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pencil-n-pen · 24 hours ago

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TONGUES AND TEETH

₊˚ʚ 🌲₊˚✧ ﾟ. °🍂 ೃ࿔*

jackson! joel miller x fem! loner! reader

masterlist

summary: Joel refuses to acknowledge the part of him that aches to be a protector. That is, until you come crashing into his life.

cw: canon-typical violence, reader had a rough go of things before Joel, nightmares, medical inaccuracies (oh the horror!) uhhh reader has a broken nose and it gets set, unspecified age gap, daddy issues but we all saw that coming and it’s vague, as an ellie lover and defender until the day i die, it pains me to say no ellie-au IM SORRY I COULDN’T MAKE IT WORK bella ramsey as ellie they could never make me hate you

tags/tropes: hurt/comfort as always, age gap, nightmare comfort, honestly just two messed up people loving each other

a/n: proof that i will find a way to write an eldest daughter fic for any fandom/universe

not officially writing for him !! just had this idea

another long(ish) fic. if you're here from my masterlist, now would be a good time to go pee, get some water, and maybe a snack or two :) same things for those of you scrolling. i see u

title taken from tongues and teeth by the crane wives (GO LISTEN TO THE CRANE WIVES !!)

✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚🦴⋆｡°✩

Jackson living isn’t all Joel thought it would be cracked up to be.

Don’t get him wrong- objectively, it’s great. Running water, electricity, a clinic- three hallmarks Joel was sure he’d never see again. Not since the outbreak.

So by all means, he should be content. He goes out for hunting parties and patrols. Has his own house. Has a permanent place to keep his boots and his knives and guns and a bookshelf to make his way through. He has a bed. He has his brother.

But he’s restless.

Joel spent a long time walking. Searching. Surviving. You don’t quite slip back into easy civilian life just like that, no matter how perfect the conditions are.

At first, he solves this problem but going on more hunting parties, more patrols. He stays up late doing guard rotations and helps out his brother with projects when he can.

It doesn’t solve the itch, though. That sharp little thrumming, just beneath his skin: the need to protect. To have a job. To have something or someone to look after.

He denies this part of himself as much as he can, because he’s not that man anymore. Not after Sarah. He’s not. You don’t stay somebody dying to help and protect when you kill people. Because they’re still people, under the fungus. Under the parasite. Their brain’s still work. They still feel pain and anguish and fear.

He’s heard them cry before. Hunched over a corpse, body acting with somebody else at the reins, faces covered in blood and gore crying “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

So Joel isn’t a protective guy anymore. Had to take out those parts. Replace them with solitary and meanness and a distinct lack of sympathy.

It’s turned him into an angry thing. Like a gaurd dog; snarling, circling an empty pedestal it refuses to acknowledge is there.

He knows Tommy see’s it. Try’s to involve him in things whenever he can, invites him over to dinner. Hangs out at his house. Makes sure Joel isn’t alone-alone.

So Joel really, really should’ve seen it coming when he and the scouting party find you in the woods.

You’re just as surprised to see them as they are to see you. They thought they were tracking a deer— although some of the tracks and patterns of disturbance in the underbrush didn’t add up.

They’d entered a clearing, guns poised, just to see you, handgun leveled at them, perched in a tree. Way higher up than Joel would’ve dared.

“Stay the fuck away from me.” You’d hissed, voice carrying on the wind and rattling just like the leaves on the tree you’re in. How you managed to scale a tree that high in a busted pair of Doc Martens and lugging a backpack clearly full of supplies is beyond him.

But he doesn’t need medical credentials to know you’ve clearly had a rough go of things.

You’re young. Not young-young, but young. Dressed in clothes clearly pilfered, you’re wearing a thick brown jacket that probably would’ve belonged to a construction worker or something like that. It’s a few sizes too big, and the cuffs are frayed and there’s a hastily sewn patch on the elbow he can see. Your face and hair is littered with tree and other plant debris- though if this is a new addition from your tree climbing escapade, he’s not sure. Your nose has dried blood crusted under it, your lip is split, and there’s a cut above your eyebrow. Your knuckles and hands are equally torn and split, old and new scars and scrapes littering your skin.

In short: you look rough. And feral, in that way that cats that live outside a little too long and a little too far away from people end up looking.

“I said stay back!”

He remembers, abruptly, that you’re probably scared out of your mind and the rest of the scouting team is still pointing their weapons at you.

He makes the motion for them to lower their weapons, and he lowers his own, raising both hands in the universal “we come in peace” gesture.

You don’t lower yours, but your grip on it is looser.

“We’re from the Jackson settlement,” He shouts, hoping you don’t hear the gruff anger in his voice that Tommy always complains he needs to work on. “There’s running water and electricity.”

“I’ve heard that one before,” Your hands have begun to shake on the gun, ever so slightly. “So what’s your guys prerogative, huh? Cannablism? Religion? You planning on burning me at the stake? Or did you have something else in mind? I am a woman.”

Joel takes a step forward but stops when a bullet hits the ground right where his foot was about to be.

“If you take one more step you’re gonna find out exactly why I’ve survived alone this long.”

“Look,” He says, dropping his hands to his hips. “You can shoot us, and one of us will shoot you, and it’ll all be fine and dandy—“

There’s a chorus of whispers behind him.

“Or you can stay in that tree and not shoot us, and we won’t shoot you, and that’ll also be fine and dandy.”

He turns, jamming a finger in the direction of the settlement. “Jackson’s that way. Go or don’t go. I don’t really give a shit, but you look like you could use a bandaid.”

He jerks his head, and the rest of the party follows his lead, leaving the clearing —and you— behind.

—

A few hours after he returns, somewhere in the late evening when twilight is starting to set in and the crickets are chirping, Tommy knocks on his door.

“There’s a girl here for you.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Someone asked for me?”

“Well, not so much as for you. Her words exactly were “that gruff, mean looking asshole,” but I got the picture.”

He sighs, deep in his bones. A small part of him —the part that’s still connected to that dog, still circling— had hoped you would show up. However, it’s hopelessly overshadowed by the sheer exasperation of it all.

He’s silent save for non-committal grunts and hmm’s the way over to the front gates where the evening rotation’s guards have you standing between them.

You’re slightly worse for wear since the last time he saw you in that tree. Your jacket as a new rip in it, and your nose is sluggishly bleeding again. Up close, he notices it’s a bit crooked.

Gonna hurt like a bitch to set, He thinks absentmindedly.

He slows as he approaches you, hands in his pockets and shoulders back.

“See?” He huffs, gesturing with one hand behind him. “Not cannibals. Or whatever else you’re worried about.”

Your face is hard set as you look around. “That remains to be seen.”

“Hello!”

Joel looks back to see a pregnant Maria waddling over, a concerned Tommy at her side.

“I told you I’d handle it—“

“And I told you I’m fine. Now,” She props her hands on her hips. “Who’s this young lady now?”

You (hesitantly) stick out a hand to shake and introduce yourself.

She shakes your hand with a smile. Leave it to Maria to be able to read people with such ease. “I’m Maria Miller. I’m one of the settlement councilors. The golden retriever fussing next to me is my husband, Tommy, and the angry looking bear next to him is his brother, Joel. I understand a scouting party found you?”

You nod, eyes flicking this way and that, cataloguing the area.

“I’ve been on my own for… awhile. I don’t have any supplies to offer, but I’m smart and strong. I’m willing to work in exchange for a place to stay.”

Maria hums, assessing. “I’m sure we can work something out. You’ll need to come with me to speak to the rest of the council, for our safety and yours.”

You tighten your grip on your backpack but follow Maria and Tommy, only sparing one backward glance at Joel.

He spends the rest of the evening trying to forget the look in your eyes.

—

He fails spectacularly.

This doesn’t mean, however, that he’s anywhere near pleased when his nightly reading-as-a-poor-attempt-at-normalcy routine is interrupted by a knock on the door. One that sounds suspiciously like Tommy’s type of knock.

Only he hears two voices as he walks up to the door, and the other one isn’t Maria.

Joel opens the door with a glare already fixed on his face.

“There have to be other places.”

Tommy rolls his eyes. “It’s only temporary. The council agreed to let her stay so long as she’s watched by a trusted Jackson member, and well. You vouched for her.”

“And when exactly did I do that?”

“In the woods, when you met. You told her where you were from and how to get there. Honestly, Joel, you’re getting off light here. Some of the council members were not happy you told a random loner —no offense— where to find us. Kind of defeats the whole point.”

You huff a quiet “None taken.”

He can’t help the way his body tenses. “So this is a punishment?”

“Yes and no.”

“I don’t—“

“Look,” you interject, clearly fed up with the conversation. “It’s not the end of the world. I’m not going to murder you in your sleep and I don’t leave dirty clothes lying around. It’s only for three weeks. Get over it.”

Another sigh threatens to release itself, but he stamps it down, figuring he’s hit his sigh quota for the day.

“Fine. But take her down to medical first. I don’t want her blood all over my house.”

Tommy shrugs. “No-can-do. Maria needs me back at the house. You know where medical is. I’m sure you’ll manage.”

And with that, Tommy leaves, abandoning Joel and you at the doorstep.

Joel scrubs a hand down his face. “Wait there. I’ll grab a jacket.”

The walk to the clinic is awkward and silent, and just when Joel thinks it can’t get any worse, one of the staff tells him that since he’s your assigned supervisor/watcher/whatever, he has to accompany you. To everything.

To your credit, you don’t look very happy about the arrangement either.

Still, you bear through all the exams, a grimace fixed firmly on your face. Apparently (and not surprisingly) you’re malnourished, dehydrated, running a small fever, deficient in several vitamins, have two cracked ribs (most likely, no x-ray machine) and some run of the mill scraps and bruises.

You’re cagey enough on the details of the cracked ribs and nose that the doctor eventually moves on to the fixing you stage of things.

It takes awhile. There are a lot of injuries to cover.

When it comes to resetting your nose, the second the woman pulls out a needle and syringe, you go rigid.

“No.”

The doctor blinks. “This is just lidocaine, it’ll numb the area so—“

“No.”

“You wanna feel all that?” Joel asks, the first time he’s spoken during your entire exam, “It ain’t gonna feel great. Crooked nose like that won’t set with one go.”

“No needles. No numbing.”

Joel rolls his eyes. “What, you got a pain thing or something?”

Your hands go white-knuckled on the exam table. “Fuck. Off.”

You’re shaking, he notes.

Ah, He says to himself. Not a pain thing.

Fear.

The doctor shrugs. “Not like I won’t take the chance to save what we have. You’ll want something to bite down on. Or squeeze.”

You wrap your fingers around your own hand, a pathetic attempt at self-soothing.

He decides annoyance is the emotion he feels at your small movement. Nothing else.

He rolls his eyes as he grabs your hand, maneuvering it in place of your own.

“Good luck breaking it.”

You don’t respond. He wasn’t really expecting you to.

He knows without looking the exact moment the doctor starts resetting things because your grip on his hand quickly turns from barely there to crushing. You make no sound.

The doctor, to her credit, works fairly quickly, though by the time she’s finished a single tear has carved a path through the blood and grime on your face.

He thinks about how someone learns to cry without sound.

The doctor moves on quickly, cleaning and bandaging the wounds that need it and telling you detailed instructions for how to take care of your nose and cracked ribs and what things you should be eating to avoid staying vitamin deficient. It’s all a lot of words Joel is glad he doesn’t have to memorize.

They stick in his head anyway.

You don’t let go of his hand. You’re no longer squeezing the life out of it, but you’re not holding its gently either. When you do finally let go (after the doctor’s left and you can leave) you practically tear your hand away, as if burned. Like you’d left your hand on a stove as it was heating up only you just now noticed it was hot.

He doesn't say anything about it. He figures you're liable to literally bite his head off, or some other violent action close to that.

Besides. This is all awkward enough.

The walk back to the house is just as silent and strained as the walk to the clinic. Only now your breath is just a little more labored. Steps a little shakier. Your hand's twitch at your sides like they're reaching for something, and you don't quite manage to hide the way you look around every now and then, a restless, nervous action.

He knows what you're doing. He was you, back when he first got to Jackson. Granted, he wasn't as twitchy as you are. He kept his distance, stayed mean and scary (as possible.)

He holds the door open for you when you arrive back to the house, because his mom raised him to be a gentleman no matter the circumstances.

You toss him a look of confusion and annoyance but step into the house, looking around the modest living room with something almost like wonder.

He toes off his shoes, sets them by the door, and takes off his jacket, hanging it on the hook. "Shower before you touch anything. You're filthy. And don't think I'm giving up my bed."

"I wouldn't have taken it even if you had," You sneer. "Where's the--"

"Down the hall on the left. You got clean clothes?"

"...I have less dirty ones."

He pinches the bridge of his nose. "Wait here."

He grumbles all the way upstairs, all the way through picking out clothes that'll fit you well enough until you either wash what you have or find something else.

He silently glowers as he comes down the stairs, thrusting the clothes out to you and turning on his heel when you take them.

"I'm going to bed. Don't wake me up."

When he lies in bed that night, he can't even pretend he's not thinking about you. In his defense, it's less about you and more about the new, strange, stand-offish person he's just supposed to live with for the foreseeable future. All because he had the bad luck of feeling bad for the battered, flighty, loner girl sitting in a tree.

He stares at his ceiling, internal clock (yes, he's old, he has an internal clock. Sue him) letting him know it is decidedly an hour he should be asleep. He refuses to go downstairs, on principle alone. He could get up and go find one of his books, but he knows that if you're anything like him, coming off of however long you spent alone, you're a light sleeper. You're probably awake now, listening to him toss and turn and being unnerved by the unusual silence of Jackson and the particular brand of night-noise it produces. That's what the first two weeks of Joel's life in Jackson consisted of, before he moved in here.

Maria had decided that Joel would stay with the two of them until he integrated in Jackson society. Perks of your brother marrying a council member, he guesses.

So he's not going downstairs. Not going to walk down there just to see a person, an entire person in his house looking like, looking like--

Fuck.

He throws his blankets off and angrily (but not loudly) marches downstairs to get himself a glass of water and the book he knows he left on the table by the couch when he was so rudely interrupted by you. This is his house, dammit, he refuses to be put out by a random girl.

Woman, his brain corrects.

The living room is completely dark when he makes his way down the stairs and he truly, honestly wishes he was surprised when there's a whoosh of air to his right and a knife embeds itself in the wall about a half inch away from the side of his face.

The living room is still and silent.

"I thought they took your weapons when you got here."

"I lied about what I had."

He scrubs a hand down his face, yanks the knife out of the wall, and tosses it back. If you can throw it, you can dodge it.

He doesn't hear any screams, yelps, or grunts of pain, so he assumes you caught it fine. Or at least dodged it.

He makes his way over to the kitchen, grabs the teapot, and takes down two mugs.

"You know they can kick you out for harboring weapons during your probationary stay."

He hears a rustle of blankets behind him. The sound of you stashing your knife, no doubt.

"Are you going to tell them?"

