so green and full of life and movement. You caught him standing still, absolutely entranced when a small yellow butterfly landed on his hand. He's never been the same since. He also likes fireflies especially. He pets every cat that comes up to him.
• He has a supportive and quiet presence if you have to study/work on something/etc. He'll sit close to you and work on coding, conjuring up the 538th security node for your place or researching stuff he finds interesting (he totally has like 400 tabs open). He likes to stay busy, so he'll always find something to do, especially if it means he gets to vibe with you.
• He's curious about your well being. If you get sick, injured or aren't feeling well for whatever reason, he's basically getting his Google MD to figure out how to help you.
• MXES often is non verbal, but you understand his intentions and thoughts regardless. He uses his hands and gestures a lot to communicate, his eyes are really expressive too. You're mesmerized by them sometimes.
• When be tilts his head at you, you can't help but melt a little inside and find him adorable. You hate it now, because he's figured out that's how he can convince you to do something.
• Likes to have things in order, so when you come home from class or work, you find your place cleaned and organized often. You tell him he doesn't have to do that, but he insists. On your days off, you both work on chores with music gently playing throughout the place.
• HE LIKES HIS EARS BEING CARESSED, HE'LL ABSOLUTELY DIE IF YOU DO THAT WHEN YOU'RE CUDDLING HIM.
• If you've had a stressful day or need to vent, he's very good at listening. He'll sit in front of you at eye level and his full attention is on you. He doesn't speak, and lets you spill your heart out. He's receptive to the way your tone changes, or if you say something particularly distressing. You notice his ears move or perk up with your words.
• If you get too worked up and start crying, he's instantly holding you. He rests his head on yours and remains silent.
• When you're away, he's always messaging you to see how you're doing. He sends you random memes. He also definitely sends like 700 heart emojis. He also sends this emoji a lot -> 🤨. This idiot either speaks normally or in hieroglyphs. ">//types like this."
• He has a hard time relaxing or powering down, since he was so used to essentially always working to keep the security running at the pizzaplex. He believes if he lets his guard down, something bad will happen. You work with him on that.
• Still kind of paranoid because of his experience at the pizzaplex. It's such a fundamental part of him to try to secure, contain and protect. If someone unexpectedly knocks at your door, or sends you weird messages, etc., he's scoping out the situation to look for any threats. Rest in peace the scammers who try to scam you.
• Likes to hold you close when you lay down. He's kinda clingy, and likes to grab onto you like a plushie. You're okay with this, but you have to peel him off you if you need to move or get up.
• definitely purrs a little.
• He powers down and recharges in fragments so sometimes he's up at weird hours.
• If you drive, he'll try to accompany you. You have to get tinted windows so people don't look at your car weird. He'll sit in the passenger seat and ask about passing shops or buildings. He loves it when you're driving and singing along to the music, he just stares in amusement. He remembers your favorite songs and makes a playlist for you.
• If he notices you're falling asleep at your computer, he'll discreetly turn it off remotely to force you to take a break.
• Totally blue screens irl if you kiss him on his nose. I don't make the rules.
• Can he cook? Not really. Will he try? Yes. Did he accidentally set a pot on fire once and freaked out and refused to turn on the stove for 2 weeks? Perhaps.
• Is keenly aware of all the recent news or updates regarding fazbear entertainment or the demise of the pizzaplex. The mimic went missing after MXES was taken offline by Cassie, so he stays informed. He wish he could do more. He feels guilty about it.
• Hackerman 3000. You'll have the most robust security system ever. Not even the FBI can track you down.
• Becomes a flustered mess when you kiss him or show him romantic affection. His ears droop down all the way and he essentially glitches out. You have to ensure you haven't broken him. lord help him he's got it bad.
• He enjoys looking outside and listening to the rain. He'll often just sit by the window and watch any lightning in the sky. He makes note of how it resembles parts of his arms.
Gotdamn this is so long im so sorry goodnight lmao <3
#fuck man i love him so much#fnaf#mxes#m.x.e.s.#security breach#security breach ruin#fnaf ruin#mxes x reader#mxes x y/n#fnaf x reader#long post#fnaf headcanons
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Lilia Vanrouge x Reader
✿Briar's Secret [Part 2]✿
Notes: Angst, fluff? Meleanor's little sister!reader, chief strategist!reader, human-fae war era.
Contains my twst OC Midnight.
Midnight followed his beloved princess out to where the humans stood their ground, fully armed and ready to take the lives of whoever approached them. Midnight himself was a human, in fact, he was the very one who had once attempted the assassination of princess [Y/N] Draconia. The very princess to whom he had sworn complete allegiance and the fragile threads that vested his life.
He had grown up an orphan, forced into an occupation as brutal as assassination by his own race. His arctic blue eyes had held the coldness of all the winters, kindness was far from what he had. He had taken the lives of numerous fae kind, his hands were stained with deep smears of their blood that would unceasingly serve as a recollection of his immoral deeds that were nothing short of perverseness.
Yet this very princess whom he had been told to assassinate, had forgiven him, even taken him as one of her own. She'd made him the leader of her private military squadron- the Midnight Solstice. He remembered not what his real name was. Midnight was the name the princess had given him. And it was the only name that held any sort of importance to him.
He'd foolishly fallen in love with her. He, a lowly human, had fallen in love with a fae princess. He had fallen into the trenches of admiration for a woman who would never be his as was decided by the differences between their races. He could never dare to tell her he loved her.
Not only that, the princess held someone else close to her heart. [Y/N]'s heart belonged to the Right General of Briar Valley's army, Lilia Vanrouge. Midnight understood quite little of why she loved him, given how they constantly bickered with each other, but he could not bring himself to intervene in his princess' love. He would follow her to the bitter end. That was his duty as her trusted assassin.
Face to face they now were, with the Knight of Dawn, Henrik and the rest of the Silver Owls in glistening metal armour over which the light bounced off to yonder.
"We come to negotiate peace. If you make no move, we shall listen to your demands." [Y/N] declared. Even at a time like this, Midnight's princess did not hesitate to show kindness and forgiveness to those who were willing to resonate with her pleas and respond in kind.
"Peace?! With you damned witches? You think you have any right?!" Henrik yelled in quite the odious manner. Midnight clicked his tongue, having to hold himself back from wrenching off that insolent pig's head.
"Then you leave me no choice." [Y/N] scanned the grounds. She had bought enough time apparently. Midnight could also spot Princess Meleanor, the General and his aide running with the egg into the dense woods of Briar Valley.
"Hah! As if an immoral creature like you is capable of anything!" Henrik jabbed a short, stubby finger at her. Midnight had to inhale to calm himself. No stabbing big ugly pigs with foul mouths and no cutting their miserable fingers. He had to wait for [Y/N]'s orders.
The fae princess took in a deep breath before whispering. "Remains of the worlds beyond, assist my need to conquer that which has been sought. Reign of Conqueror." [Y/N] staggered, Midnight helping her up as a dense, crimson mist dissipated across the grounds. Midnight shielded himself and [Y/N] with his defense magic, watching as every soldier fell into a deep sleep, one which could never be awakened from. No true love, no magic could awaken them. They'd rot into bones in this very manner. They were as good as dead.
[Y/N] coughed up blood, falling to her knees. The usually sprightly princess looked now pale and sickly, the pieces of her face shattering into red fragments and slowly scattering into the winds.
"Princess!" Midnight crouched beside her. His heart felt as if it had been beat with a hammer. Panic flashed in his eyes. He had known this would happen. He had let her do this as he was in no position to disobey the orders of one who had saved his life.
"Midnight." The princess clutched the arm of her trusted assassin weakly. "Did I do good?" Her other arm had already broken away into crimson fragments, the very same shade of crimson as her beloved Lilia's eyes. Her torso was now slowly breaking up into similar pieces.
"Of course, princess." Midnight struggled with his words. He disliked how awkward he was with words. He disliked how he could not say the words [Y/N] wished to hear. He hated himself. So much.
"I love you, Midnight. Tell big sis Meleanor I l-loved her. Baul and the castle staff too." the princess spoke weakly. She was now almost gone. "I wish I could see big brother Levan one last time." she choked on a sob. The assassin's heart broke as he held her. He struggled to breathe, struggled to come to terms with reality as he watched his loved one perish in his arms.