He snorts, filling up the teapot. "No. There's been a knife in my boot since the day I got here."

He hears more rustling, and decides against turning around. He's not quite sure what you've been doing down here all night since it's clear that you weren't sleeping.

He doesn't hear any footsteps, but when does turn around to set the mugs on the table, you're sitting at it, knees pulled up and head resting atop them, your cheek smushed. Now that his eye's have adjusted to the darkness of the living room, he can almost make out your features. They're easier to discern, now that you're not covered in blood and grime. You look... softer. Haloed in the glow of moonlight shining through the gaps in the curtains.

Your face isn't the only thing glowing. The tell-tale glint of a knife --a different, smaller knife than the one you'd thrown at him-- shines from it's spot, resting oh-so innocently on the table.

Joel just huffs.

"No weapons on the table."

He blinks, and it's gone.

He doesn't ask why you're still awake or what you've been doing instead of sleeping. You don't ask why he's down in the kitchen at all.

"What are you making?"

"Tea."

He gently places a teabag in each mug. He isn't really sure why he's doing this for you. You've done nothing but hiss and spit since he's met you.

But tonight, right now, blanketed in the not-quite calm of the night and the apparent unease you both drown in--

It's tolerable. You're tolerable.

So he takes the kettle off the stove and pours the water and places the steaming mug on the table in front of you.

To which you ignore, and snatch the mug out of his hands instead.

"Did you think I put that one," He points to the mug in front of you, "There for giggles?"

You cradle the mug in your hands, seemingly entranced with the warmth and steam. "You might've poisoned mine."

"Maybe I poisoned both."

You take a sip, then grimace when the too-hot liquid hits your tongue.

"You don't look like the kind of person to have built an immunity to poison."

"You also watched me make both beverages."

"So? It's dark. You could've slipped something in. Or maybe it was already in the teabags."

"What use would I even have for you dead?"

You shrug. "I don't know. You tell me."

“You’re a deeply mistrusting person.”

“And you’re not?”

Touché.

Joel remains in the kitchen, leaned against a cabinet sipping your tea, while you stay hunched at the table, sipping yours.

If he removes the irritability and the uncomfortable-ness of everything that involves you living with him, the moment is almost… companionable. Pleasant, even.

It… soothes that nervous part of him. Not the sad nervous. The angry nervous. That built up crack of anger.

There’s another person in his home that is neither attempting to perceive his problems nor actively attempting to kill him. Your belief that he might poison you aside, you still accepted the tea.

He firmly believes that Tommy isn’t right about the loneliness thing though. His brother being right is just a world Joel can’t live in.

Besides. It’s too early to tell anything anyway.

—

Unfortunately, the following few days do not go… terribly.

That isn’t to say they go well, though. Since he’s looking after you (read: making sure you’re not an axe-murderer or something) he’s not allowed to go out on scouting or hunting trips. Or solo guard rotations he’s come to covet.

It’s boring, and having you around is strange.

It’s interesting, when he gets bored enough, because if he focuses hard enough he can guess what events happened to you based on your reactions to certain things. He’s pretty sure you were drugged at some point based on your reaction to the doctor with the lidocaine. You’re general skittish and flighty nature can be easily attributed to the conditions in which everyone in the world is living in, but your particular brand of distrust and aggression says that humans, not the infected, have been the ones to hurt you the most. Your general unease in open areas or areas with not easily accessible exits leads him to believe that there have been several extremely close calls in several points of your survival.

He knows you’ve been shot before, but that one was an accident. He’d come downstairs, rubbing bleary sleep from his eyes and accidentally stumbled across you changing. Well, finishing changing. He’d quickly closed his eyes and turned around, and thankfully you hadn’t startled, but he had caught a glimpse of the stretch of skin not covered by the long sleeve undershirt you favored. On the left side, just above your hip and a few inches towards your bellybutton, there’s a jagged, raised, circular scar. Still pink.

He knows you have a very slight, very subtle limp. He’s not sure what causes it, but he knows you have one. It tends to act up when you do a lot of strenuous exercise for an extended period of time. Some days you wake up and it’s worse. On those days, you’re a little more mean, and a little more skittish.

He’s yet to see you actually, legitimately sleep.

He’s starting to think you haven’t, since arriving.

Which is insane, because it’s been four days.

The bags under your eyes are horrific, even to him. You’ve gotten clumsier and clumsier, your attention span and memory are terrible, and he thinks you might’ve started hallucinating, if the times he’s seen you staring off into space with concerned, fearful, or twisted expressions on your face and mumbled rambles he can’t make out are anything to go by.

On day five, when Joel comes downstairs in the morning and the knife you throw at him bounces harmlessly off the wall and clatters to the ground and you just stare at it, eyes foggy and unseeing, he decides to talk to Maria.

“I don’t really care,” He says, because he has a reputation to uphold dammit, “But I’m not sure how much longer she’s gonna last, and what she’s gonna do when she wakes up.”

“Mmm,” Maria hums, hands clasped on the table and staring at Joel with her best ‘I don’t believe you don’t care’ look. She’s really perfected it, “Well the truth is, she can’t go forever. It’s fear keeping her up now. Happens a lot with the loners that come in. Especially the women. She’s afraid that no one’s there to watch her back and terrified she won’t be strong enough to fend off any attackers.”

Maria looks at her hands. “The fear is exacerbated by the fact that the council took most of her weapons.”

“You knew—“

“She was lying? Of course I did. So did several of the other members, I’m sure. But she’s not a threat. She’s scared.”

He thumbs the thin scar on his cheek from the knife came just a little too close to hitting the mark when he sneezed in the kitchen. “She’s got a funny way of being scared.”

“Fight or flight, Joel. She knows flight isn’t an option.”

“Why are you lobbying so hard in her defense?”

“I’m not. I’m explaining her actions. Also,” She gives a knowing smile, “You’ve started to care. Otherwise you wouldn’t be coming to me about this.”

“Yeah, yeah,” He grouses. “So what am I supposed to do? Just wait for her to pass out?”

“You could. It’ll happen eventually. She very clearly doesn’t have that many hours left in her. That’s probably freaking her out more. Or, you could subtly show her that she can sleep around you. She needs to know that she’s safe from whatever it is she’s running from.”

Joel keeps his eyes locked on the kitchen table, tracing the grain in the wood with an absent-minded finger.

“I know you pushed for her to stay with me.”

“The council wanted a punishment that fit the crime.”

“Look, I appreciate the thought—“

Maria’s expression flattens. “Joel. Do not sit at my table and lie about how you don’t need anyone and you’re fine on your own. You need this.“

“I don’t need this,” He scoffs, “She’s practically half-feral. No one needs that.”

Maria stands, shrugging. “Then I guess you’ll have to file for a name change, No-One Miller. Until then, make sure she’s not alone when she wakes up.”

—

He did leave you alone for the duration of his conversation with Maria, because fuck if he was bringing you to that, and he figured you both could use some time away from each other. He knows he can.

He’s not very surprised to hear the familar whoosh of a small, sharp object sailing through the air that tends to accompany his arrival into rooms you’re occupying (he’s pretty sure it stopped being a fear response after the first two times and now you’re just messing with him) but he is suprised to see that this time, the knife doesn’t even make it head height. Or to the wall.

It clatters uselessly to the ground near his feet. He stares at the metal between his boots and then up at you—

“Why are you sitting on the kitchen counter?”

“I don’t remember.”

He leaves the knife on the ground and makes his way over to you, watching with mock disinterest at the several-seconds-delayed flinch you make when he stands in front of you.

You look up at him, eyes glassy and unfocused and you just look so, so tired.

There’s a curl of protectiveness in his chest that keeps trying to spread, keeps trying to grow. Here, in the kitchen, your legs dangling over the edge of the counter, bathed in the glow of the mid-day sun, it takes root. Right in the center.

He looks down at your feet. “What happened to your other shoe?”

You scrunch up your face. “I don’t… I was getting in bed, I think. But it wasn’t my bed. I forgot that things aren’t—“

That things aren’t the same anymore.

He crouches down, untying the laces of your boot and shucking it aside somewhere.

��Alright, come on.”

You slide off the counter, clumsy and uncoordinated. He takes your hand in his, leads you up to the bedroom.

The stairs are difficult for your tired, barely working brain. He has to stop multiple times to physically lift your legs or stop you from falling over and cracking your head open.

You finally make it up there, though, and he realizes that you probably won’t want to sleep in your everyday clothes.

“One last step.”

He can’t help but notice how intimate the moment is. Not intimate-intimate, but. He instructs you softly to lift your arms so he can tug your shirt over your head and replaces it with a soft shirt of his own.

Staring into your eyes is too charged and allowing his eyes to wander is bad for obvious reasons, so he keeps his gaze firmly fixed on the junction of where your neck meets your shoulder.

He keeps his eyes there as he helps you out of your pants and into a pair of flannel pajama pants. The same ones he’d given you the first night you came. You’ve never slept and he’s never seen you go to any of the places he knows have extra clothes, so he’s almost positive you don’t have any pajamas at all.

His fingers work quickly to tie the drawstring on the pants, and even then, they hang low on your hips.

He doesn’t let his eyes linger.

“Come on,” He says taking your arm and tugging you toward the bed. “Time for sleep.”

“It’s the middle of the day,” You mumble, standing in place. “And I can’t, what if they—“

“I’ll be here the whole time. I’ll keep watch.”

You mull his words over in your head for a few moments before stumbling the final few steps into the bed. You practically collapse into it, shuffling for a just few seconds before your breath evens out.

You’re asleep.

He reaches over, adjusting the blankets a bit, before grabbing the book he’d left on the bedside table and settling down in the chair by the bed.

The hours tick by quietly, accompanied only by the quiet rustling of pages turning and your soft snores.

For the first time in awhile, he doesn’t feel restless.

—

You sleep for a full eighteen hours straight before you stir.

He’s a good portion of the way through his book before he see’s your body tense in the corner of his eye. Your breathes are still even and deep, so if he couldn’t see you, he probably wouldn’t notice you’re awake.

“You’ve been asleep for eighteen hours,” He says, voice rough and scratchy with disuse, “You got in bed voluntarily.”

“You changed my clothes.”

“You didn’t seem all that capable of doing so yourself and I didn’t think you wanted to sleep in jeans. You mind?”

“…No.”

“Good. Go back to sleep.”

“I can’t just—“

“You didn’t sleep for five days. If we’re going by the eight hours a night average needed or whatever, that’s forty hours. You’ve still got twenty-two left to catch up on.”

You roll over to face him with a grumble. “I don’t like how good you are at mental math.”

“Get better, then.”

You shimmy out from under the blankets, tossing him an “I have to pee,” as you make your way out of the room.

It’s early morning now, weak sunlight behind to strain its way through the curtains. He figures it’s a good enough time to make some food (and coffee) if you’re going to be going to back sleep, so he meanders down to the kitchen and throws together a small breakfast.

“Did you make us breakfast?”

He never really gets used to how quietly you move through rooms.

“Jesus— yes. Here.”

He hands you a bowl with oatmeal and a small plate with a slice of toast— toasted in a pan, because electricity aside, he doesn’t own a toaster. Why waste time scavenging for an appliance when something else works just as fine?

He sets a jar of jam on the counter that he’d picked up awhile ago in exchange for fixing the hinge on somebody’s door.

“You got any allergies?”

“None that matter.”

He nods to the table. “Go eat. Then get back in bed.”

“You’re so bossy.”

“And you’re annoying. Eat.”

You eat quickly and quietly, then wordlessly follow him back upstairs, climbing back into bed.

“Joel?” You whisper.

“Hm?”

“Thank you.”

He tucks the blanket up over your shoulder. “Go to sleep.”

You obey easily.

—

Things between the two of you… soften after that. He slowly sees more pieces of your personality than the wild thing he met that day in the woods.

He learns that you love peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, but miss peanut butter and nutella sandwiches more than anything. He learns that on good days, you like drinking coffee straight black, but on bad days, you like it with milk and sugar.

He learns that your limp is the result of one careless mistake you’d made when you first surviving on your own.

“I thought the house was abandoned. It wasn’t,” You’d rolled up your pant leg to show horrific, deep, jagged scars circling your ankle, “Guy had set out a bear trap to slow down some of the clickers in the area. It was dark. Didn’t notice it until too late.”

He learns that you, despite your snide remarks and sarcastic comments, like having him around. He feels a bit like earning the trust of a stray cat.

You begin to grow more comfortable with life in Jackson, though not by much. He’s sure you weren’t a people person before the outbreak, much less so now that he knows some of the horrors you’ve been through before you got here.

He’s even started getting used to how quietly you move.

It’s easy to fall into a rhythm, from there.

He wakes up, goes downstairs. Sometime’s there’s a knife thrown at him, sometimes there isn’t. You’re usually sprawled on the couch, drool coming out of your mouth and grumbling incoherently about “old men and their stupid early mornings.”

It’s almost endearing.

Since Joel spends a lot of time helping Maria and Tommy get ready for their baby, you, in turn, get to know the both of them by being stuck with Joel. Maria set you on edge at first, Tommy slightly less so, but through continuous interactions your prickly nature smoothed.

One night, you were all seated on their couch after enjoying a dinner together —not the first and definitely not the last— having quiet conversation. You’re totally passed out on Joel’s shoulder, dead-asleep and quite content to use him as a human teddy bear.

Maria smiles over her mug of tea. “She’s grown on you.”

Joel rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. She’s not all bad.”

“High praise coming from Joel Miller.”

You have grown on him. And in turn, your relationship has started to grow into… something else. Sometimes his eyes linger just a little too long, and the looks you share feel just a little too charged.

Tommy sends him a look full of words only true siblings can understand.

“No, Tommy.”

“Oh come on Joel! You both clearly—“

“We are not having this conversation right now.”

“Why not?”

“Because—“

You fling an arm out wildly, smacking him in the side of his face and grasping around until your pointer finger finally finds his lips.

“Shhhh. M’ sleeping.”

He wraps his hand around your wrist, prying your fingers off his face. “You know that’s what bed’s are for. Or couches. Or any number of surfaces I’ve found you sleeping on.”

“You’re a surface I’m sleeping on.”

“I shouldn’t be.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not a bed. Come on, up and at em’.”

You whine at the loss of warmth when he stands, scowling as you haul yourself to your feet. As he’s putting on his boots by the door, he hears you thanking Maria and Tommy for their hospitality, and he can’t help the little smile that twitches on his face. Seems like his parents weren’t the only ones who made sure he had manners.

You meet him at the door, hopping in place to put your boots on and getting frustrated when they don’t slide on immediately.

“You know, it would help if you untied the laces—“

“Fuck off.”

He blinks. That seems a little more mean than you usually say nowadays.

So Joel takes a step back. Watch’s your legs and your shoes and your hands—

There.

Your hands shake as you fumble with the laces, unable to get a good grip on the thin cords to untie and re-tie your shoes.

He shoos your hands away from the singular boot you haven’t managed to get on.

“Sit.”