"And tell that idiot Lilia-" [Y/N]'s face was now fading away. "He had better marry me. I love him."
And with that, the last of her was gone. Princess [Y/N] Draconia, gone from this world, without a trace.
✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿
NOTE: DO NOT REPOST OR PLAGIARIZE MY WORK!
#malleus draconia#twisted wonderland#twisted wonderland x reader#twst#lilia x reader#lilia vanrouge#lilia vanrouge x reader#diasomnia#diasomnia x reader
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🥃 alternate reunion | post s2 good omens snippet
to celebrate finishing act 1 of my s3 fic how do we turn on the light? , here's the original snippet for aziraphale and crowley reuniting after s2. i had began writing this before chapter 1 was even posted, and if you've read hdwtotl, you can see how different the plot ended up along with a few key similarities. the tone of this scene for the story i was writing felt way off so i did away with 99% of it in the actual chapter, but i feel bad about it existing all lonely in my snippets doc, so. enjoy!
1.7k words. context: aziraphale has been supreme archangel for 3 years, and has received instructions from the metatron to meet with the grand duke of hell to negotiate sanctions for the second coming. aziraphale assumes that crowley's been asleep this entire time. he was wrong.
He approaches Marguerite’s, the ivy climbing the walls having died from the winter chill. He glimpses the outdoor seating, feels a flash of something—a memory of—
‘Smitten, I believe. You’re being silly—‘
Aziraphale shakes it away, blinks in rapid succession until the image fades. The interior is more or less as he remembers it, lightly Tuscan and dimly-lit enough that it made every conversation somewhat intimate. The server is unfamiliar, and Aziraphale is grateful that he’s not meant to have small-talk with someone who recognizes him. Someone that he may or may not end up recognizing back, all this time later. He requests the table up against the window at the far corner.
He purposefully doesn’t look at his bookshop through the window, can remember—the last time he was there, when—when Crowley—Snap out of it, he thinks desperately. His memories are becoming too much to contain, fragmented as they are, and it’s enough to make him wary, intensely disoriented. Perhaps it can simply be attributed to his return to Earth, but, no, there’s a feeling in the air, something unfamiliarly evil but familiarly miserable. Almost as if there’s a… badness about London, now, something miserable seeping into the concrete, cloying the smoggy air. Either that means the end times somehow already began in his absence, or—
Crowley’s awake.
The thought makes Aziraphale's unnecessary heartbeat falter, makes his hand flutter to his puff-tie and dig into the fabric. There’s no guarantee, of course, and three years is on the shorter side for the handful of times he’s slept a period of time away, but—
Through the window, Aziraphale can just see the building next door. Give Me Coffee or Give Me Death. There’s a woman—Nina, her name is Nina—wiping down the outdoor seating, stacking up the dishware following the lunch rush. He watches a familiar figure come out from inside, donned in an apron and a sunny dress, immediately reaching her arms forward to help Nina with the load. Maggie, he remembers with a rush of warmth. Nina says something to her with a crooked smile, and Maggie laughs, then tips forward to press their lips together over the stack of dirty plates between them. The gaping, dormant thing in Aziraphale’s chest lets out a slow, mournful whine. A flash of red and black passes his vision.
It all happens rather quickly after that.
First, something sharp and jagged slides between his ribs, buries into his organs, the celestial ones. He jolts, gasps, immediately pressing a hand low to his chest, grabbing at—nothing. He looks down and frowns, seeing no blood, golden or otherwise. A voice pulls him back up.
“Are you ready to order?” The waitress asks him.
“I—“ he starts, then smells it. Staticky, slight, but deep still, like—like the ocean before a storm, or the smoke after the incense has already burned off, like bourbon and he feels—he experiences it all again, every moment together in the past 6000 years, the things he poured futilely into ink and pressure to suppress, and—
When Crowley slides into the seat across from him, something fractures and mends at the same time, like re-breaking a bone. It’s all he can do to stare.
Crowley’s looking at him evenly. Crowley’s there, he’s perched in front of him like a—a materialization. It feels impossible, Crowley being here on his own volition. And now he’s raising an expectant brow, and when nothing is forthcoming he looks to the waitress, then back to Aziraphale. “Erm,” he says awkwardly. “I’ll have a double Macallan, neat. He’ll take—“ Another look. “A dry vermouth, maybe. The sweetest one you’ve got.”
His voice. Aziraphale’s fingers clench into the seat of his chair so tightly that the wood splinters.
The waitress departs. Crowley crosses a leg over his knee, leans back casually in his chair like he’s going to fall right out of it. He’s wearing a black turtleneck and a thick, dark-gray blazer. A fine maroon scarf drapes untied around his neck. His hair is identical to how it was three years ago, only—wavier. Disheveled, maybe. It’s not the worst bedhead he’s been afflicted with, in comparison to all the others. There’s dark circles just visible beneath the bottom curve of his sunglasses. He’s tilting his head imperceptibly up and down, and it takes Aziraphale a moment to understand that he’s being scrutinized right back; if Crowley has an opinion over Aziraphale’s own change of wardrobe, though, he doesn’t voice it.
“Hello,” Crowley says finally, almost politely. He has his hands folded at the curve of his knee, pulling his arms taut, and he says in a too-delighted tone of voice, “Been too long, hasn’t it?”
Aziraphale blinks. That’s the only possible movement he could make. “I—“
“—Of course, maybe it wasn’t long enough, to you,” he acquiesces with a tilt of his head, as if Aziraphale had voiced anything of the sort. His ankle is bouncing in midair. “We’ve certainly gone longer, though, haven’t we, Oh Supreme Archangel of Heaven.” He announces each part of the title distinct from each other, lips curled into a frown that looks more like a barely-schooled smile. “Who would have thought it, truly? Not me. Especially not me. You could have given me thousands of years, and I’d never have guessed this is where we’d end up.” He leans over his crossed leg dangerously. “Do I need to call you some sort of—I dunno, special biblical thing? Bow my head? Bend the knee?”
Breath rushes back into Aziraphale’s chest, and he dislodges his grip from the chair. He tries to look away from Crowley, back out the window unseeingly, but it’s as though his body can’t physically bear the absence, and his eyes snap back forward. He tries to form words that don’t exist.
The waitress returns with their drinks. Crowley barks out what sounds to be a genuine laugh, takes his whiskey and throws it back like a shot. His throat ripples beneath his turtleneck. He drops his hand back to the table with a thud, but keeps his long neck tipped back. “Fuck,” he sighs, long and slow. “Been a long time since I’ve imbibed, to tell you the truth.”
“You’re a demon,” are unfortunately the first words Aziraphale can find. They come out automatically, well-practiced. “You never tell the truth.”
Crowley drops his head back down and grins. It’s entirely teeth. He gestures towards Aziraphale with his empty glass, and says conspiratorially, “Is that what you’ve been telling yourself, then?”
Blinking rapidly, Aziraphale finally musters the ability to pull himself from his reverie. He looks down to the dry vermouth. Perfect guess, of course, though—he’s not sure he could swallow it without it coming back up. It’s been a while since he’s ingested anything. “What are you…” His voice softens. “What are you doing here, Crowley?”
It’s a hard moment, the way Crowley looks at him. His eyes are only glints behind his glasses, somehow both dulled and intensely alive. Then he sniffs, clenches his jaw and snaps to refill his drink. “What do you think?” He says tiredly, as if he’s exhausted himself of whatever charade he was trying to put on, just now. “Where else would I be? You’re here. I’m waiting for you to tell me why, by the way, though I—hah, I have a sneaking suspicion I know what it is already.”
“This isn’t—“ Aziraphale can’t look at him directly anymore, needs a moment to acclimate. “This isn’t a social call, Crowley. I’ve returned to Earth to—“
“—Make a deal with the devil?” asks Crowley, quirking a brow again.
Aziraphale frowns. He knows Hell talks, just as Heaven does, but he’s under the impression—well, Crowley had said he’d given it all up, before. An independent agent, if an agent at all. A proper human. Aziraphale eyes him from the peripheral. “How do you know that?”
Crowley freezes. His glass is suspended halfway to his mouth. “You…” His expression does something complicated. “You don’t know?”
Though he doesn’t know what Crowley’s referring to, these past three years has told Aziraphale that the answer to that question is usually ‘no’. Spending time aimlessly in Heaven has convinced him more than ever how little he truly knows. So he just shakes his head. Crowley watches him do it, eyes tracking the movement like he’s simultaneously a predator and an animal of prey.
“They didn’t tell you?” A dramatic juxtaposition to the feigned pleasantries earlier, Crowley’s expression tightens into something hard and angry, a rarely-seen darkness slithering just beneath the surface, causing his nose to twitch, his jaw to tense impossible more. He slams the glass back to the table, whiskey splashing up and over his fingers. It sizzles at the contact. His skin flashes imperceptibly, makes dark clouds roll rapidly in outside, causes the light directly above them flicker—Aziraphale has only seen him like this a handful of times before, and usually he’s nearly discorporated in what comes next, so he leans back in his chair cautiously.
But Crowley takes a deep breath. The light steadies, the sky clears. He looks away, out to the bookshop across the street, and laughs something humorlessly. There’s no clarification.
Aziraphale starts carefully, “I was told—The Metatron told me that I’m to meet with the—the…” Crowley doesn’t move. Aziraphale trails off, and that feeling returns, the one that’s fear, but comes before it still, like—like—
Oh. Oh, no.
Crowley’s still staring out of the window, tonguing at the inside of his bottom lip. His other lip is curled up, baring his bright, bright teeth. His crossed leg is now entirely flexing and unflexing with a rapid, inconsistent rhythm. And then something in his expression shutters, flattens, and he looks back to Aziraphale with his mouth pressed tightly together in a ghastly interpretation of a smile.
“Oh yes,” he says slowly, sardonically, tipping his head up like he’s basking in the realization. He holds his hand out over the table, long fingers twitching, perhaps wanting to curl into a fist instead. “Grand Duke of Hell, at Lucifer’s service. Can we begin?”
Dread, Aziraphale remembers weakly. The feeling is dread.
#good omens#good omens fanfic#good omens snippet#grand duke of hell#grand duke crowley#supreme archangel aziraphale#aziracrow fic#post season 2#ineffable husbands#good omens ficlet#hdwtotl#moonyinpisces writes#can you believe that in my OG plan for hdwtotl god didn't give aziraphale instructions??? what was i doing#crowley's outfit was WAY better though. which is why i changed it lol
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He loved me too (D.M)
Sequel to ‘Thank you for loving him’
Draco Malfoy x Fem!Slytherin!Reader
Summary: Every memory of him was tainted with betrayal. So why did her heart still stop at the sight of him. And why did she still want to save him?
Warnings: Swear words. Mentions of suicide, death and violence
Words: 2.3k
A/N: The pacing of this is so weird im v sorry. This was so hard to write though, I didn’t know whether to include the battle or time skip idk. She is very description heavy bc I hate writing dialogue but I really wanted to write a reunion so here you go.
Everything had changed.
She supposed everything had changed that night, as she was staring at the body of Dumbledore struck dead at the foot of the astronomy tower. She supposed it was then that the world started to crumble around them, with their only protector dead and Harry Potter missing it appeared there was nothing left to do but stay alive.
The letter had stayed tucked away in her trunk, far from the prying eyes of anyone who might rifle through her things looking for a reason to crucio her. For once being a Slytherin had its perks; even if the rest of the school still despised the colour green it was the one thing that offered her an ounce of protection against the cruelty of Hogwarts’ new dark professors.
With Snape as Headmaster and the Carrows running free it was a wonder anyone was still choosing to be alive. She awoke every morning, dreading the day to come. The castle was no longer filled with laughter and joy, instead it was filled with pain and anguish. It became an unspoken rule to not mention the tortured cries of the younger students coming from classrooms or staff offices, instead everything went ignored for fear of receiving the same punishment.
Defence against the Dark Arts was the worst. Having since been renamed to Dark Arts, the use of dark magic spells had become almost a daily occurrence and Amycus Carrow believed that they were best practiced on other ‘disobedient’ students in order to teach them a lesson. Eventually the screams of students as they twitched and contorted on the dusty floor faded into background noise and with every unforgivable curse that left her lips and the tip of her wand, she reminded herself of what it would mean if she refused.
Maybe everyone else has it easier.
If a Gryffindor refuses, it’s expected. If a Ravenclaw refuses, who cares. If a Hufflepuff refuses, they are weak anyway. If a Slytherin refuses… They are a traitor. If a Slytherin refuses, they are to be made an example of. If a Slytherin refuses, they should hope death is kind to them for the Death Eaters will not be.
…
“Harry Potter… is dead.” His voice echoed around the broken courtyard, only overpowered by Ginny’s scream as she was held back by her father. In that moment she knew they had lost. He was their last hope, the only one who could have done what so many others had failed to do. Voldemort’s voice faded into white noise and her vision blurred as she staggered slightly, her legs failing her as she collapsed to the ground.
She could feel her chest heaving as she clutched onto her clothes, the fragments of rock around her; anything to ground herself as she felt herself slip further and further away from reality. Then suddenly, a pressure on her shoulder before something black blocked her view and a hand tilted her face upwards.
Draco.
She could see his lips moving, muttering words to her but everything was still ringing in her ear until she felt his lips pressed to hers for a split second before the warmth of him left as quickly as it had appeared.
She watched as he slowly walked across the graveyard of the Hogwarts she once knew, her chest heaving from the battle that had since ceased. Her eyes barely focusing as Voldemort wrapped his arms awkwardly around the boy she once loved.
The boy she still loved…
Their words still rung in her ears, the memory of that night reliving itself over and over again as she watched his mother pull him into her arms, Lucius Malfoy cowering slightly by their side. Her throat burned as tears filled her eyes, blocking her vision once more as she tried to regain any semblance of a reality that wasn’t this one.
The screams and shouts from the students surrounding her, however, were the thing that managed to bring her back to reality. Forcing herself up onto her feet, she looked across the courtyard searching for the head of platinum blond hair she was so desperate to see. But instead, she saw something infinitely better.
Hope.
Hope in the form of Harry Potter darting across the courtyard behind the archways lining the halls, throwing hexes blindly behind him to block the barrage of spells coming from the tip of Voldemort’s wand. She fought against the rush of students heading inside towards the great hall for cover, away from the rage of the battle on the grounds outside. Her eyes finally caught a glimpse of long white hair in the carnage and knowing that Lucius wouldn’t be far away from his son in the midst of the battle, she ran.
Death eaters had begun to disappear the moment Harry rolled out of Harry’s arms, only those closest to and most devoted to Voldemort had stayed by his side, the rest had run far from his perilous clutches to save themselves from him.
Unfortunately, the most devoted were also some of the most experienced and with every step she took there were twice as many curses that the few death eaters left hurled at her with as much venom and power as possible.
Hexes and forbidden spells flung from wands on every side, the threat of death looming closer and more threatening than anything the ministry could conjure up. She ducked and stumbled her way across the courtyard, eyes dancing frantically across the rubble for a glimpse of the platinum hair she had run for before. Only now she had no sight of it. No sight of the Malfoy family. Not Narcissa’s ducked head as she led her only child away from the battleground. Not Lucius’ pitying frame as he stumbled after his wife and son. Not the boy she loved under his mother’s arms as they took themselves away from everything their trust in the mighty Lord Voldemort had led to.
Suddenly she was flung to the ground, sharp rocks and pieces of debris tearing through her shirt and into her skin as her body tumbled over itself and rolled through the remains of the castle. Then, white hot pain like never before surged through her body. The screams echoed throughout the edge of the courtyard as she twitched and shook on the floor, driving dust and stone further into the gashes on her skin.
She vaguely saw clashes of green and red light from behind the mound of dirt she lay behind before it suddenly stopped.
Everything stopped.
The light.
The pain.
She thought she was dead. For a split second, she hoped she was dead. That relief would have been easier than coming back into the world she resided in. In the corner of her eye she saw a flash of black as a death eater apparated away; then came the pain again.
Her body ached as every muscle twitched and relaxed over and over again and her throat felt as though it had been ripped to shreds from the screams. Her jaw and neck covered in spit and bile from dry heaving the moment the gods granted her mercy enough to breath.