He’s thankful that he built the shoe bench for Maria a few weeks after he got to Jackson. It serves Maria well for not having to stand while she attempts to put her shoes on while heavily pregnant, a feat she bemoaned a few times, and now it’s serving you.

You plop down on the bench with a huff, crossing your arms as Joel crouches, undoing the laces of your boot and sliding it on.

“I can do it.”

“I know you can.”

“Why’re you doing it?”

“Because.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He secures the tie on one boot and moves on to the next. “It is tonight.”

Once both shoes are on, you both bid Tommy and Maria good night, and make your way home.

If your hand find’s Joel’s, then that’s not anyone’s business.

—

He notices things after that.

You’ve started snapping at him more often. You’re not sleeping as much. You’ve started flat out refusing to go with him on daily chores as tasks, which either leads to an argument or the both of you staying at home all day.

It all comes to a head when you wake up screaming.

He thunders down the stairs, ducking on instinct for a knife that doesn’t come. You’re not on the couch. He whips his head around, the screaming stopped he can’t find you—

A thud. A panicked gasp.

He moves on slow, apprehensive feet towards the kitchen, crouching down to see you huddled under the table, knife clenched in your hand and pointed toward him.

“Hey, hey, what’s going on?”

Your eyes are wide and shining with tears.

“You died.”

“I didn’t. I’m right here.”

You shake your head, breaths coming short and shallow.

He settles on the floor, crossing his legs. “Here, take my hand. Come on.”

He extends his hand into the space between you two. Achingly slowly, you put down the knife, and take his hand in yours.

“See? I’m still here.”

Eventually, your breathing slows, and the fear begins to leave your eyes. You drop his hand.

“I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for.”

“No, no it’s just—“ You break off with a strangled noise.

He waits. Lets a few minutes tick by.

“Does this have anything to do with the fact you’ve been avoidin’ me?”

You look down. “You noticed?”

“I do have eyes, sweetheart.”

You grab the knife again, twisting it this way and that in your hands.

“I’m scared.”

“Of what?”

“Of you.”

He tilts his head. “How come?”

You’re silent for a little while again.

“I feel… okay with you.”

“And that’s scary?”

“Yes,” You breathe, “You could leave, or die, and it scares me that I’m already attached to you. That having nightmare’s of you dying affects me so much. That they happen at all.”

He hums. “Seem’s were at an impasse.”

He taps a finger on his knee.

“It’s not all bad. To care.”

“Who are you and what have you done with Joel Miller?”

He huffs, shaking his head. “You know, against my better judgment, I’ve come to tolerate having you around.”

“Tolerate?”

“Mhm.”

“Nothing else?”

“No.”

“So you’ve never thought about kissing me?”

Heat rushes to his face. “Is that really a question you want to be asking right now?”

“Yes.”

“Mm,” He stands, “Well I don’t answer that kind of question at this hour. Come on.”

He reaches under the table and pulls you out.

You clamber to your feet, still a little shaky after your nightmare.

You turn to go back to the couch, but stops when he tugs on your arm.

“Mm-mm. No couch tonight.”

You look up at him, a question in your eyes he doesn’t know how to answer with words.

He steps forward, rough hands coming up to your face, thumb swiping the crest of your cheek.

“Tell me to stop.”

“I won’t.”

He leans down, capturing your lips in a kiss, soft and slow.

He pulls away after a few moments, searching your face for any sign of negativity or displeasure or disgust or, or—

You surge up, kissing him again, all the same fiery passion he saw the day you met.

“I suppose that answers my question.”

He chuckles. “You think?”

“I hope so.”

His hands slide down to your waist. and he can’t resist the little squeeze he gives the skin there.

“Alright. Back to bed, let’s go.”

“I forgot how tired old men get.”

“Please don’t call me an old man right after we kiss.”

He can hear your quiet snorting laughter as you climb the stairs, socked feet silent as always.

You climb into bed first, shoving yourself into the side by the wall and then making grabby motions for Joel.

“Am I just a pillow to you?”

“Yes. Come be a pillow.”

He rolls his eyes but slips into bed next to you and quietly relishes in the pleased hum you let out as you wrap your arms around his waist, practically smashing your face into his chest.

“You comfortable there?”

“Mhm.”

He curls one arm around you, his other hand coming up to cup the back of your neck. This close, he feels the shudder run through your body at the motion, and curious, he gives your nape a little squeeze.

Your reaction is instantaneous. You go limp- completely boneless.

“I got you, I got you. Go to sleep, now.”

It doesn’t take you long. And with you asleep so soundly in his arms, he follows right behind you.

☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★

217 notes · View notes

izumkay · 1 day ago

Text

THE CONTRACT CLAUSE- |CH-1|

—SATORU GOJO

ღPairing- SatoruGojo×Fem!Reader

ღSummary- Thanks to your friend, Haibara, you land a job at the country’s top company—but CEO Satoru Gojo? He’s not impressed. Between causing him trouble and his infuriating charm, you quickly become his favorite target. But when things take an unexpected turn, Gojo finds himself in a position he never thought he’d be—desperate, frustrated, and drawn to you in ways he can’t ignore. The office just got a lot more dangerous—and a lot more heated.

Genres/tags- Modern AU, love triangle, Enemies to lovers, contract marriage, office romanc, Sunshine×Grumpy, fluff, tension, forced proximity, Satoru is desperate for you, why not?

Warnings- 18+ only, sexual content, toxicity, angst, hate sex, mentions of death, blood, hurt/comfort, obsession, possessiveness, SA attempts.

Wc- 6.1k

♡A/n- and here's another series, kinda getting wild writting 4 fics at same time, my hands been itching to write this, and here it is, hope you enjoy this series😋

You never expected to land a job at one of the most prestigious companies in the country. But here you were, walking through the gleaming halls of a corporate empire, thanks to your friend Haibara. He’d been raving about the opportunity for weeks, insisting you’d be perfect for it, despite the fact that your background wasn’t exactly corporate royalty.

"Don’t worry," Haibara said with a wink as he led you into the building, "Gojo’s an easy guy to get along with. Just don’t take him too seriously."

Easy? From what you’d heard about the CEO, Satoru Gojo was anything but easy. The man was a legend—charming, brilliant, and with a reputation for making life hell for anyone who crossed him. Not exactly the kind of person you’d expect to have an easy time with.

When Haibara introduced you to Gojo in the lobby, you weren’t sure what you were expecting. But when the CEO turned around, grinning like he owned the world, it was worse than you could’ve imagined.

"Ah, so this is the famous friend of Haibara," Gojo said, his tone light but his eyes scanning you with obvious amusement. "Nice to meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you."

You frowned, unsure how to take that. Haibara had warned you about Gojo’s charm, but you couldn’t help the uneasy feeling in your stomach.

"I’m sure you have," you replied coolly, "It’s hard not to leave an impression."

Gojo’s grin widened, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "Oh, trust me, I’m sure you’ll leave quite an impression here too."

You didn’t like the sound of that, but Haibara quickly ushered you away, probably sensing the tension already building.

☆ﾟ⁠.⁠*⁠･⁠｡ﾟ☆ﾟ⁠.⁠*⁠･⁠｡ﾟ

The first day at the company went exactly as you’d expected—awkward and filled with subtle judgments. As Haibara had promised, most people were friendly enough, though you couldn’t shake the feeling that some of them were sizing you up, like they didn’t quite believe you belonged. But nothing prepared you for your interactions with Gojo.

For the first few days, he kept his distance—mostly. But then came the first meeting, a big one that you’d been nervously preparing for. You had to present some data that, frankly, you weren’t entirely confident about. Just as you were halfway through your presentation, you heard Gojo’s voice cut through your nerves.

“Actually,” he interrupted with a cocky smile, “I think the numbers are wrong. Did you check these?”

Your stomach sank as all eyes in the room turned to you. Gojo leaned back in his chair, watching with mild amusement, his usual playful grin now tinged with a hint of superiority.

“I—I’m sure they’re accurate,” you stammered, trying to regain your footing. But Gojo didn’t back down.

"Really? Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like you’ve missed a few important figures." His eyes glinted as he leaned forward, a mock-serious tone in his voice. "Maybe next time, you should double-check your work before presenting it."

You could feel the heat rising in your face. The room was silent, all attention on you. You glanced at Haibara, who gave you a sheepish smile, clearly not expecting this level of public humiliation.

“Gojo, I—” You cut yourself off, the urge to snap at him bubbling up. “Maybe you should check your own numbers first before you criticize mine.”

There was a brief, stunned silence before Gojo let out a laugh, loud and infectious. “Oh, I like you.” His eyes twinkled, and the way he looked at you felt more like a challenge than anything else. "Keep it up."

☆ﾟ⁠.⁠*⁠･⁠｡ﾟ☆ﾟ⁠.⁠*⁠･⁠｡ﾟ

The rest of the meeting was a blur. Every word you spoke felt like it was being analyzed, judged, and immediately met with Gojo’s cool, unbothered responses. By the time it ended, you were completely drained.

Haibara found you standing in the hallway afterward, clearly trying to regain some composure. “Hey, don’t let him get to you,” he said, offering a grin that was a little too wide to be comforting. "Gojo’s just... Gojo. He’s always like that with new people. He’ll come around."

You shot him a look. “If by ‘come around,’ you mean ‘make my life miserable,’ then yeah, I’m sure he will.”

Haibara laughed nervously, clearly not expecting this much tension so soon. “Just... try not to let him get under your skin too much. I know he’s a pain, but it’s all part of the job.”

You stared after Gojo’s retreating form, already plotting your next move. If he thought this was a game, well... you weren’t about to lose.

“He literally humiliated me during today’s presentation, Haibara,” you said through gritted teeth, storming down the hallway. “I was trying to make a good impression, and he—he mocked me in front of everyone.”

Haibara sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I warned you about Gojo. He’s… a lot. But that’s just how he is with everyone new. He likes to test people.”

“Test people?” You scoffed, rolling your eyes. “He practically made me look like a complete idiot. I’ll never live that down.”

Haibara gave you a sympathetic look, but there was a hint of something else in his eyes. “Look, I get it. It’s not fun. But the thing about Gojo is, if he’s teasing you, it means he’s paying attention. He doesn’t waste his time on people he doesn’t care about.”

You paused, narrowing your eyes at him. “Wait… you mean he does this to everyone? Just to mess with them?”

Haibara nodded, almost reluctantly. “Yeah. He’s not exactly known for being subtle. But if you can put up with it, you’ll see a different side of him. Trust me.”

“Great.” You sighed. “Now I’m supposed to just... what? Endure his reign of terror until he decides to show me that ‘different side?’”

“Exactly,” Haibara said, half-grinning. “And I’m pretty sure he’ll find a way to make it up to you—somehow. It’s just the way he works.”

You looked down the hallway, where Gojo had disappeared into his office. “I swear, I’m going to make him regret ever messing with me.”

Haibara just chuckled. “Careful what you wish for. Gojo’s not as easy to outsmart as you think.”

☆ﾟ⁠.⁠*⁠･⁠｡ﾟ☆ﾟ⁠.⁠*⁠･⁠｡ﾟ

The company cafeteria was bustling as usual, but you were in no mood to enjoy it. After the disaster of your first presentation, you'd barely managed to salvage your dignity. All you wanted was some peace and quiet with your lunch before heading back to work.

You were mid-bite when a shadow fell over your table.

"Well, if it isn’t my favorite new employee," a familiar, infuriating voice drawled.

You looked up to see Gojo, his signature cocky smile plastered across his face. He held a coffee cup in one hand and a perfectly balanced tray of food in the other, looking like he had all the time in the world. Without asking, he slid into the seat across from you.

"What do you want, Gojo?" you asked, your voice flat.

He leaned back in his chair, completely unbothered by your tone. “Nothing, really. I just thought I’d check in on you after that interesting performance in the meeting earlier. You know, see how you’re holding up.”

Your jaw tightened. “I’m fine, thanks.”

“Are you, though?” he teased, resting his chin on his hand. “Because it looked like you were about two seconds away from throwing your laptop at me.”

You gripped your fork tightly. “I was two seconds away from throwing my shoe at you.”

Gojo laughed, loud enough to draw attention from nearby tables. “See? That’s the kind of passion I like to see in my employees. Keep that up, and you might actually survive here.”

You glared at him, your appetite completely gone. “Do you always make a habit of humiliating people in front of their colleagues, or am I just lucky?”

His smile faltered for the briefest moment, but then it was back, brighter than ever. “Oh, come on. It wasn’t that bad. If anything, I was helping you toughen up. This industry isn’t for the faint of heart, you know.”

You didn’t bother responding, choosing instead to stab at your salad with a little too much force. Gojo, of course, didn’t seem to notice—or maybe he just didn’t care.

“You know,” he continued, as if he hadn’t already said enough, “if you ever need pointers on how to actually impress people in a meeting, I’d be happy to help. Just say the word.”

Your fork clattered against your plate as you stood abruptly. “You know what, Gojo? I don’t need your ‘help.’ What I need is for you to stop making my life a living hell.”

Without waiting for his response, you grabbed your tray and walked away, ignoring the amused chuckles that followed you. You could practically feel his smug grin burning into your back as you stormed out of the cafeteria.

You could feel the weight of other employees’ eyes on you as you stormed out of the cafeteria. It wasn’t hard to guess why—The Satoru Gojo had been sitting across from you, grinning like he didn’t have a care in the world, and you had dared to talk to him so casually, like he was nothing.

Whispers trailed behind you as you made your way to the elevator.

“Did you see how she talked to him?”

“Who even is she?”

“I heard Haibara got her the job…”

You clenched your fists, willing yourself not to turn around and snap at them. Of course, they were surprised. Gojo wasn’t just the CEO; he was practically a legend around here—charming, untouchable, and so ridiculously good-looking it made you sick. People probably bent over backward to please him, and yet here you were, treating him like the pain in the ass he was.

You pressed the elevator button with more force than necessary, muttering under your breath. “Why does he have to be so insufferable? Couldn’t he just ignore me like a normal boss?”

The elevator doors opened, and you stepped inside, leaning back against the wall with a sigh. As much as you hated to admit it, Gojo’s charm was dangerous—not because it worked on you, but because it made everyone else act like he could do no wrong.

But you? You saw through him. Beneath that perfect smile and effortless confidence was just a guy who got off on making people’s lives harder. Well, if he thought you were going to be another one of his fans, he had another thing coming.

☆ﾟ⁠.⁠*⁠･⁠｡ﾟ☆ﾟ⁠.⁠*⁠･⁠｡ﾟ

Your shift finally ended, and the office was slowly emptying out as employees trickled toward the elevators. Letting out a sigh of relief, you pushed back in your chair, relaxing for the first time all day. Stretching your arms above your head, you savored the feeling of being done.

Grabbing your bag, you slung it over your shoulder and stood, ready to make your way home. But just as you turned, someone tapped your shoulder. Startled, you spun around to see a woman standing behind you.

She had brown hair, and though her dark circles made her look utterly exhausted, there was an air of calmness about her that instantly put you at ease. She looked like someone who had been through a lot but didn’t let it faze her.

“Hey, newbie,” she greeted, her voice soft and unhurried, as though the chaos of the office didn’t touch her. “I’m Shoko Ieiri. Pleasure to meet you.”

There was no sharpness, no judgment in her tone—just simple politeness. You felt your shoulders relax a little more.

You gave her a small smile and introduced yourself in return.

Shoko nodded, adjusting the strap of her bag. “I’ve seen you around. Figured I’d say hello before you got swallowed up by this place.” She gestured around the emptying office with a faint smirk.

You chuckled nervously. “Yeah, it’s… definitely been an interesting first few days.”

“Let me guess,” she said, raising an eyebrow knowingly. “Gojo?”

The way she said his name, with just a hint of exasperation, made you laugh despite yourself. “How’d you know?”

Shoko rolled her eyes. “Oh, he has a habit of singling people out. Likes to see how much he can push before they snap. Don’t let it get to you. He’s harmless—mostly.”

“Mostly?” you repeated, skeptical.

Shoko smirked. “He’s annoying, not evil. Though sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference.” She tilted her head, studying you. “You stood up to him, didn’t you?”

Your face flushed slightly, and you shrugged. “I wasn’t about to just sit there and let him walk all over me.”

Shoko’s smirk widened into a small grin. “Good. He needs someone to put him in his place every once in a while. Just… don’t let him get too under your skin. That’s what he wants.”

You weren’t sure whether her advice was comforting or ominous, but it was nice to have at least one ally in this place.

“Well, thanks for the heads-up,” you said with a small smile.

Shoko waved you off. “No problem. And if you ever need a break from Gojo’s nonsense, come find me. I’m usually in the infirmary—or hiding on the roof.”

With that, she gave you a lazy wave and headed toward the elevators, leaving you standing there feeling a little less alone in this chaotic new world.

She's hot.

☆ﾟ⁠.⁠*⁠･⁠｡ﾟ☆ﾟ⁠.⁠*⁠･⁠｡ﾟ

The next few days were a blur of work, tension, and Gojo’s irritatingly constant presence. Each time you saw him, you could practically feel the weight of his eyes on you, his gaze a mix of amusement and challenge. It was like he was always waiting for you to crack, and you weren’t about to give him that satisfaction.

It wasn’t until a week later that things took a strange turn.

You were in the breakroom, pouring yourself a coffee when you heard footsteps approach from behind. Before you could turn around, a voice cut through the quiet hum of the room.

"Mind if I join you?"

You didn’t have to look to know it was Gojo. His voice was unmistakable.

You paused for a moment, then finally turned to face him, raising an eyebrow. "Are you... allowed in the breakroom?"

Gojo chuckled, clearly amused by your sarcasm. "I run this place, remember? I’m allowed wherever I want."

You rolled your eyes, trying to keep your cool. "Right. Forgot about that."

He leaned casually against the counter, his presence taking up way too much space in the room. "You’re still holding a grudge about the meeting, huh?"

"Why would I not be?" You shot back, folding your arms. "You made me look like an idiot in front of everyone."

Gojo grinned. "I didn’t make you look like an idiot. I just pointed out what you missed. No big deal."

"No big deal?" You shook your head in disbelief. "That’s easy for you to say."

Gojo took a slow sip of his coffee, eyeing you with that infuriating, confident look. "You’ll get over it."

You felt the heat rise in your chest. “I’m not getting over it, Gojo. Not until you apologize.”

He blinked at you, as if surprised. “Apologize?”

“Yes, apologize,” you repeated firmly. “For humiliating me.”

For a moment, Gojo was silent. Then, in a tone that sounded way too calm for your liking, he said, "I don’t do apologies."

You stared at him, trying to suppress the frustration building inside you.

Gojo’s smile softened, just slightly, as he leaned closer. "But I do know how to make it up to people. If you’re willing to let me."

Before you could respond, he was already walking out, leaving you standing there, once again at a loss for words.

What's his problem? Fucking bastard.

☆ﾟ⁠.⁠*⁠･⁠｡ﾟ☆ﾟ⁠.⁠*⁠･⁠｡ﾟ

It was lunchtime, and you were more than ready to get away from your desk for a bit of peace and quiet. You grabbed your lunch from your bag, planning to eat in solitude, away from the chaos of the office. The thought of being alone, if only for a little while, was comforting.

But as you started to make your way toward the breakroom, two girls appeared in front of you. They were dressed similarly—well-put-together, with matching smiles that felt a little too rehearsed.

“Hey, newbie,” one of them said in a sweet voice that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Wanna have lunch with us?”

You hesitated, glancing at the two of them. You weren’t in the mood for small talk. You just wanted to eat in peace. "Uh, no, you can go on, thanks," you replied, already feeling the discomfort of the situation.

But they didn’t move. Instead, they exchanged a look, almost like they were trying to decide something. Then, the other girl spoke up. “Come on, we’d love to get to know you better. You don’t want to eat alone, do you?”

You could feel the pressure mounting. It was clear they weren’t going to take no for an answer. You sighed, trying to keep your frustration in check.

“Really, it’s fine. I’m just—”

But the first girl cut you off, her tone more insistent now. “It’s not a big deal. We’ve already got a spot saved for you.”

They stepped forward, practically guiding you down the hallway toward the cafeteria. Your resistance was futile. They were pulling you into their orbit whether you liked it or not.

You shot a look of exasperation at them, but they only smiled sweetly, too sweetly, as if they had no idea how fake it all felt.

Great. Just what I need.

You let out a small groan as they guided you into the crowded cafeteria, making your way to a table at the far end, far enough to feel isolated from the rest of the office. They both sat down, pulling out their lunch with practiced ease, waiting for you to sit across from them.

“Come on, don’t be shy,” the first girl insisted, flashing you a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “We don’t bite.”

You sat down, feeling the weight of their expectations press down on you. "Thanks," you muttered, unfolding your napkin and trying to focus on your food. But you couldn’t shake the feeling that they weren’t just trying to be friendly.

“So,” the second girl began, her voice dripping with false sweetness. “How’s your first week been? We heard you’re special—you know, thanks to Haibara.”

You raised an eyebrow, shooting a glance at her. “Special?”

“Oh, we’ve heard all about how Haibara got you the job. He’s quite the popular guy around here,” she said, her tone almost too casual, like she was fishing for something.

You didn’t answer immediately. Instead, you focused on your food, trying to ignore the unease creeping up your spine. But the silence between you was thick, like they were waiting for you to crack, to say something.

It was then that the first girl leaned in slightly, her voice lowering as if she were about to share a secret. “You know, Gojo doesn’t usually take well to people who are… difficult to handle. And Gojo seems pretty interested in you.”

Your grip on your fork tightened. Of course, they knew. It was practically the office gossip by now.

“Look, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you said coolly, trying to hide your growing irritation. “I’m just here to do my job, like everyone else.”

But they weren’t buying it. The second girl smirked, her eyes glinting with something unreadable. “Oh, we’re sure you’re just here to do your job. But with Gojo, things don’t always go as smoothly as you’d like, right?”

You shot them both a look, your patience running thin. “Is there a point to this conversation, or are you just trying to get under my skin?”

The first girl giggled, but it sounded fake, like a high-pitched attempt to cover up something else. “We’re just saying… be careful. People around here might not be as nice as you think.”

You looked at them both, sensing the underlying threat in their words, and for a moment, you wondered if you’d made a huge mistake by getting caught up in this office politics mess.

But you weren’t about to back down. “Thanks for the warning,” you replied, with as much calm as you could muster. “But I can handle myself.”

The tension in the air was palpable, but they didn’t press further. Instead, they exchanged a look, nodded to each other, and then turned their attention back to their food, as if the conversation had never happened.

But you could feel the weight of their words hanging over you. Be careful.

You weren’t sure if it was their jealousy, or something more sinister, but one thing was clear—this wasn’t just about lunch anymore.

As the lunch continued, the two girls didn’t seem to let up. Instead of wrapping up their conversation, they ordered even more food—each plate arriving in front of them like they were trying to prove something. They smiled at each other, exchanging whispers, occasionally throwing glances your way.

“More food?” you asked, raising an eyebrow as a waiter brought over a massive platter of sushi and another tray of tempura. “Isn’t that a bit much?”

The first girl, who had barely touched her own meal, grinned. “Oh, we’re just hungry. And we thought you might want to try some more things. You know, since you’re still... adjusting to the office.”

You stared at the food, trying to make sense of their behavior. It was becoming clear that they weren’t just offering a kind gesture—they were making a statement. They wanted you to feel out of place, to see how out of their league you were.

“Don’t worry,” the second girl chimed in, her voice almost too sweet for comfort. “We’ll be here to help you with everything. We’re kind of experts around here, after all.”

You caught the undertone in her words, a hint of superiority that made your skin crawl. They weren’t interested in being friends. They were sizing you up, measuring you against their version of the office hierarchy.

Taking a deep breath, you forced a smile and said, “I’m good, really. Thanks.” You didn’t want their charity, nor did you want to be their pawn in whatever game they were playing.

But it didn’t matter. They kept piling food onto the table, filling every empty space as if to make sure you couldn’t escape their clutches. At that moment, you realized they weren’t just trying to be nice—they were trying to show off. They were flexing their power in this place, and you were just the unlucky newcomer caught in their spotlight.

Your stomach churned with the sudden feeling of being trapped. You had to get out.

The two girls continued to push food toward you, their smiles becoming more insistent with each passing minute.

"Come on, you’ve gotta try this," the first girl said, nudging a plate of sushi closer to you. "It’s really good. You wouldn’t want to miss out."

You glanced at the platter, feeling the weight of their gaze on you, the pressure mounting. But there was no way you were going to eat with them—not after everything that had just happened.

You shook your head, forcing a polite smile. "Thanks, but I’m fine. I’m really not that hungry."

They exchanged another look, the kind that made you feel like you were being judged in ways you couldn’t fully comprehend. The second girl raised an eyebrow, her tone dripping with mock sweetness. "Oh, come on, don’t be shy. We ordered all this for you, after all."

You stiffened. All this for me? It was clear now. They weren’t being generous. They were trying to trap you in their world, to make you feel like you owed them something.

"No, really," you said, shaking your head more firmly this time. "I’m not hungry. You can enjoy it yourselves."

The first girl leaned back, folding her arms with a small pout. "You sure? It’s really good."

You met her gaze evenly, refusing to let the discomfort show. "I’m sure. Thanks, but no thanks."

They finally seemed to get the message, though they didn’t look happy about it. They stopped pressing, but the atmosphere around you had shifted. The two girls returned to their food, but there was a coldness in the air now, a silent tension that hung between you.

You pushed your plate away slightly, your appetite completely gone. You could feel the weight of their judgment, like they were watching you closely, waiting for you to slip up, to give in to their pressure.

But you wouldn’t. Not with them.

As you stood up, ready to make your escape from the uncomfortable situation, you couldn’t help but notice that the two girls had devoured every last bite of the food. Of course they did. They were practically setting you up for this.

You sighed, preparing to head back to your desk and pretend this entire ordeal never happened. But as you started to walk away, one of them called out, her voice dripping with false sweetness.

"Where are you going?" she asked, narrowing her eyes in mock confusion. "Pay for this all first. You were giving us a treat, right?"

You stopped dead in your tracks. A treat? Your stomach dropped as realization hit. There was no way you were treating them. You had barely enough money for your own lunch, let alone the absurd amount of food they had ordered.

You turned around, trying to keep your composure. "What? When did I say that? Look, I don’t even have—"

But before you could finish, the second girl interrupted, her tone more forceful now. "Oh, come on. You said yourself you’d treat us. Pay up." She smirked, like she knew exactly what was going through your mind.

No way.

The cafeteria suddenly felt much smaller. You could feel the eyes of everyone around you, the whispers, the judgment. You had no idea how many people were watching, but it felt like the entire place was waiting for you to make a fool of yourself.

Your heart raced, the beat echoing in your ears. Shit, shit, shit. You felt the blood rush to your face, the heat of embarrassment flooding your cheeks. You didn’t even have enough to cover your own meal, let alone all of this.

"Look, I—I can’t pay for this," you said, trying to keep your voice steady, but it cracked, betraying the panic you were feeling.

The first girl’s grin widened. "Really? Because you said you would. And now you’re backing out? Interesting."

The tension in the room was unbearable. It felt like everyone was just waiting for you to crack. The whispers grew louder, and you could feel the judgment pressing down on you. Your hands trembled at your sides.

You glanced around, desperately searching for an escape, but there was none. They had cornered you, and now you were the center of attention in the worst possible way.

The tension in the cafeteria was suffocating. Your face was burning, your stomach twisted in knots. Every pair of eyes seemed to be on you, waiting for you to somehow get out of this mess. You could feel the heat of their gazes, the quiet murmur of voices spreading like wildfire.

The second girl stepped closer, her grin widening. "I guess we’ll just have to tell everyone how generous you are, huh? Backing out of your word like this?"

You swallowed hard, trying to gather your words, but before you could say anything else, the sound of the door to the cafeteria opened, and a calm, deep voice broke through the tension.

"Is there a problem here?"

You turned instinctively toward the voice, and there, standing in the doorway with a quiet confidence, was Suguru Geto.

He was dressed in a sharp suit, his expression cool and composed, like he had just stepped out of a boardroom meeting. Suguru’s gaze shifted from you to the two girls, then back to you, noticing the way you were practically frozen in place, trapped in an impossible situation.

The two girls didn’t seem as confident now, glancing at Suguru with a mix of surprise and unease. Suguru stepped forward, his calm demeanor not shifting an inch.

"What’s going on here?" he asked, his eyes narrowing slightly.

The first girl opened her mouth to speak, but Suguru raised a hand to stop her, his voice steady but firm. "You’ve been harassing her for a while now. I’m guessing that’s not exactly ‘friendly,’ is it?"

They both fell silent, unsure how to respond. Suguru's presence alone seemed to have a calming effect, though it was clear they weren’t used to someone calling them out so directly.

Finally, Suguru turned to you, his expression softening slightly as he spoke. "Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it."

Without waiting for a reply, Suguru walked over to the counter, where he paid for the entire meal with a few smooth motions, the cashier offering a respectful nod.

Turning back to you, he gave a small smile. "You’re free to go now. I’ll handle the rest."

You stared at him for a moment, your heart still racing, but a small wave of relief washing over you. How did he know to step in?

The girls exchanged a quick, frustrated glance but said nothing. They were no longer in control of the situation. Suguru's intervention had completely shifted the power dynamic, and just like that, you were no longer the center of their mockery.

"Thank you," you muttered, feeling a bit of gratitude and confusion mix together.

Suguru gave a simple nod, his expression still composed. "No problem. You don’t have to thank me. Just... be careful with those two."

With that, he gave you a small, reassuring smile before turning to leave. As he walked away, the weight of the situation seemed to lift, and you let out a long, shaky breath.