If this is karma, I deserve it tenfold.
To think, this was the curse she inflicted on children. Innocent children whos only crime was to want something better. To want to live better. To want to live without fear. And yet, she had given them plenty to be scared of.
Suddenly, the same light as before lit up the remains of the walls of the courtyard above her. Green and red battling before her very eyes. She watched as the green faded into the red and, as before, it disappeared once more. A faint whimper the only indication of anyone behind her.
“Harry.” Her voice hoarse and quiet.
Rolling over she pulled herself across the floor and between the rocks, enough to peer around to see the victor. Eyes welling up at the sight of Harry Potter, the boy who lived, stood before the body of Voldemort, covered in black cloth, in the centre of the courtyard.
“We won.” She whispered, pushing herself onto her knees, still weak from the effects of the cruciatus curse inflicted on her before.
“Draco!”
...
There he was. Finally, after what felt like hours, she had finally found him. Nestled between his parents in the remains of the great hall, the three of them tucked away in the corner away from the harsh glares from those who weren’t tending to the wounded or crying over the loss of loved ones.
She stood, staring at him. Allowing herself to mull over every single thought rushing through her head: angry, then sad, then happy; all before the cycle repeated itself over and over again. Losing herself in her thoughts her eyes closed, flashes of him appearing as memories flooded her thoughts so strongly, she swore she could smell him from across the room. Forcing her eyes open she was fronted with black. Specs of dirt covered the fabric of the suit she lay her eyes upon, the marks smeared into the stitching where someone had tried to dust it off. Travelling upwards she saw the chain of the necklace he always wore peaking underneath the collar and then there he was.
He looked much the same. The sharpness of his jaw, sloping up to his ears. Then the slight roundness of his cheeks, covered in dirt and scratches. The curve of his nose, leading to his piercing eyes. Only now they seemed softer, rougher, and sadder all at the same time. Her hand reached up to trace his hairline, up to his forehead where a hex had caught him, leaving a scratch, following the bloodstains down to his chin where she rubbed her thumb across his faint patch of facial hair. Her eyes never met his, and yet his didn’t leave her, watching her every move and willing her to stay despite his betrayal.
They stood there, ignoring everything. His parents. Her friends. The staring. The silent whispering. Then suddenly, a loud crack echoed through the Great Hall.
People ducked and fell to the floor, unsure whether it was death eaters back for a final round as revenge for killing their Dark Lord. Those who didn’t opened their eyes to see Draco Malfoy on his knees in front of her, clutching his cheek as she stared where his face was in front of her. His father was up in an instant, beginning to storm over to where she stood before Narcissa grabbed his arm to stop him. He looked down at her confused, as she shook her head and gestured over to Draco still on the floor. She ran her hand down his arm, grasping his hand in hers as they watched their son climb to his feet, not even bothering to dust off his trousers as he looked at her.
“I’m sorry.” Those two words were the only ones he could think of to even try and redeem himself from the mess he had put himself in, and they seemed to capture her attention perfectly.
“I’m sorry that I left you. Th-that I didn’t tell you, but it was only to keep you safe. All of it was- everything I did was to keep you safe.” He stuttered over words, pausing mid-sentence to catch his breath before stumbling over his words all over again. She reached a hand up to cup his cheek, watching as he flinched slightly in anticipation and closed his eyes.
“I don’t expect you to forgive me because I can’t even find enough words to say I’m sorry but please… please just know I never- had you have stayed in the bloody bed maybe it wouldn’t be like this and for god’s sake will you say something!” His eyes snapped open at her silence. Mouth open ready to counter whatever she was going to throw at him, instead he saw her. The corners of her lips tugged upwards into a small smile; her eyes filled with tears as she reached up her other hand to rest it on his other cheek.
“I don’t know if I could ever forgive you Draco. But I do know that I never stopped loving you.” Draco’s hands reached up to grab her own, brushing his thumbs across the back of her hands down to her wrists as he traced the skin he had not touched in so long.
“That’s all I can ask of you.” He pulled her into him, wrapping his arms around her and pushing his face into the crook of her neck as he surrounded himself in her, his nose buried in her hair as he clutched onto the fabric of her clothing.
Not enough time had passed before they were interrupted. Draco opened his eyes to the shadow of his mother stood beside them, her eyes moving between the two of them.
“May I speak with you?” Her gaze looking to the girl stood in Draco’s arms, hands folded in front of her as she waited patiently for a response.
“I- Yes of course.” She began to uncurl herself from Draco’s hold, who seemed reluctant to let her go. “I’ll be back soon my love.”
She followed Narcissa out to the bridge overlooking the valley and Black lake where they stood against what little remaining wall there was left, listening to the wind whistling and pushing small stones across the paving beneath their feet.
“My family has been through hell these last months. I don’t doubt you have been through something of a similar nature, but I want you to understand that I will do anything for my family. Particularly my son.”
She looked over at Narcissa almost cowered under her intense gaze.
“The love you gave him before... I suspect he will need it now more than ever. But I need to trust that you are willing to give him that.”
She looked back at the scene in front of them, eyes following a bird as it launched from a treetop and flew over the valley.
“You thanked me once, for loving him. But he loved me too. And for me, that is enough.”
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Joe Alwyn and Paul Mescal in conversation for Variety's Actors on Actors (x)
Paul Mescal and Joe Alwyn are literary heartthrobs, having both headlined TV series based on Sally Rooney books. In 2020, “Normal People” put Mescal on the map as a brooding student. And as married actor Nick in 2022’s “Conversations With Friends,” Alwyn’s character became enmeshed in a messy love triangle.
Their latest projects show what else the actors can do. In “Aftersun,” directed by first-time filmmaker Charlotte Wells, Mescal is a single dad who tries to bond with his preteen daughter (Frankie Corio) on a trip to Turkey. Alwyn had a busy year on the festival circuit, playing
an enigmatic Englishman in Claire Denis’ Nicaragua-set romance “Stars at Noon” opposite Margaret Qualley, and a medieval uncle in Lena Dunham’s “Catherine Called Birdy.”
PAUL MESCAL: So what’s the name of the WhatsApp group that
we’re in?
JOE ALWYN: It’s the Tortured Man Club, I think. It’s me, you —
and Andrew Scott started the group.
MESCAL: He’s just on it every day. He’s just on it by himself.
ALWYN: Just messaging himself good mornings. We were both
in the Sally Rooney universe and crossed over with Lenny Abrahamson. We were so lucky to have that experience.
MESCAL: Yeah, I think Lenny is one of those directors that definitely formed me. He’s been hugely important in everything that
I’ve done since then. Was there anything you took from playing
somebody like Nick into “Stars at Noon”?
ALWYN: With “Stars at Noon,” that was such a singular, strange,
unusual entry point. I was brought on very last-minute, which was
a first for me. I got an email Friday morning saying, “Will you read
the script as soon as possible? If you’re interested, Claire would
love to Skype with you.” And so obviously I did, I Skyped with
her, and she said, “Will you join us?” She was already in Panama.
And four days later, I got on a plane. And she was standing
outside the hotel with a glass of rum for me and gave me a hug.
And two days later, we started shooting.
MESCAL: Oh, wow. Is there something liberating in the process?
You probably can’t do the amount of prep that you would.
ALWYN: Yeah, it was hard. At least at the beginning.
MESCAL: Was it just gut feel?
ALWYN: Yeah, and some conversations with Claire. Her way
of shooting was so unusual. I can’t remember if I told you this
before: She would shoot things out of order, even in a scene. It
was very fragmented.
MESCAL: Disconnected and fragmented.
ALWYN: I think she feels things in an animal way and is piecing it
together as she goes. And there’s no traditional coverage either.
I wanted to ask you, thinking about Lenny and thinking about
“Aftersun.” I absolutely loved it. And you’re incredible in it. With
the space given to you guys to breathe in a room, and not stuff
it full of exposition, and just have the camera rolling in a very
real, naturalistic way, it felt quite Lenny-ish. Is that fair to say?
MESCAL: I think it probably is. It was directed by Charlotte Wells,
who is going to be one of those directors that we’ll all be talking
about. I haven’t come across somebody as assured as Charlotte.
ALWYN: Is that confidence in the script?
MESCAL: The stage directions are really confidently written.
I don’t know about you, but I love acting in that space when
you know that there’s a kind of theatricality to it, but the stakes are high. We only had Frankie for about four hours a day.
ALWYN: How old was she?
MESCAL: She turned 11 on set.
ALWYN: How much of that is improv?
MESCAL: Ninety-five percent of it is scripted, I’d say. The karaoke
scene, for example, was just about getting Frankie comfortable
with the idea that an 11-year-old who hasn’t ever acted before is
going to have to stand up in front of a camera and an audience
and sing “Losing My Religion.” And she does it brilliantly. In the
rehearsal, the camera wasn’t working, and Frankie ingeniously
went, “That’s OK. I’ll record it with my mind camera.” I remember
turning to Charlotte like, “That’s the most brilliant line of all
time.” Charlotte wrote it in afterwards. What’s a kind of ideal rhythm for you on set? Well, you’re just investing in Claire Denis.
ALWYN: And you know her use of bodies. There’s a sex scene in
the first scene . Her direction was just like Francis Bacon.
MESCAL: Wow, just that? And, go! I’d like to get into that a bit,
because obviously I think it’s fair to say we’ve done our share
of intimate scenes. How did that experience on “Stars at Noon”
differ from “Conversations”?
ALWYN: So different.
MESCAL: Yeah, really?
ALWYN: “Conversations With Friends,” there’s an intimacy coordinator. The scenes are spoken about. They’re rehearsed. Every
movement is almost choreographed like a dance or a fight. And
they’re quite blocked, even though there’s freedom within it. But
I trusted Claire and I trusted the crew. And Margaret, obviously.
And you feel safe within that. I think trust and feeling safe is the
main thing.
MESCAL: That is the main thing, totally. But it is interesting, with
that question, being it’s a hot topic in the industry. I think you’re
right that you never want scenes around intimacy to feel stale.
But ultimately they have to feel safe. And I think you can feel
safe multiple ways, and that’s through trust.
ALWYN: Absolutely. I wanted to ask you, which is kind of off topic,
but I remember us speaking before about anxiety and shooting
and being able to get outside of anxiety in order to do the job.
How are you finding that?
MESCAL: It’s that cursed feeling of, once you feel like it’s disappearing, it comes back and hits you like a ton of bricks. But I
was talking to somebody about that. They said, “I don’t think
it’s ever going to leave you, because it’s a personality type.” But
for me, it’s trying to use that anxiety or fear or fear of failure
— repurposing that to be like, “What I’m doing matters to me.”
Might not matter to everybody, but it matters to me at that
moment. How do you feel about that stuff?
ALWYN: It’s interesting and tricky. Because it gets to a point
where there’s a degree to which nerves are completely inevitable and can also be helpful. But at the same time, there’s a
danger — and I’ve certainly felt this in the last couple of years
— where that can start to take away some of the pleasure and
the fun of doing it. So recently it’s been a rethink: Going forward,
just jumping in in the same way but caring less in the right way.
MESCAL: Talk to me a bit more about that.
ALWYN: Just trying to find a way to have more fun and sense
of play.
MESCAL: I learned a huge amount from Frankie, because Frankie
had never done it before and just loved acting. I feel like that’s
a good instinct to have as an actor — to try and really get to the
center of when you watch somebody act with abandon.
ALWYN: On “Catherine Called Birdy,” Bella Ramsey, who plays
the lead, she was 17 when we shot it — probably 15 when she
was cast. She’s just going for it. It was the first job I went back to
out of COVID, and I remember feeling really nervous because
I hadn’t done it for a while. And there was this world of masks.
And Lena Dunham was having to direct on Zoom when I joined.
MESCAL: What is a Lena Dunham set like?
ALWYN: She’s a force. And full of energy, positivity, creativity. I
think maybe also because she performs herself, she has a good
understanding of what an actor might want. She really takes
care of people. She will come in and tell you what she liked, or
she’ll give you a thumbs-up. And, also, she’s just so funny.
MESCAL: Do you like auditioning?
ALWYN: I’ve come to quite like making tapes. It used to drive
me mad.
MESCAL: I prefer being in the room, I find. I feel like my issue
when I’m making a tape is that I have too much control.
ALWYN: Do you go on and on?
MESCAL: Yeah. And then it’s hour three.
ALWYN: You’ve got 50 takes to watch, and they all look the same.
MESCAL: It’s an absolute nightmare. What do you look for?
ALWYN: Erotic thrillers.
MESCAL: Same. •
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reallyromealone
@chiizfuyu you give me inspiration like no other fam.
Bonten Mikey x house husband reader
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How did Mikey Sano manage to snag an angel like (name)?!
It made zero sense, sweet (name) who cooked and cleaned and was completely devoted to the most feared man in Japan who would kill someone without any hesitation.
The car ride was peaceful as (name) thought about dinner plans, seeing a recipe online that he wanted to try or perhaps order out tonight.
Ran had mentioned a wonderful place the other day.
Bonten headquarters was still as intimidating as ever as (name) navigated through the building having been here on multiple occasions --- usually when the men had to work extra late and needed substance of the food variety.
"ah~ if it isn't Bontens housewife!" Ran teased as he caught sight of the kind face that was (name) "hello Ran! I brought lunch for everyone..." (Name) said softly while holding the bags and a smaller separate one for Mikey's portion "(name) brought food?" Rindou asked from across the room, catching the attention of the other men who perked at the mention of a home cooked meal---from a pretty boy no less.
"it's nothing fancy, just some lunch boxes" (Name) said softly as he let Mochi take the bags "I made sure to add extra meat!" (Name) said kindly as he let Sanzu lead time to Mikey's office gently.
"I still am in awe that Mikey managed to snag such an angel" Koko said in awe as he ate his lunch, savoring the flavor.
They all regret not snagging the sweetheart back in high school every day.
"thank you so much for walking me here Sanzu, I cut the sausages like little octopuses for you since you help Mikey so much!" (Name) said kindly and Sanzu would be lying if he said he wouldn't die for this man--- the queen to Mikey's king.
"I will serve him till death" Sanzu said simply as he opened the door to Mikey's office and left the couple alone.
"mikey~ I brought you lunch" (name) said sweetly as he walked towards the other, letting Mikey pull him into his lap and take the lunch from his hands and place it on the mahogany desk "you took to long..." Mikey said quietly, a small fragment of his teen self slipping out as he pouted slightly and held (name) closer.
"I had to make sure the children were fed" (name) joked as he bent down and kissed the blond gently "I brought enough for both of us to eat together" (name) said softly while playing with the others hair "feed me.." Mikey commanded playfully and (name) snorted slightly but complied, turning slightly to open the lunch box and take out the two drinks for them and began feeding the Bonten leader, every other bite feeding himself as well and smiling when Mikey rubbed small circles into his hips.
Mikey craved this domestic scene, a refreshing shift from his work.
(name) was his only escape from the day to day and the dark impulses, vowing to make sure his sweet husband never needed to ask for anything.
It made him swell with pride when (name) only requested his time and to have dinner together at least once a week.
Mikey always tried for three.
Despite never asking for anything, Mikey spoiled his little house husband with lavish gifts and clothing ---and other things we don't talk about.
Everything was worth seeing him smile and Mikey coming home to see his husband in an apron making food for them.
"so I was thinking tonight we order from this place Ran recommended--" "why must you talk to other men?"
"baby he's my friend and you know I only have eyes for you" (name) said, not even bothering to play into his lover's jealousy as he placed a tender kiss on the platinum blondes forehead "besides he's not my type"
"and whose your type?"
"strong blondes who have undercuts"
"good answer"
"now eat
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Somewhere Beyond the Ashes
TW: Blood, injury, attempts at murder, heart break mention, knives, gun, death threats, torture mentions (very discreet and no graphic description), violence
Yeah, I didn't die. Had a math test, which is close enough anyway. Word count: 1.7 k
“Are you alright?”
The words, like everything else Villain said, seemed to be the very representation of what if velvet was a sound; impossibly smooth and rich, like they were practised time and time again.
They very much were, and Hero knew that much.
Hero had known from the first day he’d stared into those entrancing blue eyes, when his gaze had fallen onto the picture-perfect smile that played across the criminal’s lips. No wonder her civilian identity was that of a movie star, she really did look the part.