You watched Suguru walk away, your heart still racing from the wave of relief that washed over you. The girls were no longer a threat, and you were free from the embarrassment, but something else lingered. Something you hadn’t expected.

As Suguru’s back disappeared through the cafeteria doors, you couldn’t help but feel this rush of gratitude and something else—something deeper, more unsettling. He was so nice. The way he had stepped in, so calm and effortless, his composed demeanor... He had a certain presence that made you feel safe, like no one could touch you as long as he was around.

But there was more than that. You couldn’t ignore the way your heart skipped a beat when he spoke to you, how his cool gaze seemed to hold your attention with every word.

You had barely known him for a moment, but that moment felt like it had lingered. The way he effortlessly took charge of the situation, the way he seemed to care without any hesitation—it made you want to know more.

His dislikes. His likes. Everything.

What was he like? What did he enjoy? You found yourself curious, almost desperate to find out. You wanted to ask him questions, to uncover every little detail about him, even if you had no idea where to start.

You shook your head, trying to clear your thoughts. Focus. You’re at work. You don’t have time to get caught up in this.

But it was hard to ignore the way your pulse quickened whenever you thought about him. Suguru Geto had just saved you from a world of embarrassment, and now all you could think about was how incredibly cool he was.

And, as much as you tried to push it away, a small part of you wondered just how much of that coolness was a façade—and how much was real.

As you made your way back to your desk, your mind kept circling back to the brief interaction with Suguru. The gratitude, the rush of emotions, and the way he had effortlessly handled the entire situation. It wasn’t just about saving you from the awkwardness—it was the way he made you feel seen, like you mattered in a place where you were still just a newcomer.

You sank into your chair, the familiar hum of the office surrounding you, but your thoughts were elsewhere. Suguru Geto. The name echoed in your mind. He was calm, composed, and kind. You didn’t know why, but you wanted to know more. Much more.

You took a deep breath, pushing the thoughts aside for the moment. Work wasn’t over, and there were plenty of things you still had to get done. But as you opened your laptop, your thoughts lingered on him, on how his presence had felt like an anchor in the chaos.

You shook your head, trying to get back to work. Focus. One thing at a time. But deep down, you knew this was only the beginning of something far more complicated than you could have imagined.

The day went on, but your mind stayed with Suguru. And for some reason, you couldn’t quite shake the feeling that this was just the start of something far more intriguing than you’d ever anticipated.

A/n- I swear guys this is a Satoru×reader fic, Trust🙏🔥

🏷️- @katthekat1234

#jujutsu kaisen #gojo satoru #satoru gojo #gojo x reader #getou suguru x reader #jjk #gojo #izumkay fics #the contract clause #suguru geto #geto suguru #geto x reader #shoko #chapter 1

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hivemuthur · 8 hours ago

Text

Nothing's New - Ch.2.

viktorxfemale!reader explicit!

AU modern era, lovers to enemies to lovers, getting back together, a lot of angst, smut to come somewhere mid-way through

Ch.1. | Ch.3. | Ch.4. | Ch.5. | Ch.6.

word count: 7,2K

tag: #nothings new

summary: More meetings, welcomed and unwelcomed + some foreshadowing. Nothing exactly smutty in this chapter, but I'm leaving it on explicit rating, for reasons of angst and generally adult emotions. Also, I should go to writer's jail for starting so many fics with dialogue.

Cross-posted on AO3

—

“Why the fuck are you only telling me this now?” You fume over the phone. A sloppy text message from Mel has made you stop in the middle of the street. Now. Now, when you are heading to act out your pretend chance meeting with Viktor. Now, when you are ten minutes away from the drop point and haven’t finished replaying all possible conversation starters in your head yet. Now, when your knuckles are white from clutching your coffee cup. Now, when you are bathed in the cold sweat of fear and the hot sweat of the temperature. Why now. Why now.

I feel you should know this. Viktor is seeing someone. Please don’t eat me.

You are going to fucking eat her and clean your teeth with her bones.

“Jayce spilled just recently. He was afraid I would tell you.” Oh, the irony. Mel is whispering on the phone, which indicates that Jayce is around, and her clock is ticking. “Apparently it’s been going on for about six weeks. It’s someone from work.”

“What?! Six weeks? What was that scene at your party then?!” To counter Mel’s whispering, you are screaming. White-hot anger surges through your veins, blinding fury. The audacity. The audacity to make you feel bad for doing something adjacent to moving on when he himself has moved on weeks ago. People scoff as they walk past you, and you glare daggers at them. Fuck off.

“I understand this is… hard, but… I thought you were happy with Paul? Maybe this is the way to fix this?” your friend offers carefully. Very carefully.

“I am happy. I am so fucking happy it makes me sick,” you spit into the speaker against Mel’s sigh. The thought of Paul makes you feel guilty. Your entire relationship has been built on guilt poisoning your reason. But the thought of Viktor. With someone else. That’s different.

“This is all I know. Jayce is leaving, I have to run!” Mel ignores your protests, puts the speaker an inch away from her mouth, and sends you three in-air kisses. You almost throw your phone into the trash bin. You almost slap a person walking past you who gives you a sodden look. You almost kick a beer can under your feet with the force of a rugby player.

This is so, so different. The thought of you and Paul suddenly makes you sad. The way he is a picture of kind insecurity, even though most of him is mouthwatering. There are ugly parts of him, yet invisible to the naked eye. He makes the thought of being touched by someone other than Viktor bearable.

Viktor touched you like he was keeping you. His claiming hands, a constant reminder of his yearning. Which is why, when he stopped, you forgot. You became unkept. A stray in a shelter, getting food, water, and blankets, but no carer. And you could’ve lived without all of those, but not without the belonging. For you, it decayed much sooner than for Viktor.

And then Paul found you. He stumbled upon the pieces of you, left to be picked up and put back together. And Paul touched you like he was asking for permission to be kept. So the two of you strays agreed to keep each other. With time, his touch became familiar; it had overridden the default touch of Viktor. It became comforting, consoling. You never long for it, but you always welcome it. And you no longer need a keeper.

And Paul is a man that everyone envies you for. He’s a man that steals glances and twists the necks of women who congratulate themselves for having a decadent taste in men. In fact, Paul just looks like he fucks well and would make a good dad in the future. He’s hot, but not intimidating, smart, but not a buffoon. Clingy and needy at times. He gets angry in traffic and then patronises you when you freak out about weak Wi-Fi. He has a sadness and kindness to him that makes him a whole human. And sometimes, a whole human is more than you can bear.

You wonder, who is this woman who found pieces of Viktor, and how has she put them back together? If she did. If he let her. If he is in pieces at all.

You feel yourself in fragments, appearing and disappearing, as you approach the shop. And oh God, he is there, and Jayce is running late. Viktor is... picking a bed.

Your shirt clings to you awfully, and you catch a glimpse of yourself in the shop window—face red, remnants of foaming anger visible at the corners of your mouth twisted downwards, hair all messy from digging your hand into it, and two fucking sweat stains under your armpits. Great. Just great.

Why is he picking a bed? Is his bed soaked with you, and he wants a fresh one for the new woman? Is he ready for someone else’s scent so soon? You aren’t ready for him being ready.

You snort up three breaths in a row, no exhales. You hold them until one of your feet steps through the door, announced by a bell. Before your mind can throw you something—anything—you’ve prepared, you feel yourself walking up to him, and you hear yourself blurting out, “Why are you buying a bed?”

Viktor, who is standing by a frame much bigger than the one you two used to sleep in, looks up at you slowly, his lips disappearing into a thin line. “Because I need a bed. And hello.”

“What’s wrong with the old bed?” Unbelievably, you’ve lost all of your common sense. All that matters is why Viktor needs a new bed. His eyebrows raise, and he… smiles. With a horrible, smarmy curve of his lips.

“I don’t have a bed anymore,” he answers sweetly, acid dripping off his tongue.

He didn’t have the bed anymore. For months, he had slept on his tiny couch, which had significantly buggered his spine. But he couldn’t bear it—the bed had smelled of you, and whenever he came near it, it was as if you were still there, lying there, waiting for him. At first, he had wanted to burn it. He asked Jayce for help, and Jayce was frightened. He fidgeted around Viktor and asked him wary questions like, “Are you sure this is what you want?” or, “Isn’t it illegal?”

Viktor scoffed at the last one. He was convinced that if he had told the police why he was burning a bed, they would have helped him do it. But since he was in no shape to chop it with an axe while picturing your face or drive it out of town to build a pillar of hate to pay his respects to you in an eternal flame, he settled on a Craigslist deal. Some poor fucker wanted a bed in exchange for a book. It happened to be the first edition of Naked Lunch. The poor fucker had no idea.

You would have loved it. So he burned it instead.

He burned it on the balcony in the middle of the night, hoping it would make him feel better. Hoping you would feel the tickle of the flames around your soul as he purged it from his being. Hoping that this symbolic act of destroying a piece of literary history would also destroy his feeling of this—this thing he dared not name.

And now, he has just collected a shiny new set of keys to his apartment that he is going to give to Julia the next day. Not to live together, too early for that. But to come and go as she pleases. He will do things differently now. He will do them better this time.

And it is easier, because Jules isn’t so co-dependent. She is collected and pretty. She is alright with anything Viktor proposes. She never challenges him and manages to be funny on rare occasions. They have a lot in common, and it feels comfortable. Yes, Jules is an easy ride—one that he needs after his road through hell.

“What happened to the old bed?” you insist. You loved that bed. It was small and cozy and soft, and Viktor would always jokingly complain about it. And then he would really complain about it, because when he wanted to be far away from you, the softness of the mattress would suck you both into the middle by morning, like a black hole.

His vile smirk turns into a full, shit-eating grin. “It’s gone,” he says coldly. “I hated it. It was bad for my back. Why are you here?” He shoots you a look, and you feel a new wave of sweat pushing itself through your skin.

“I saw you in the window,” you blurt out idiotically, as if that would explain anything. You bite the inside of your cheek, your face contorting into a new expression every second. How utterly mortifying.

“And? You thought you could say hello?” He shifts his weight onto the cane, pinning you like a butterfly on one of those museum boards. Splayed flat, stretched and dried out, dust under anyone’s prying fingers. “Or… you thought it was proper to just come in and be disturbingly weird?”

“I— What? I am not being weird! I’m asking you a question, and you lie to my face,” you hiss, your tone defensive. Oh, he has caught you. His eyes glint, clearly pleased with your mind struggling to formulate a proper comeback.

“Disturbingly weird it is, then,” he deadpans, that fucking smirk still on his face.

Weird. He remembers it so well. He didn’t want to, yet the sensation burned itself into his brain. Even more now, as the act of burning history had the opposite effect of what he desired. After the last remnants of Naked Lunch lifted into the hot summer air and disappeared into glimmering dust, he felt himself stepping into the weird club. The way your weirdness was fascinating and hot. The way his was full of fear and remained unaccepted.

You were neurotic but refused to acknowledge it fully, even though you wore it as a verbal badge. The constant fidgeting, moving objects around, slow pacing across the room as you read your books, always with a soundtrack because your mind needed distractions to remain focused. You could sing a song and read a book simultaneously, and Viktor loved it. He lived to observe all those people encapsulated within you, every single one incomplete, as if you were made of a bunch of different personas.

The fidgeting became overwhelming when he asked you to move in with him. It had been fast, and he owned it—the recklessness of the decision. He left you a way out: keep your old place, just in case. The “just in case” came in handy three years later, when you returned to a dark cage shrouded in dust.

But back then, you had no idea what to do with yourself once your stuff travelled with you to Viktor’s. When you were a guest, the pressure was less. You could move things around, and he would put them back where they belonged after you left. Now, you debated heavily before touching anything. Your books splayed on the floor, your records in a box, while you moved from place to place trying to figure out the value of a random bundle of tomes that some poor soul had sold to your boss for a stupidly small sum.

Viktor was sitting at his desk, trying to work, but your groans made him wince, and your skittish movements lingered in the corner of his eye. He turned in his chair and sighed.

“Come here,” he beckoned, his arm opening in a welcoming gesture, inviting you to sit in his lap. You paused, a puzzled look on your face. Then, you dropped your computer onto the bed, walked up to him too fast to save yourself any dignity, and straddled his hips, hiding your face in his neck.

“Why are you being so jumpy?” Viktor asked, wrapping his arms around you, shielding you from whatever answer you would have to come up with, signalling that whatever the reason was, it was alright.

“I am always jumpy,” you mumbled into his collar. No way to say this. Happy and sad at the same time. Excited and frightened. Bold and shy. Full of his love and hungry for more.

“Hmm, but this time more than usual,” he mused, placing a hot hand on the nape of your neck. A thought struck him.

“Miláčku, are you nervous about a new space?” His question was met with silence, only your nose pressing deeper into his neck. He chuckled, pleased to stumble upon the answer so quickly.

“Do you not feel like this is your home?” he asked, his tone warm and gentle as he propped your face against his palm and lifted it so you would look at him, the response painted on your face.

“Would you like to change something? Would you like to, say, paint a wall?” His peace offering made you wince at your own immaturity. Yes, you wanted to change something. Yes, you wanted to feel less like an invader. The comfort of being a guest was long forgotten, morphing into the feeling of being a stranger probing Viktor’s space, trying to squeeze yourself into it.

Seeing your eyes fixed on him expectantly, your mouth forming a pout, he continued. “Would you like a bookshelf?” A timid nod. He smiled. There we are.

“And maybe a record shelf?” An unhinged display of affection at this. You rubbed your face against his in thanks, nodding a few more times and purring. He chuckled, rolling your hips on his, warmth pooling low under his belly button.

“Hmm, and would you like to get all those things now?” Or would you rather seal the deal with a nice, afternoon fuck? He licked the lobe of your ear, breathing you in through his nose. Your hips pressed down on him, a sweet weight of your ass splayed on his lap making him warm. He ran his flat palms down your back to ground you further, his touch addictive.

“No. Now I want to do something else,” you said, picking up the ball, nipping at his lower lip. You kissed his beauty marks, and Viktor’s eyes fluttered shut in bliss. So much fun to crack you open.

“Ah, distracted already?” he mumbled before kissing you deeply. His hands travelled to cup your ass cheeks, his palms filled with your flesh, just as things should be.

“You always distract me.” Spoken with embarrassment at the admission. Sweet civility, your decorum still intact at those tiny confessions. He swallowed all of them, kept them to himself, and grew stronger and better each time he was granted one.

“And… I’m sorry for being weird,” you said, pulling away an inch to rest your forehead against his.

“I like weird,” Viktor said with a smile, his tone closer to a love confession than a blunt statement. “I am weird,” he added, tracing the lines of your face with his fingers.

“No, you are not,” you chuckled, disarmed. “You are… peculiar,” you announced, poking his lips gently, affectionately.

“That’s just a fancy weird,” Viktor snorted. Peculiar. What a word. What a beautiful word to be given to him. He would wear it like a crown from that point forward. You had anointed him with your gift, and he would cherish it with pride.