But the villain had managed to make him forget it, discard it like another stray, meaningless thought. Like it had never been. She’d seduced the hero so fast, it was beyond humiliating, the shame weighing down on his shoulders like a cinder block.
He hadn’t even realised when it happened, when everything had started slipping through his fingers, he’d only seemed to have woken up from his rose-coloured stupor when it was too late, when he’d completely lost control.
The agency hadn’t prepared him for this. Hero had been taught to handle pain like it was second nature to him, to not crumble under the most gruelling psychological manipulation, to remain unbreakable, stiffer than solid rock as he persevered through the inhumane horrors he was subjected to. Occupational hazards. But even through all this, they hadn’t prepared him for the villain’s gentle concern, for her soft spoken nature, for the heavenly feeling of her fingers carding through his hair or for how pet names felt like honey dripping off her tongue.
They didn’t prepare him for receiving every indulgence he was deprived of his whole life, his cruellest punishment yet.
He’d become immune to the dark seduction that would come from a villain who chose to wear the “charming” mask. To words of affection and purred compliments with ulterior motives. But not to gentle care, not to something so torturously close to being genuine that it drove the crime-stopper insane how intricate the villain’s fabrication of it was. A wonderful actress indeed.
“You lied to me,” the hero stated, turning the full intensity of his gaze onto his nemesis.
“Well isn’t that unfortunate?” the villain deadpanned, staring at her perfectly manicured nails. She was wearing the hero’s shirt, and although it hung loosely off her frame, and she was sporting her morning hair, she still looked impossibly perfect.
“I’d hate to spoil your fun, but it’s empty,” Villain said smoothly as the hero reached for the gun in his waistband, hidden by his clothes.
He checked, “firing” at the clock on the wall. Safety off and everything. The villain hadn’t been joking.
“Don’t bother yourself with looking for these either, love.” She twirled the crime-fighter’s twin throwing knives elegantly, one in each hand.
Hero wanted to slap himself for the soft gasp he let out, met with a wolfish grin dancing across the criminal’s features.
“W-why didn’t you just kill me from the start?” he breathed out. His life may have been at stake, but he would lose whatever pathetic fragments that remained of his decaying sanity if he didn’t know.
“I like to play with my food before I eat it. Like to twist the knife before I push it all the way in. Guilty pleasure,” she continued evenly, as though they were conversing about something as trivial as coffee orders. She sauntered towards him like she had all the time in the world, a lazy smile on her face.
The hero tried to run, but the villain knew exactly where he was headed. “The kitchen, where all the knives are. That would be incredibly clever if I didn’t know you like the back of my hand.”
He registered the words, fully understood the weight of them, but he still ran like hell.
And the villain simply appeared again, lounging on the dining table with one leg over the other, spinning one of the crime-stopper’s knives in one hand and clutching her gun, ironically the same, exact model of the hero’s. The bastard had teleportation powers at her disposal. It didn’t matter that the hero, in a fit of hysterical strength, had flipped the table with the villain on it, or that he’d hurled a chair at her with enough force to fracture her skull. She still managed to evade it. Hero swore, the filthiest words he knew, calling his enemy every vulgar moniker he was aware existed.
She showed up right behind him, wrapping her strong arms around him in a delicate embrace, the blade of the knife pressed into his neck, the gun to his stomach.
“You told me you liked it so much when I hugged you from behind. So I thought I’d give you a little parting gift, my love. Any last words?”
A shudder escaped the hero’s treacherous lips as he felt the criminal’s warm breath against his neck. “You’re still lying,” he choked out, grinning like a madman.
“You really keep insisting on being pathetic,” the villain bit out, and it would’ve reached the desired effect if her voice hadn’t trembled ever so slightly. “You think this is a game?” she hissed, pressing the knife just a little deeper into the crime-fighter’s skin, letting a thin line of crimson snake down his neck, like ink meant to mar a perfect painting, serving only to enhance its beauty.
She could desecrate the hero all she wanted, but nothing she did could ever truly ruin him. The foolish words inked into a poster that hung uselessly in the villain’s room, the whole lie about denying the existence of a never-ending night, of eternal darkness couldn’t be closer to the truth right now. Hero was the living proof, existing to torment and mock the villain. And for that, she wished to destroy him so horrifically that he was rendered less than a shadow of the bright star he once was.
Hero had other ideas. He despised himself for managing to notice how the villain’s sadistic grin hadn’t gone all the way up to her eyes, how even when she was threatening to lay waste to him trapping him in her hold, she’d avoided the bruise near his ribs. He should’ve been seeing red, trying to rip his damningly beautiful nemesis limb from limb. But as his mother had once told him, the mind’s master is desire, you see what you wish to believe. It made him feel all the more pitiable.
“You don’t want to kill me,” the hero said, breaking out of her hold, trying and failing horribly to stop the tears from streaming down his face, to stop his voice from breaking.
“Oh believe me, I do. More than anything. But I’ll make it quick because you cried so pretty for me.” The irony was impossibly cruel as tear tracks marred the villain’s face, as her lip quivered and her breathing hitched. She trained her gun on the hero’s face, expression stone-hard, death grip on her weapon.
Hero just smiled at her, the blood now staining the collar of his white shirt a deep maroon.
“DON’T YOU GET IT?” she screamed, pushing the hero till he was flush against the wall. He could escape very easily, could pry the gun out of her fingers and exact his revenge. But he didn’t.
He didn’t.
“It was a lie at first. I was manipulating you. I tried to kill you so many times. Poison in your coffee. When you were sick, I was going to break that thermometer in your mouth, let the mercury go down your throat. That date at the restaurant, when you came to pick me up with that stupid way you did your tie. I was going to choke you with it when I offered to fix it for you. But I never did. I convinced myself I was playing the long game, stringing you along, so that your pain reached its maximum when I killed you. So that you’d suffer the worst torture imaginable!”
“But?” he asked, searching for something she didn’t know in her eyes.
“I couldn’t take it. Couldn’t take the way you looked at me, how you went out of your way to make me happy. I lived my whole life believing love was a lie. Building up my walls. Not letting the scars of my past heartbreak define me! And you think you can just waltz in here and prove it was all smoke and mirrors?” she seethed, gritting her teeth.
He never answered, just leaned forward, pressing his lips to her forehead in a gentle kiss, pulling away and staring deep into her eyes, brilliant emerald green seeing through her soul.
“You bastard!” Her grip tightened on the trigger, but her gaze softened, and she threw the gun down, throwing herself against his chest as he wrapped his arms around her.
“I don’t want to ruin you.”
“You don’t even know the full extent of the things I’ve done. Of the choices I had to make. The lesser of two evils is still an evil.”
“The agency?”
He pulled away and tilted her chin up, “Being a puppet is exhausting. I’m only a hero because they called me that. I’m a man, not an angel, but I have enough good left in me to realise some of my work was no more than crimes committed in the name of their twisted idea of the ‘greater good’. So yeah, I guess I won’t stop saving people, but before that, I have a few loose ends to tie. So what do you say?” He wrapped her arms around his neck and slung his around her waist.
“Let’s get those bastards.” She pressed a passionate kiss to his jawline and walked out with her hand intertwined in his.
It only took a month, and the agency had collapsed.
Fire brings destruction, each one trailing after the other like crazed lovers, hell-bent on setting the world ablaze if only just to feel the intensity of each other. But hidden in the wreckage like a diamond in the rough, underneath the soot and debris, is a chance for a new beginning, something akin to how a phoenix rises from the ashes, reborn brighter than before fueled by the flames that set a lover’s heart on fire.
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#prompt#hero x villain#enemies to lovers#hero/villain#romance#angst#a little gremlin's writing#writers on tumblr#female writers#writing#fiction#heroes and villains#villains and heroes#blood tw#violence tw#knife tw#gun tw#death threat tw#f/m#lamy writes#torture mention tw
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Ineffable
Clockwork did not watch as the halfa was brought into existence. He did not see it.
But of course, that did not mean he hadn’t felt it.
He was the master of time, he knew everything that had, is, and would occur. Every possibility, reality, and paradox flowed through him before taking place on the various branches of existence.