“No,” you defended, your brows furrowed at this clear misunderstanding. “No. Weird has bad connotations.” Your finger rested on the tip of his nose, accentuating your point. “Peculiar is fascinating and curious,” you mused as your finger began tracing upward, all the way to the spot between his eyebrows, and then higher, to the line of his hair, brushing it away so you could cup his face. “Odd, in a good way.”

“Alright, word wizard. Did you just come up with this?” he relented with an embarrassed chuckle.

“No, I thought that on the first sight,” you announced proudly. You had. Peculiar was entirely Viktor’s. Wonderful, fascinating. Never fully uncovered, always something there lurking to surprise you. A wild landscape of his brilliant mind, of his raw body—so flawed, so beautiful, like an unfinished sculpture. Every time you remembered his angles, they would shift into something even more mesmerising. The complete lack of effort within him, the way he dressed like a man from a novel. The way he was always incomplete, always searching.

“Peculiar at first sight. Do you have a word for everyone?” he murmured. Seeing your timid nod, his eyebrows shot up. “Jayce?”

You laughed; this one was easy. “Big. Just big. Big everything—big hands, big teeth, big smile, big personality. There is enough of Jayce to literally hug the world,” you said, your tone warm and friendly, as all of this was true about Jayce.

Viktor chuckled, thought for a second. “Mel?”

“Rich.” The word came slightly too fast, and you grinned. Viktor laughed knowingly. “But it goes to everything about her, as I love her,” you clarified, your expression soft. Mel was rich through sharing it with other people. Her fortune came back to her, the more she gave it away. The fortune of her money, her personality, her beauty, spread across all the people she knew.

“Oh, I know. For yourself?” He cocked his eyebrows, his look probing. He had so many words for you. Beautiful. Unhinged. Skittish. Tender. Focused. Distracted. Vulgar. Weird. Hot. His.

“Uh… chaos,” you chuckled awkwardly. Yes, the chaos of your mind never tamed. Which was why your life landed in books. They had provided you with all the personalities you mended yourself from, making your chaotic being work. And Viktor seemed to like all of them.

Until he stopped, and there you were. The weird gained its disturbing friend, and it was no longer cute or fascinating. Now, it was gnawing at him, because he could see those parts of you that he once loved so dearly through a distorting layer of ice, burning his eyes.

“It is none of your concern how I furnish my apartment,” he says calmly. “I am seeing someone and would like your remaining stuff to be removed. Here.” His words stab at you as he pulls out a keychain from his back pocket.

“Next weekend, I’m out of town. Feel free to come and collect your things. Leave the keys in the post box,” he recites, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. “If you don’t, I will dispose of them on my own.”

A rush of blood to your head—cold and vile—leaves icy spikes in your veins as it travels upward through your body. Your face drains of colour, your mouth agape. Thousands of “what”s push themselves to your tongue, and you let one slip through.

“W-what?”

“What is so surprising? The pragmatism, or the fact that I had the civility to tell you I’m moving forward on my own accord?” he asks, his tone so utterly cruel it makes your insides twist. “Take this as the last ounce of respect I have left for you.”

“Are you implying that I do not respect you?” you spit, the fury you felt while talking to Mel surging back with full force. What a wanker. “You blocked me. Everywhere. I had no way to let you know.”

“Just take the keys.”

“I… still have my set,” you offer weakly, instantly regretting it as Viktor’s lips curl into a smirk.

“These are new,” he says with feigned innocence. Of course. But you already know this, so why does it shoot straight through your chest? Why does it leave a steaming hole in it? Why do you want to take the keys and stab his eyes with them? Why do you want to scream at him—and yet you can’t.

You take them wordlessly, staring into the void. They burn your hand. “Okay. Alright,” you sigh, defeated, sliding the keychain into your pocket.

An automated smile glues itself to Viktor’s face. So why does he feel so rotten? Surely, this is a victory. Here you are, crumbled into a sad twat of a person, resigned from any further attempts to talk to him. Here you are, exactly where he wants you—hunched and shrunk under the weight of his boot stomping over your cruel heart. You lost, and he won.

So why does he feel so shitty?

He clears his throat and looks away.

“I will have you know that Jayce is desperate to piece the gang together. You and your new… partner will receive an invitation to dinner on Sunday. Jayce has informed me that we are expected to play nice.” The word “partner” is laced with so much venom, the radius could make all the kittens in the vicinity drop dead.

“W-what?” you ask dumbly again. What the fuck? Jayce has lost his mind.

Before you can ask again, the said madman appears by your side.

“Hey, what are you doing here?” he asks wearily, but his embrace is warm.

“Can… can I talk to you for a second?” Your voice cracks, and you hate it. And the worst part is, there’s nobody to carry you home on the top of your shield.

Jayce glances over to Viktor nervously, but Viktor’s eyes are fixed on the mattress in front of him. Jayce sighs, nods, and pulls you a few steps away, pretending the reality isn’t as fucked up as it is.

“What’s up?” He keeps his tone light.

“Jayce, a dinner?”

“Uh, he told you already? I meant to… Yeh, I had an idea that maybe if we all meet and clear the air, things could move forward, at least a bit?”

When he sees your mouth opening and closing a couple of times, and your eyes not blinking even once, he adds, “Please. This is killing me. I feel exactly the same as I did when my parents were divorcing.”

You sigh, finally. Finally, a breath. Your heart is thundering in your chest, and you can feel Viktor’s secretive glances.

“Can I leave at any point?”

Jayce’s face lights up with relief. “Yes. Yes, of course. Thank you, thank you for giving this a chance,” he blurts, so happy, wrapping you up in a hug.

You want to wince away at first, afraid that he might feel how restless your heart is or that he might smell how sweaty you are. But in the end, Jayce’s hug does what it had always done—it calms you, making your head give up. It is what it is.

“I’m gonna go,” you say weakly, pulling yourself away. Jayce shoots you a knowing look and nods, placing his hand on your shoulder before you disappear completely.

You don’t spare Viktor so much as a glance, his keys still burning a hole in your pocket.

***

You despair. The number of times Paul calmly tells you that you could still turn back makes you sick. This poor, kind bastard. He has agreed to this ridiculous idea in an instant, before even checking how you felt about it. Seeing that what you felt is utter peril, he does his best to calm you down and present you with around a thousand options for how this could go.

“We can just not go. We can pretend you’re sick. We can pretend I’m sick, and you can go alone. I can go alone and test the waters for you. We can stay for a drink. We can leave if you feel uncomfortable. Just remember this awesome thing called ‘free will,’ okay?” he says, sitting cross-legged, naked, on the bed.

You are pacing, also naked. Panic surges through your vascular system. It carries said panic to every tissue of your body, making it slowly decompose into a puddle of cries and sobs.

“Hey,” he says, getting up and rushing to hug you. “It’s alright. He’s just a guy.”

This very complacent lie makes you shoot him a look. He tries to be respectful of your old life, of your friendships. Unbidden, his love is too sweet on your tongue as you feel yourself becoming complacent as well.

And then you remember Jayce. His face when he was sad, and he was so, so fucking sad it ripped your heart out. And you feel this vast emptiness that is left after Viktor. With the absence of him, the absence of Jayce and Mel is unbearable. So you sigh.

“Alright. Okay. Let me just… try to do something to not look like a rat.”

Paul chuckles, assuring you that you never look like a rat. When you walk down to the restaurant, your feet stomp heavily on the pavement, and your hand squeezes Paul’s palm in an unrelenting grip. At the door, he says it again, “We can turn back.”

You shake your head and step inside, bravely hiding behind the mass of your boyfriend. Jayce spots you instantly. He gets up so fast, his cutlery clattering to the floor.

“I was afraid you were going to bail,” he whispers loudly into your ear when you finally make it across the room.

“I… thought about it,” you admit under his glare. “You have to thank this guru,” you add with a sigh, gesturing to Paul, who just shrugs, as if it were obvious that you would have bailed without him.

They exchange embraces. You smooch Mel’s face obscenely, actually quite happy to see her, before slumping into your chair, the question staring you in the face. Where is Viktor?

Noticing the question mark distorting your forehead, Mel quickly adds, “They’re on the way. Traffic.”

Bullshit. Viktor lives nearby, and there is no traffic on a Sunday evening. A small relief creeps into you—maybe the outer gods heard you, and it is Viktor who was going to bail. Maybe you have been pulling your hair out over nothing, and this will turn into just a nice evening with your two friends and your lovely boyfriend. Maybe—

“Apologies. Traffic,” comes a sharp tone, accompanied by a shrug and the familiar sight of a cane being hung over the chair’s armrest.

Something sinks in your chest. Peril has just taken relief’s head, ripped it off, and taken a huge shit into its neck. But this isn’t the worst. Introductions come next.

A girl comes running in after him. Pretty. Nerdy. Just… pretty. Nothing remarkable. Pliant and nice, with slightly shy body language. Potentially intelligent. Potentially nothing.

And suddenly, you feel odd having Paul at your side. It feels like you are trying to prove something. It eats at you—that Viktor has shown up with someone so unremarkable, while he himself oozes confidence about his champion. Your champion seems to be completely overblown—his massive frame, his charm that could sweep anyone off their feet.

Overachiever. Poser. Liar.

You feel a nasty fucking thing hatching in your chest. It envelopes your heart, fills your veins with ice, and you could swear the whites of your eyes have gone black. Your hand hesitates when she repeats your name with an oblivious voice, pulling her palm out for a handshake. Your own palm hovers as you muster every ounce of willpower not to slap that mediocre face.

“Hi, Julia. Nice to meet you,” you manage, swallowing the beast, which rakes its claws at your insides as it slides down to your stomach. Your throat burns as you down an entire whisky glass.

You realise it would feel less painful were she obscenely beautiful. Her absolutely average physique has meant that there was something within her soul that beckoned Viktor forth, and the thought makes your own soul wail.

You watch them all from your seat, exchanging names and glances. Jayce knows Julia from work. Paul knows both Jayce and Mel. Which leaves… oh.

“Right, sorry. I’m slow in this weather,” you chuckle a bit too loudly. “Paul. Julia. Viktor.” You gesture clumsily, presenting them to each other before scrambling back into your seat, craning your neck to eye the waiter back to your table.

You watch Paul charming Viktor’s new girlfriend with his smile. You watch Viktor’s slender hand disappear into Paul’s firm grip. You watch their eyes meet, cold and challenging.

You feel a sudden urge to slide under the table. To bury your head in your knees. To bite through the wooden floor to the basement. To dig your own grave and fall asleep in it forever.

“Thanks for the invite, Mel,” Julia beams at your friend, and you spot Mel’s unctuous smile gluing itself to her face. This one is one of her best—so oily and sleek that even Jayce notices. He presses a kiss on her cheek so deep that she has to relax her face.

“So… how did you guys all meet?” It falls on the table and it takes you a few seconds to pick it up.

Holy fucking shit in heaven. Of course. He hasn’t told her. He hasn’t told her that this innocent dinner with friends is actually a farce with the high potential of turning into a carnage. She is oblivious to you. She has no idea. Ignorance is bliss.

“Uh… well, me and Viktor know each other from university, but that you know. Mel I met at a business convention, and, well…” Jayce stammers, stumbling over his words as his forehead begins to glisten with sweat.

Poor soul. You feel so sorry for him, you throw him a lifeline.

“And I am Mel’s friend. Best bitches since business school,” you say, giving the best fake smile you have. Not as good as Mel’s, but it does the job. “And Paul and I met at my work. You can connect the dots,” you throw out nonchalantly. And Viktor was fucking me into heaven for three years. For two.

“Oh, so you’re in business too?” Julia really tries, but the tension is just too palpable. You blink, dumbfounded.

“Uh, no.” A forced chuckle, as if business were a vile way to live. “I sell books.”

“Alright, that’s just unfair,” Jayce intercepts, taken aback by your modesty. You are not trying to be modest; you are trying to give as little information about yourself as possible. You almost smack him, but he continues.

“She finds books like you wouldn’t imagine. Medieval texts, first editions, magic books—all the crazy shit people would write down and publish. Precious objects,” Jayce muses as you try to smooth a crease of panic from your forehead.

“And they trick people who have no idea of their value into selling them rare tomes for chunks of copper,” Viktor murmurs, twirling the wine in his glass.

“Knowledge comes at a price. Of all people, you should be the one to understand that,” you shoot back, your nails slicing through the skin of your palms. You feel Paul’s hand on yours. He doesn’t look at you; he just entwines your fingers together on your knee. The saviour.

“Anyway, it’s actually all incredibly bureaucratic and boring,” you offer weakly, finishing your second drink. “And what about you?”

And then Julia talks. How she is an assistant at the lab where Viktor and Jayce work. How she was always fascinated by their projects. How she thought Viktor distant and mysterious at the beginning, only to discover he was a sweet man. How she just couldn’t say no when he asked her out. Each sentence is a stab into your chest, each of your hard gulps making Viktor smile triumphantly. Until—

The first thing you see is his smirk dropping from his face. The second is Paul’s face as he pulls you in to whisper into your ear, disguising the act as a gesture of affection.

“Smile. And nod. Do you want me to punch him?” he murmurs, the question inaudible to anyone but you.

You smile lovingly, place your hand on his cheek, and shake your head. In fact, you smile so much that your face hurts, and you find yourself needing to physically relax your cheeks with your fingers.

The conversation carries on, all faces a tad sour save for Julia’s. She does most of the talking and asking questions. She focuses on Mel and Jayce, leaving you and Paul to exchange inside jokes. And he does such an exceptional job distracting you that some of your smiles are actually genuine.

You are on your third drink, and your body relaxes despite itself. The food arrives, finally bringing some silence, occasionally broken by hums of appreciation and Jayce’s voice, since he talks with his mouth full. For a moment, you forget Viktor is there—until Julia leaves for the bathroom and leans over to give Viktor a kiss.

His neck cranes to meet her mouth. His hand travels to her throat; the other squeezes her waist. Very briefly, his eyes meet yours. Before you can combust from the look, her hair falls, shielding them both, and all you can make out is the sound of lips smacking apart when she finally pulls away. You wonder what would happen if you stabbed your hand with a fork.

Viktor clears his throat and returns his attention to his plate. You watch him separating meat from the bone, chewing, and swallowing, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he does. And he feels your eyes on him, the smug curve of his lips betraying him.

Paul picks up the glove. He clumsily rolls a chunk of pasta onto his fork and asks innocently if you want to try his food. Absently, you nod, taking a sip of water first to flush your mouth. The bite is too big, and he smears sauce on your cheek and nose. You don’t worry about decorum; you chew as you always chew—jaw working heavily as you gulp down. You can swear Viktor’s eyes are burning a hole in your throat. Paul chuckles at how gross you are and leans in to kiss the sauce off your cheek, nose, and the corner of your mouth. He lingers and comments on how it tastes even better now. It’s all very sickening, and you feel dirty doing it. You can see Viktor eyeing his fork.

Julia returns and plops down next to Viktor with a happy sigh, as if she’s just had the most satisfying number two of her life. You cackle at the thought, but it dies in your throat when Viktor chirps, “I missed you,” to her and presses his lips to her temple.

You feel yourself simmering beneath the skin. It’s all too much.

“Excuse me for a second.” You offer another sweet smile, stand up, place a hand on Paul’s shoulder, and make your way toward the entrance. A gush of sticky air isn’t exactly a relief, but at least it’s not acidic.

“Sorry, can I bum one?” you ask a woman smoking outside. She gives you an understanding look and pulls the cigarette pack toward you.

“Sure, honey. Did you spot your ex in the crowd?”

“Uh, you have no idea. Thanks,” you exhale, letting her light your cigarette. You don’t smoke, but now it seems suitable.

You are expecting Paul to come out after you, ordering a regroup.

“I didn’t know you smoked,” Viktor deadpans, giving you a scolding look.

“I don’t,” is all you manage to say without choking on the smoke. “Please, leave me alone,” you plead, seeing him move closer. You could rake that face with your nails. You could slap him and walk away. You could throw his keys back at him and tell him to eat shit. But no. Jayce needs you to play nice.

“Are you not having a nice time?” he asks innocently, just aiming to hurt. “I thought you wanted things back to normal.”

You sigh, looking at the cigarette lying oddly between your fingers. “I…” Your voice falters. And then, despite your efforts to hold the words back, they refuse to stay. They slice your throat open from the inside, bleeding straight into his ears. “I miss you.”

A slap. A slap straight through his heart, hooking his lungs out of his chest. Your beast gets him, instead of sweet Julia. It coils in, purring and eating him from the inside. It’s all he wanted to hear. He won, again. And he feels like shit about it, again.

Viktor’s cane wobbles under his weight, a sharp, uncomfortable cough forcing its way out of him. His face twists. He stands there, still as stone, except for the erratic rise and fall of his chest. His lips part, his tongue flicks to wet them, but no words come. He looks like he is suffocating under the weight of what you’ve just said.

“Fuck off.” The words come out jagged, like broken glass, his voice harsh and cracking. “You have no right.”

You deserve it. You have no right, indeed. Your chest tightens, your lungs pulling for air that isn’t there. He has gone for the kill, but his voice… His voice doesn’t match his words. It’s soft and trembling.

“I know.” Your voice cracks too, balancing on the edge of fury and despair. You step toward him, the cigarette still burning between your fingers, ash crumbling onto the pavement. “But I do.” It feels like scraping off a scab too fresh to be poked at.

Viktor’s eyes widen, just for a moment. It’s quick—too quick—but you catch it. A flash of something buried deep, a flicker of something that makes your knees want to buckle, to throw yourself at his feet. His jaw clenches hard, his lips twitching as if biting back every single thing he wants to say.

“This was supposed to be over,” he hisses finally, but his gaze betrays him, darting down to your mouth, lingering on the curve of your jaw.

“It… is, I just—” You step even closer, the words clawing their way out of you, half a plea, half a challenge. “This is different.” There is no logical explanation for how this is different, except for the absolute certainty, the gnawing truth in your heart of hearts. You are utterly convinced that Julia existed only to spite you, whereas Paul existed to save you, and in principle, the connection between him and Viktor was non-existent. You wonder, for a second, if you should tell him. And then you picture how he would react, and you decide not to.

His hand grips the handle of his cane tighter, his knuckles turning white. “Do not—” His voice wavers. “Do not do this to me.”

You laugh bitterly, the sound hollow and cruel even to your own ears. “What am I doing to you?” You gesture wildly, the cigarette burning low, its ember a heartbeat away from searing your skin. “I try to do right by you. All you do is block me and slap me around.”

“You left!” he snaps, his voice rising, sharp enough to cut through your already battered flesh. “You are the one who left, and now you stand here, saying—saying things you should have said before.” He looks completely crestfallen.

The silence that follows is deafening. Your shoulders slump as you stare at him, and for a moment, you don’t recognise the man in front of you. The Viktor you know wasn’t this—this wreckage, this storm barely holding itself together.

“I left because you made me,” you whisper, the tears you’ve been holding back threatening to spill. “Because you pushed and pushed until I broke. And now I don’t even know if there’s enough of me left to stay mad at you.”

His head dips, his shoulders collapsing in defeat. His free hand runs through his hair, tugging at the roots like he wants to rip something out—anything, just to make the ache stop.

“You think it was easy for me?” he asks quietly, almost a whisper. “To let you go? To—” His voice cracks again, and he stops himself.

That is a first. You knew how hard it was—you had to crawl through your own shitty tunnel. You knew it was hard for him, but you’ve never heard him admit it before.

You both stand there, breathing hard, the air thick like tar. The cigarette finally burns out, the last ember dropping to the ground as you let it slip from your fingers.

“Then why didn’t you fight for me?” you ask, and your voice breaks. “Why didn’t you—”

“I did.” His words come fast, cutting you off, raw and painful. “I did, but you didn’t see it. You wouldn’t.” Viktor fights his hands to not reach out for you and wipe your tears away with his thumbs. He fights his body to not pull you flush against him, to kiss you deeply and whisper a secret into your mouth. He takes a step back, and it costs him everything. Then you both stare at the thing in front of you.

The truth. Ugly and jagged, sitting between you like a gaping wound neither of you knows how to heal. You had both fucked up, royally. And then you went ahead and jumped into something new, hoping that a tiny bit of duct tape would seal a hole in a massive, overflowing tank of feelings.

“Go back inside.” His voice is soft now, a whisper lost in the sticky night air. “I’ll be right there.”

“Everything alright here?” Paul’s voice reaches you before you see him, and you wince. Viktor takes notice. Paul’s arms are crossed on his chest, lips pressed into a thin line.

You nod and drag yourself in obediently. A quick stop in the bathroom to fix your sorry face. A slump into the chair next to Paul, as he places a loving arm around your shoulders. Viktor comes back to the table with an unreadable smile on his face, his eyes wet, but only you can see it. A civil, nice evening, ending with exclamations of how you all should do this again. How it was fun.

“All good?” Paul asks you when you walk home. When you walk to his apartment, the one you silently refuse to move into.

“Yes, just… why did you come out after me?” you counter, puzzled. You pin him with your gaze until he relents into an embarrassed chuckle.

“I thought you needed saving, is all.”

“I don’t need to be saved from anyone, Paul. Don’t intervene again. I’m an adult,” you scoff, opening the door to his apartment.

For the first time, you flinch away from his touch when you are in bed. Tears choke up in your throat all night. But you hold them tight, not letting any slip out. And you realise it takes so long to get over losing someone. That no band-aid, no pretty and nice boyfriend, no amount of friends or sad music could make the process faster. And you realise it isn’t possible to get over Viktor so quickly. And then, you realise that your grief hasn’t moved an inch. It’s still in denial.

#viktor arcane #viktor x reader #viktor fanfic #viktor x reader smut #viktor x f!reader #arcane #viktor smut #arcane fanfic #my writing #ao3 #ao3 fanfic #viktor x oc #viktor nation #nothings new

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cryptidmickle · 15 hours ago

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hi your amnesiac au has me in SHAMBLES plsplspls im crying sobbing stabbing the floor

im so glad i discovered your blog 😭 your art is so lovely and nice and just. Yes. eats everythibg snd leaves no crumbs /silly

PLEASE i require more info about amnesiac au.

could this happen to the other Beasts? if it can happen to Shadow Milk, it might be possible with the others, should their Ancient counterparts get lucky with their attacks

does Shadow Milk gradually become less of an ass? does he seek answers as to Why he was so awful? does he care at all?

how horrified is he at the revelation that he was such a huge issue for the faeries + PV, if at all? he already doesn't know much about himself, so would not knowing he was such a problem, such an awful person, terrify him, considering he doesn't remember any of this?

idk. i personally would be so so incredibly horrified and terrified that i was so terrible and..well, monstrous, if i may. i kinda project onto Shadow Milk im ngl so that's probably why im saying any of this

IM SORRY THIS IS SO LONG im just so,,, AAAUAGTHYBHLRHTLBFLTTKG /POS abt this entire au. hoenstly it inspires me; both your art and your ideas and concepts

hope you have a good day!! stay safe /gen

SOBS IM SO GLAD YOU LIKE THIS AU!!! i read all the tags on my posts btw so if any of u went crazy in there i saw it and went crazy w u. im deranged and mentally ill if u cant tell.

i would say the cracking of the souljam and loss of power is very possible for the other beasts! the amnesia however is a Very special case of pure vanilla fucking up the spell he cast

the other beasts would be depowered and much weaker, but retain their memories...... actually, would their corruption break as well since the souljam disconnected entirely from them? hm, i think redemption would be more possible if an ancient got a lucky shot, in that case

shadow milk does in fact become less of a jerk! what with no longer being secluded in a spire losing his mind and sense of identity all by himself, his personality is forced to become. eh. LESS THORNY.

pure vanilla is socializing him like a dog and he is NOT enjoying it. but i am. put that guy in situations.

shadow milk does in fact seek answers to why he did so many terrible things! he knows his... current personality isn't the greatest, but he can't imagine doing some of the things described

he feels a certain disconnect to the him others describe terrorizing them to the him of present, while he feels bad for what happened to them he doesn't really feel apologetic because was it really him? how's he supposed to know?

should he feel sorry because it technically was him, just.. evil? would that excuse it if he doesn't feel sorry at all?

this is where shadow milk and white lily have similar dilemmas because they both have previously done terrible things to others, especially pure vanilla. they feel bad about it, they dont wanna hurt him or others like that ever again

but then this is where they separate because shadow milk doesn't feel at fault, he doesn't remember doing all those things, he doesn't even know who that was! you want me to grovel forever about it? pathetic, what's done is done anyways, why not try to do something now?

white lily absolutely despises that mindset as she's competing with pv over who can hate themselves more, and she is winning. she thinks they both deserve to repent forever for their crimes but is constantly reminded of the fact that she remembers but shadow milk doesn't! she knows what she did, why she did it, it was bad and terrible, but she understands and that's what's important and she must repent for it

shadow milk doesn't know, he doesn't know anything at all and theres even more that they can't tell him as he's apparently been evil for centuries. it's hard to argue that he needs to feel bad when the personalities are truly separated.

......i went on a ramble again.

he doesn't feel bad about what he did but he is in fact, very unnerved that he may be capable of those actions again, and with pure vanilla trying to teach him to be good and kind its...... panic inducing sometimes, that maybe he can do something terrible again, that the evil is possibly just lurking under the surface and hes fooling himself and everyone around him

#milkyflock #amnesiac au #shadow milk cookie #im not tagging all the cookies mentioned thats too much dear lord #i went offfff oh im so crazy guys u dont get ut #im so inactive artwise but i swear im thinking hard abt this au at any given moment #words are also difficult. and im scared of people. and i forget.#oh no #okay anyone in my tags reading this gets to know my super secret answer to milkyflocks q in the tags of another post #PURE VANILLAS MOTIVATIONS HEH #he helped smilk out of guilt ofc. he attacked him and as the jesus cookie he must make up for it with his savior complex #but in a little thing i wrote hehe...... theres something under the surface of that want to help #to see smilk so vulnerable. eyes so clear of his usual mischief and plotting and Distance...#wasnt that fount of knowledge so much like him? wasnt the holder of knowledge just like him before everything?#he wanted to know shadow milk so badly...#is it so wrong to keep him?

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snailsgoingdowntown · 19 hours ago

Text

Help, I Reincarnated as the Female Lead’s Sister-in-Law!

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13

Chapter 14

‘Slight’ Yandere! Dion Agriche x Fem! Reader

Arranged marriage AU

Interact with this post to be on the tag list. Read DNI/BYF first.

NOTE: I think we can all agree that Dion deserves to suffer at least a bit <3 (Just a bit <3)

Warnings: toxic marriage/relationship, general yandere themes, obsessive and possessive themes/behavior, jealousy, anxiety, implied/mentioned past child abuse/neglect, mention of murder, implied murder, slight blood, mention of drugs (sleeping pills), mention of past alcohol consumption, mention of alcohol poisoning. Please tell me if I missed any.

DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT CONDONE ANY OF THE HARMFUL AND/OR DANGEROUS ACTIONS AND/OR BEHAVIORS THAT MAY TAKE PLACE IN THIS PIECE OF FICTION. THESE ACTIONS/BEHAVIORS SHOULD NOT BE NORMALIZED NOR ROMANIZED AS THEY ARE BOTH EXTREMELY TOXIC AND DANGEROUS.

MINORS/BLANK BLOGS/BLOGS THAT DO NOT INTERACT WITH OR REBLOG FANDOM RELATED THINGS (FICS, ART, ECT.) DNI.

= = =

It’s been two days since Dion Agriche indirectly told you that you’re his and that nothing will ever change that fact.

His proclamations only serve to make you feel like a possession. A pretty little songbird locked in a gilded cage, her ‘master’ unwilling to set her free. And the reason? To hear her sing until her last breath, voice hoarse and throat bleeding.

Sighing, you lean against the railing on the terrace, the light breeze flowing through your hair. The soft glow of the moonlight casts over the area, dark blue sky filled with twinkling stars. It’s peaceful.

The heavy smell of outside and iron fills your senses, a quick frown tugging at your lips before forcing it away.

“You’re still awake.”

Well, it was peaceful until a certain sadistic and horrible man draped a coat over your shoulders. You didn’t even hear the doors open, too lost in thought. Dion towers over you easily, and his presence is a nuisance. Unwanted.

He left for a mission earlier today yet he’s already back…

The warmth from the coat only makes you shiver, the blasted thing a ‘gift’ given to you by Maria on your wedding day. You frown when the man gathers your hair and brings it out from under the coat's collar, letting it float down over the material. His gentleness makes you sick.

“And you’re back,” you complain rather than state in a trembling whisper. You’ll never get used to this, to him. His gaze burns, and you’re unable to turn around to properly greet him. Not that you want to - everything about the man was repulsive - his face, his voice, his height, his name, even the color of his hair and eyes.

He makes you sick.

Another soft breeze as crickets chirp into the night. Below you, two servants walk, their hideous uniforms proudly worn. They look young - most likely in their early to mid twenties. One with dark brown hair and the other dark grey-ish.

Your husband’s stare burns harsher the longer you look at the two young men. Even so, you don’t look away, even when he moves to stand to your right side, fingers brushing against yours. Like a puppy asking for attention. Despite horror filling your entire being, you don’t tear your gaze away from the two men below you, nor do you stop yourself from moving your hand away from him.

Maybe it was a small act of defiance - aka, showing Dion that you would rather look at any man that wasn’t him. Of course, you’ll come to regret this in the morning, but right now, you crave to interrupt his peace as he had done to yours. Even as your legs begin to buck under your weight.

Ignoring the pressure building in your temples and silencing your gulps, you hope that Dion doesn’t see through you immediately. Your mother would have a heart attack had she been here, witnessing her married daughter give more attention to nameless men and not her arranged husband.