He would have liked to, of course, however, his gaze was not viewed by him alone.
Clockwork had been the beginning of everything. Before him, there had been nothing, for nothing could exist without time. The first being, the first Ancient, the first concept, the first piece of consciousness brought into existence. Clockwork had come first, and everything had followed after.
The Past, the Present, the Future.
Disharmony, Strife, and Madness.
Desperation.
Unity.
Order.
And then finally, came Life and Death, and everything that came thereafter.
But somewhere between those early events – between the madness and the desperation – came the Observants.
Their conception beckoned into existence by his own insanity.
A binding contract was what they gave, a fracture upon his eye was what they left, and a piece of his sight was what they took.
They saw all that he saw and passed judgment upon all that they witnessed.
Clockwork could not let them see the boy.
There were certain things that needed to be, certain things that already were and always would be.
Cities that needed to be built, civilisations that needed to be born, sacrifices that had to be made.
While the Observants could see all that Clockwork himself could see, they were limited by their own obsessions – viewing each timestream with as much depth as ageless entities that were estranged from personal opinions and existed almost entirely as a collective hivemind could. Clockwork and his existence were fibres in the threads of reality. A piece of the universe that had been melded and sewn together to create the fabric of time that blanketed its ever-expanding state. What the Observants saw – stolen from his own fractured sight – they could not understand.
Clockwork supposed it was funny – in an incredibly ironic sense – that the Observants, for all that they saw – all that they witnessed, be it history as it passed through the land of the living or that of the deceased – were short-sighted. He supposed he couldn't blame them though; the crux of their inception was to blame for their unsavoury nature – which had in fact been partially his own fault in the first place.
But nevertheless, despite the Observants being a begrudgingly necessary fragment of his own existence, watching over his endless ministrations with the terms of his servitudes held mockingly within his reach, Clockwork could not –would not– let them see the halfa.
He had been awaiting this moment since the dawn of his existence. Like fine grains of sand that trickled through the neck of an hourglass, he had not noticed at first. But those grains had gathered, spilling into his core, tugging at the chords of his being that flowed in and out of him. The infinite realms had whispered to him a secret – or as he liked to think of it, a promise. One that he had held close, clutched to his chest and shielded from prying eyes. Selfishness was something he had never truly experienced for himself. But for the sake of his future ward, he indulged in it – and the way it felt was almost surprising.
Surprise – another thing he had never truly experienced. Oddly enough, he found that he wasn't entirely opposed to it.
It wouldn't be the first time that he’d lowered his gaze and disobeyed the Observants. But this was to be an event that would shake the roots of time and send ripples across the folds of space. His duty to the endless planes of existence came before all else – including the Observants.
They would be furious.
There was no other being in existence quite like himself. There were his fellow ‘Ancients’ of course, but even they were not the same as him. He was eons older than any of them. He had watched over each and every one of their conceptions. They had been created in the plane of existence which he stood apart from.
But the anomaly, the paradox – the only being that could hold an ember to Clockwork and his existence. An echo that had resided in the hollows of his ticking chest since the moment he had become whole. A pulse he regarded with familiar warmth.
Clockwork had not felt this way in a long time – he was sure he had not felt this way ever.
History repeated itself and Clockwork bore witness to each and every cycle. He had witnessed too much to be truly taken by surprise. But here he was, his core humming at the centre of his existence. His Obsession, shifting. Ebbing and vibrating. Something was about to change. Numerous things were about the change. And Clockwork could only feel so much of it. The paths in front of him were restless and indecisive.
So, Clockwork did as his Obsession demanded – he kept his head down and focused on his work, his gaze fixed firmly on a crumbling timeline.
His mind grew hazy with possibilities, and he struggled to keep his composure – to keep his sight steady. His core had never been wound so tightly, coiling and pulsing. The tip of his tongue fizzled with something foreign that threatened to flicker in his outward form. He had yet to truly know what would ripen from this affair – for he had yet to lift his head. For eons, he had kept his sight purposefully limited for the sake of a single child.
He felt it – alone in his workshop, footsteps that landed awkwardly against cold metal flooring. A single moment of silence before the universe snapped like the string of a bow and all at once the fabric that made up time and space shifted.
And then he heard it.
The magnifying glass that had been clasped in his hand slipped from his grasp.
A piercing scream that shook the infinite realms had finally made its way to the ears of the keeper of time.
This feeling he was experiencing, had experienced, and would experience – there was no word for it that came to mind, and that alone made the edges of his lips twitch. But as many things were when it came to his ward, it was ineffable.
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Thanks for making it to the end - this and all my other fics can be found on Ao3 for easy reading ✨✨✨
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#Renn has written#home of renn#my writing#ao3#ao3fic#dp#dp clockwork#danny fenton#danny phantom#clockwork#the observants#fic#Ineffable#phic#phantom phics#crosspost#cross posted on ao3
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Falling Up (Good Omens)
I plan to post on AO3 as soon as I can but here's a little tidbit to get some feedback/interest! We will be skipping around in time and seeing things progress from both sides until they eventually merge! Hope you all enjoy <3
***
---------------------------One Week Earlier--------------------------------
Crowley’s plants had given up. Their master hadn’t misted them in months, and it had been even longer since he’d yelled at them. They had taken care of each other as best they could but one cannot pour from an empty cup. So they withered. They drooped. Their leaves grew tattered with holes. Soon they would curl in on themselves, the last traces of water dried from their soil, and die. They mourned for each other. They longed for the scornful shouts of their master, to terrify them into thriving. But their master had not moved from his spot, and showed no signs that he would any time soon.
For Crowley had been laid, outstretched on the floor, totally still since…
He did not cry, nor shout, nor curse, nor pray. He just stared, longingly, through his ceiling. His copy of “Love of my Life” had long since worn out, but it still spun endlessly on its perch. His apartment had gathered a thick layer of dust, draping across every inch like a blanket of sorrow. Even he was covered, practically a derelict piece of the furniture.
He had tried to carry on as usual after Aziraphale ran off to be Heaven’s new fancy pants Supreme whatever. But everything usual about his life left with the Angel. The bookshop was unbearable without him. Muriel, sweet as they were, understood little of Crowley’s attempts at conversation. Driving the Bentley 100 miles per hour lacked appeal without his Angel there to beg him to slow down. Tempting humans was pointless, they did whatever they wanted to at this point. Not like he took orders from Hell anymore anyway. It only took 10 days before he had laid down. 10 Days before the tiny, shriveled up fragment of hope within him died. He never intended to not get back up, it had just sort of worked out that way.
Maybe he hoped someone would burst through the door and tell him to get up, or that Hell would come seeking revenge for his betrayal, or that the world would just end around him. But no one came. The world went on spinning. The Demon was alone. As well he probably should be. Companionship was not intended for the damned. He’d been foolish to let himself think otherwise. Optimistic and foolish. He was cured of the notion now and had resigned himself to an eternity of boredom. Of solitude.
Until one day, a random afternoon in a sea of empty hours, he felt…something. Like the phenomena humans often describe that they can feel someone was watching them. It was eerie. Usually eerie feelings delighted the Demon, but this was different. The presence felt…powerful. It felt like a concentrated beam of unfiltered sunlight was shining straight down on him. Yet there was nothing there. No light, no Angel, no Demon. Just Crowley, lying pitifully on the floor, with the uneasy feeling that he was being monitored. It didn’t waver. It felt as if it may tear a hole right through his torso. It was really rather uncomfortable.
So for the first time in who knows how long, Crowley stirred. Just a wriggle at first. Testing the response of whatever was or wasn’t there. No change. He sat up and a cloud of dust scattered around him. Still the feeling was the same. Finally he stood to his feet rather awkwardly and on shaky, unused legs. He began to brush the thick coat of dust from himself before reasoning it better to just replace the whole get up. He swept his hands down his slender frame and beneath them, his outfit was suddenly good as new. Well, it was new actually, just looked exactly the same.
The presence changed infinitesimally. He couldn’t place his finger on what exactly was different about it, there had just been the tiniest of shifts.
“Right well, I don’t know who this is, or what you want but you had better bugger off! I’m in no mood to be roped into any celestial drama. Leave. me. alone.” He called out into his empty apartment, halfheartedly. Still there. Still watching.
“I mean it! I want no part with any plans from Heaven or Hell or any other mysterious entities floating around up there so stop watching me! I’m not up to any bad or good! I’m not bothering anything! For once, can’t you just let me be?” There was a hint of desperation in his voice. It was true, he wasn’t causing any sort of trouble for either side, he wasn’t doing anything at all. He was barely even existing. Was it so hard to just let him wallow in peace? But the presence didn’t seem to hear, or if it did, it didn’t seem to care. It was steady as a stream, pushing an unfamiliar energy into every inch of his apartment.
“AAAHHHH FINE THEN! YOU WIN! SHOW YOURSELF! STATE YOUR BUSINESS!”
……
“FOR FUCK’S SAKE DO SOMETHING!”
……
“Right. Mysterious ways I s’pose.” He murmured to himself. Crowley looked around in every direction, but the only thing out of place was him. He’d left a patch of clean floor in his wake. Shit…that was quite the sulk then, wasn’t it? he thought, realizing for the first time that perhaps he was being a tad overly dramatic.
“Whatever. Do what you want. Doesn’t matter anymore anyways.” He called out to nobody in particular. “I’m outta here.” And with that, he flung his darkened glasses across his eyes, and stormed from his apartment in a huff. The presence didn’t follow. Crowley was pleasantly surprised at this.
He reached the Bentley, cranked it up, and sped off, without really thinking of where he would go. “The Show Must Go On” was blasting through the speakers. He started to sing along.
***
That's all for now! I can post more if there's desire for it while I'm in AO3 purgatory! Thanks for reading!
#good omens#ineffable husbands#ineffable spouses#ineffable idiots#ineffable divorce#good omens fanfiction#good omens fic#good omens headcanons#good omens s3#aziracrow#aziraphale#crowley#please let me know if other tw should be added
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It took Quaritch 10 years to build the cabin and immediately after finishing it he went to get Spider or did he finish it earlier but he was waiting for the perfect moment to take him?Will there be a fragment describing exactly how the construction took place? I wonder how he found the place at all, whether he make all the furniture himself and how he moved everything up the hill
<3
I mention the construction of the cabin in a few lines here and there but I never have like, an in depth flashback scene of the process of building it, but I do have the whole process thought out so let's get into it.
So the cabin is on a secluded mountain in Colorado. Originally Spider lived in the D.C area so Quaritch took him completely across the country. Quaritch had a general idea of where he wanted to go when he first started thinking up his plan. He wanted a place that was secluded, hard to reach, and with plenty of natural resources so they could live off the land. He would have gone through a list to narrow down other locations until settling on the mountain the cabin is on and then actually going there to make sure it was as secluded and hard to reach as he originally thought. That process alone would have taken about a year as he thoroughly considered and tested every option.
Once he found the perfect spot he'd started construction using pretty basic tools, things he could easily carry up the mountain. He'd have to clear a lot of large trees first, saving them to use as construction material later, then dig up the tree stumps so he could level the ground. The cabin does have a basement, a septic system, and a water well so he'd have to dig, using small explosives to make the initial holes then shaping it how he wants. He'd use the dug up stone from this to make concrete that would be used to make the foundation of the house. Then he'd actually start building the house from the trees from earlier. Once the cabin is done, the plumbing is set up, and the electrical wiring is done (but not functional yet) he'd start making a good amount of the furniture, bed frames, desks, wardrobes, dressers, end tables, kitchen table, chairs all of that stuff. He'd also be starting their garden around this time because it takes years to actually cultivate the soil to grow good crops so he'd have to start that years in advanced to make sure they have a good source of food for when him and Spider will be living there.
This would all be a very long process made longer by his lack of heavy duty power tools and help. His team would come up to help him a few weeks at a time but they all have lives too that they can't be away from for that long without arousing suspicion and no one wants that. He'd also only be able to really work on this from mid spring to mid fall which is still a good amount of working time each year, but he wouldn't want to be away from Spider for that long. So he's in D.C watching Spider from late august when school starts to about Spider's spring break then heads back to work on the cabin.
Quaritch would take up as much as he could with every trip, so like first it'd be all the tools he needs for building and supplies he needs for surviving in the woods for months. He'd leave it all there in a safe place, so that next time he could start bringing up gardening supplies, then family photos/videos and so on. All the big stuff like the couch, mattresses, fridge, stove, etc. where airlifted there by Brown. Every member of team deja blue that could be there was there to quickly unload everything so Brown could fly away fast, then they moved everything into the house. That all happened a few months before Spider was taken so yeah he didn't waste much time. Spider was kidnapped at the end of august. Quaritch probably had everything airlifted in during the spring, took some time to get the house in order, arranging everything how he wanted, trying to make it feel homie, double checking that everything is in order, that there solar panels work, the backup generator works, the radio system he uses to talk to his squad, the water filtration system all in perfect order. Then triple checking that the basement is well stocked with enough non perishable food, water, medical supplies, and personal care items to last them both for the next decade.
Once he's 100% sure everything is perfect he goes back to D.C to watch Spider, study his routine, and fine tune his plan so he can take his son back without a single issue.
I hope that covered everything! I'm happy to answer anymore questions you might have if I missed something 💞
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Another interesting parallel between 화월가 (Last Flower) and 바람의 노래 (Song of the Wind) is that both perceptions of being left alone are valid and beautiful in their own way.
For this post, I will take the liberty to assume LF is told from k!Louis' perspective (as it came out during HOK5 era) and SOTW from k!Mujin's.
바람의 노래 (Song of the Wind) is all about k!Mujin explaining his loved one that it's okay if they forget him, that it was bound to happen no matter how cruel his fate is. It's a continuation of him being trapped in the magical tree of the land in order to protect it and its people. He does not know what eternity feels like, but he chooses to reassure his beloved instead.
“Even if you don't miss me, it's really okay,
Don't bother waiting, you can forget me and carry on leaving.”
k!Mujin chose his fate. He willingly trapped himself into that tree because it was what needed to be done if he wanted to save a kingdom he did not even know before. There is a sense of beautiful bravery and selflessness about k!Mujin, who sacrificed himself for the common good. He suffers greatly for his decision, but remains at peace and longs for his beloved. Does he regret it ? Of course, but it was what needed to be done.
화월가 (Last Flower) on the other end is full of anger and resentment, and it makes complete sense if it's about k!Louis. Unlike k!Mujin, k!Louis did not get to chose his fate. He simply woke up every day for ages, never getting old, and immortality is a bitter experience for the king. He considers himself to be a child trapped in time and loneliness, after all, what's lonelier than immortality ? You are bound to see all your loved ones die one after the other, over and over again, and all you can to is watch. He is angry at his beloved for leaving him, and hoping to see them again in his next life.
Eventually I will do a fully fleshed out analysis of the Moonlight Flower Tryptic (Promise, Last Flower and Song of the Wind) because they all showcase very similar experiences with different outcomes.
Unlike k!Mujin, k!Louis was unable to protect his loved one, and their absence is unbearable. He also mentions seeing them in the next life, which, as figurative as it can be, could also mean quite literally that this person will reincarnate in the future, therefore k!Louis will be able to see them again. He's suffering from his immortality, if anything he wishes he could just die so the reincarnation process would go faster (spring being a very common imagery for rebirth).
“Will spring really come to me too ?”
He's longing for his beloved, he is also longing for his death : he wants to die. He sings that he cannot live on now that they're gone, that he'll die of grief in their absence.
There is also the unavoidable loss of memory that comes with reincarnation. He's begging his loved one to not forget him and hoping that they will remember as they look through the horizon.
Find the fragments of memories scattered across the horizon
Oh blue bird, please convey my word
Even if we're under the same sky,
It's a cruel destiny where we can't be together
k!Louis hasn't accepted his fate because he's simply suffering from it. He had no say in his life and only suffers a great deal of pain caused by loneliness.
One king willingly locked himself up and renounced the world around him, the other lives on freely but would rather die and find a new fate instead.
#very rare mid-afternoon brainrot#kingdom#kingdom kpop#kingdom Mujin#kingdom louis#history of kingdom part v louis#history of kingdom part vi mujin#someone (king jahan) please save their poor souls if anyone (king jahan) could hear my request
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