Perhaps feeling eyes on them, both men look up, surprised to see as you smile oh so sweetly at them and wave. Ignoring the rapidly forming panic pulling at your heart strings, you watch as they blink before bowing, flustered as light pink spreads across the apples of their cheeks.

Just two normal men.

“Good evening, My Lady!” They shout in unison. However, when they raise their heads, their cheeks go from pink to pale as their expressions twist into ones of terror. The reason is obvious, your husband wrapping an unwanted arm around your shoulders, gloved hand gripping the side of the left one tighter than necessary. You can only imagine the look he’s giving them.

They scamper off immediately, knowing better than to stay longer than necessary, knowing that greeting the Young Master would only aggravate him more, as the servants would get to look at you, his pretty wife, his possession, for longer.

You feel bad now, forgetting for a moment that your husband is possessive.

“I’m right here yet you’d rather look at them?” His voice does a complete 180 - voice once calm now filled with jealousy you can’t begin nor want to understand. You don’t answer. You look ahead of you, scared shitless once the reality of what you just had done hits you in full.

Am I trying to kill myself!?

The air feels colder, goosebumps forming on your skin. Despite the coat, you shiver. And while his stare burns hot, your blood runs cold. So close to curling into yourself, you blame the breeze for your trembling body.

It seems that cold sweats are a permanent thing for you now, biting the inside of your cheek as you break out into one. One hand gripping the front of the coat to hold it tighter against you, your fingers twitch as his gloved hand moves from your shoulder to the nape of your neck, and then up to the base of your head, fingers tangling themselves in your tresses.

Soft and gentle, it reminds you of the scene where he asked Roxana the location of Cassis’ hiding place.

The memory quickly fades into the background as Dion leans down just enough to whisper in your ear. He’s very fond of doing so, apparently. So fond of it, that whenever the opportunity arises, he’ll take it.

And your body is becoming accustomed to his hot breath, lying to itself, saying it feels good just so you won’t break out into another panic attack. However, you can start to hear the blood rush in your ears, a small built up tear catching in your lashes. Is this all you’re capable of doing? Crying?

“You never look or smile at me so sweetly.”

There is some resentment in his voice, but his tone doesn’t drip with it. “But you smiled at two random men who aren’t your husband?” His next sentence almost sounds betrayed, and it’s funny seeing how your husband had never done a thing to earn your sweetness.

You can’t find your voice.

You can’t force yourself to please him, either.

Nor can you turn away and walk into the room, throwing the coat to the floor.

The only thing you can do is endure.

And even then, you’re barely holding up.

“Even now you’re trying your best to ignore me.” He sounds tired - he should go to sleep. Go to sleep and leave you alone, like he should, but two days ago he imprinted himself fully onto you. In the most horribly way possible, nightmares slowly become reality as he refuses to set his eyes on another.

“I never imagined that my wife could be so cruel,” he teases, lips almost touching your ear. You blink once, twice, before leaning your head away, unable to stand his body heat for much longer. Unable to endure his ‘affection’ for a second longer, shrugging off his arm and the tall male lets you go. Not without an emotion you wouldn’t have been able to pinpoint as it flashes in his eyes before he blinks it away had you seen it.

“I never imagined that my husband would be so horrible,” you blurt out without meaning to, wincing once your own words register in your brain after it’s too late. Your heart speeds up. Right hand forming a shaking fist, your nails break skin, the action not enough to distract you.

You made a horrible and dangerous mistake. But it’s too late to take it back, sweat running down your temples.

There’s a sting in your thumb and a crave for flesh in your mouth. Your toes curl in your soft slippers. The seconds feel like hours, waiting for his response, be it physical or verbal.

“You’re right - not that it changes anything.” He doesn’t waste a breath in agreeing with you.

Without another word, your husband guides you back into the room. He’s behind you, and curiosity has always killed the cat, which is why despite your fear, your shivering figure, you look over your shoulder to catch a glimpse of Dion Agriche.

His scarlet eyes glow, the dark circles under them worse than they were two days ago, inky black hair that small clunks of dirt cling to, and smeared crimson blood across his face. When your gaze travels down, there’s also dirt and small specks of blood on his cloak, the article of clothing wrinkled.

He didn’t even bother to wash up.

Like the first thing he wanted to do - no need to do was see you.

The sentiment is lost and ignored as you turn back around. Husband or not, you refuse to see Dion Agriche as anything else but a threat. That’s the only thing you know him as.

Had you looked back, you would have noticed Dion reaching into his pocket only to pull it back out after a thought. He watches as you remove the coat from your shoulders and hang it back up in the closet - out of sight, out of mind.

He hums.

Pointer finger taping against his pocket, he mulls over whether to give you the small jewelry piece in a little blue box he brought back, knowing it would look pretty on you. He decides not to in the end, knowing you wouldn’t accept it.

That’s usually how it starts.

- - -

“- it’s fine, really. No, no, it’s okay. I don’t mind looking after her for a few more days… Hm? Of course she behaves - (Name) is always a good girl.”

Your grandmother’s voice travels from the living room into the kitchen where you’re doing your homework. Pencil in hand, you keep rereading the question, only to repeat the process as the printed words look blurred and jumbled together. The grandfather clock goes off, telling you that it’s midnight.

Your grandmother ends the call without asking if you wanted to speak to your dad.

Not that it matters - he always texts you a ‘good morning,’ at seven-am on the dot. Never failing to do it once, it always brings a smile to your face.

As it should.

Your grandmother doesn’t say anything as she heads up the stairs, leaving you to your own devices. And you do the same. A mutual agreement between grandmother and granddaughter. Love and affection were a curious and complicated subject.

Regardless, you stay in the kitchen, hearing dogs bark outside and beer bottles thrown to the ground, on an average ‘Saturday night’. You scribble something on the paper before erasing it only to repeat it again and again. By the time you solve the third question out of ten, the sun has come up, Sunday morning greeting you.

- - -

“Thank you for inviting me, mother-in-law.”

Maria had invited you for tea in her room, far from any prying eyes. Hana is right at your side, ready to receive any orders that either you or your mother-in-law may give her. Her expression is stern, not an ounce of emotion in those eyes of hers.

So unlike the Hana that helped you get ready for the dinner with Dion and Lant three days ago. The Hana who showed some level of concern for you, who scolded two other maids while keeping her head leveled and not punishing them, assuming she had the power to do so.

“Oh, it’s no problem - as in-laws, we should bond and spend time together.” Her smile is far too bright and sweet for that… eccentric personality of hers. She continues, “besides, I heard that you were sick after the dinner with Lant. Was it food poisoning?”

She genuinely looks concerned as she questions you, but it’s Maria; a snake that coils itself around its prey once the opportunity arises. And you’re already on that list, right behind Sierra in terms of ‘affection’ which your mother-in-law confuses for ‘mental torture.’

How aware the brunette is of this, you’re not sure.

“O-oh… I just drank a little too much…,” your chuckle is awkward, eyes landing on your tea cup. Your smile feels strained.

She startles you with a sharp gasp.

“So it was alcohol poisoning? (Name), dear, are you alright?” She hurries to your side like a loving mother, her gloved hands gently placing themselves on your shoulders. She doesn’t squeeze them, unlike her son. She doesn’t look at you with a need to own your entire being, either.

“O-oh, I’m fine now, I promise, mother-in-law.” Despite your practiced smile, her uneasy expression doesn’t leave her pretty and soft facial features. Her reaction reminds you of your mother’s the one time you accidentally ate a poisonous plant… wait, no, her reaction was much worse than this.

“That Lant-!” You’re caught off guard when she curses her own husband, leaving her ‘unlovable’ son out of it. Like that dreadful sociopath wasn’t there.

You blink, unable to form words, watching as her expression morphe into one of frustration only to soften almost immediately when she locks eyes with you. Sweetly smiling at you, she threads her fingers through your hair.

It feels like she’s trying to replace your mother.

The thought makes you sick.

“I’m sorry for acting out like that. Lant is usually careful with handing out alcohol - and while Dion can be…careless, he’s not used to drinking with others.” Pigs are flying in your old world, they have to be, because how and why is Maria standing up for the son she never wanted?

“It’s - it’s fine… it’s my fault for going past my limit.” You’re not lying, you really were careless about your intake of the bitter wine. You learned your lesson - you want to avoid waking up with a hangover again…

You want to avoid Dion ‘comforting’ and touching you.

“Still, he should have seen the tell-tell signs,” she sighs before turning to Hana. “What was your name again?” She questions your aide. Your heart drops.

Wait, didn’t she ask that same question to a maid she killed right after…?

“It’s Hana, my Lady.” She bows without a single change in her expression. No twitch of the eyebrow or lips. Her face remains stoic.

“Hana. What a pretty name. Now tell me, where were you when your Master got drunk?” Her voice is sweet but the question is threatening. Like the weakling you are, all you do is sit, hopelessly praying that Maria won’t lay a hand or harm Hana in any way or form.

“I was fixing up her room on Young Master’s Dion’s orders.” Her answer is direct, not once breaking eye contact with your extremely dangerous mother-in-law.

“I see. Is Dion your Master?”

“No, my Lady. I was put under Lady (Name) a bit after she arrived here.”

The interrogation goes on, and every second feels like an hour. The room must be hot since you’re almost drowning in sweat. You gulp as Maria continues.

“By who?”

“Young Master Dion, my Lady.”

While her answer should confirm some things, you’re too focused on her safety to soak in the information. Too worried that her head will roll right off her shoulders.

“Dion? I see. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that he carelessly gave my precious daughter-in-law such an incompetent maid.”

SCREECHED!

“Mother-in-law, believe it or not, but Hana has been very helpful. It’s because of her that I’m adapting so well so quickly. You help too, of course.”

You don’t remember getting up. You don’t remember gently grabbing Maria’s shoulders like a daughter showing affection to her mother. You don’t remember smiling so brightly that it looks genuine, enough so that your personal maid looks surprised, already knowing how much you hate being here.

“She’s always at my beck and call - ready to serve me in the dead of the night, regardless if I dismissed her for the day. While one could say she went against my orders, personally, I see it as an act of loyalty.” Your words flow out smoothly, like you weren’t on the verge of breaking down sobbing.

You don’t know why you’re standing up for a maid who’s possibly spying on you for either Dion or Lant. A maid you barely know, much less considered as a ‘friend.’ A maid you have only known for a few weeks.

Most likely it’s because you don’t want to be introduced to a new one - it would be a waste of time, really. Hana already knows your habits with her keen eyes and senses. She knows what clothes and hairstyles look best on you. Her tea is delicious. Her excuses worked in your favor.

It would be a waste to replace her with a maid who might not even know what to do.

That’s all it is.

“So please, don’t blame her - she thought she was doing the best for me, her Master.”

You don’t let go of her shoulders even when you’re scared shitless, worried you crossed a boundary even though she always crosses yours. You wait with baited breath for her response, hoping you didn’t fuck up big time.

“Well,” Maria turns around to face you, removing your hands from her person to hold them instead. “I suppose I can give her another chance. I only want the best for you.”

After hearing her words, you can only think of and pity your husband. She cares more for a stranger than her own flesh and blood - a child she neglected and left in the hands of one of the worst people in existence.

Pushing the thought away, your body relaxes a bit. “Thank you. I’m really grateful for you, mother-in-law.” It’s a lie but as she strokes your hair with tenderness you weren’t aware she could show to anyone aside from Sierra, you almost forget how crazy and brutal she is.

You almost forgot that this woman did not tend to her growing, lonely son as she should have.

“Anytime, (Name), anytime.”

Your gut tells you that you only entangled yourself with this crazed woman more.

- - -

“Hana, can you fetch me some sleeping pills? I think I’ll need them…”

“Yes, My Lady. I’ll be back in a moment.” The events that transpired an hour ago aren’t mentioned, both parties silently and mutually deciding that it wasn’t worth it. Which is why Hana didn’t question you once you left Maria’s room an hour later, despite her curious gaze.

Honestly, you’re still not sure why or how you did it.

With a sigh you kick off your heels once you reach the bed, head low, finding that lifting it would take too much effort. Last night you had to deal with Dion - today, it was Maria. The worst part was that the day hadn't ended yet, but you know for a fact if you didn’t request sleeping pills now you wouldn’t remember until Dion is ‘sleeping’ on your shared bed.

Landing on your stomach, your body lightly bounces on the comfortable bed. The scent of bergamot oranges soothes your nerves. Relieved, you nuzzle your head into your pillow, finally having a beautiful peaceful moment all to yourself in this fucking psychward.

The ‘sugary’ voice of Maria is gone, anxiety about accidentally catching sight of one of her ‘dolls’ is out of mind. Dread that you might run into another one of your in-laws faded away the moment Hana opened the bedroom doors. Also, the fact you didn’t see Lant at all lifts your mood.

Not to mention that your horrible, frightful, perverted, annoying husband was nowhere in sight -

“You seem to be in a good mood.” A boyish voice fills the silence.

…huh…?

Lifting yourself into a sitting position, legs hanging off the bed, you look towards the doors. You think you’re dreaming, for one, this person just waltzed into the room like nothing, clearly sneaking in right after Hana. The other reason is because the boy with leaves and goo in his hair is -

“Jeremy?”

= = =

Tag list: @tiny-mimi @pix-stuff @umi-adxhira @queenofspades403 @darkumbreon92 @manitscold @puggyeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

#twtptflob #dion agriche x reader #dion agriche #deon agrece #yandere dion agriche x reader #yandere dion agriche #the way to protect the female lead's older brother #yandere twtptflob #roxana #yandere #male yandere #yandere dion agrece #twtptflob x reader #yandere twtptflob x reader #yandere the way to protect the female leads older brother

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writingsoftarnishedsilver · 2 days ago

Text

Playing for Keeps | Sebastian Sallow x Reader

Chapter 10

← Previous Chapter Next Chapter →

Words: ~6,100

Tags: Modern AU, Reader Insert, Female MC, No Y/N, Enemies to Lovers, Fluff, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Romance, Hurt/Comfort, Beater Sebastian

The girls' changing room buzzed as Slytherin team prepared for their first match of the season. The crisp autumn air filtered through the open windows, carrying with it the faint roar of the crowd already gathering outside. You sat on a bench near the corner, lacing up your boot, though your mind was far from the task at hand.

The week had passed in a blur, yet your thoughts kept circling back to Tuesday’s Defense Against the Dark Arts class. You and Sebastian had earned decent marks for your counter-curse, though Professor Hecat suggested you could have done better. It wasn’t a surprise, wondering you should’ve practiced more. But considering the circumstances, considering the tension simmering between you and Sebastian, it should have felt like a victory. Instead, it left you more unsettled than ever.

Unsurprisingly, Sebastian hadn’t lingered to celebrate let alone acknowledge the success. The moment class ended, he’d packed up his things and walked out without a word, leaving you alone with your thoughts. In fact, you hadn’t even needed to put effort into avoiding him this week—he was doing the work for you.

At first, it felt like a relief. No more taking the long way to class, no more avoiding the common room and timing breakfast to miss him. This was what you’d asked for on the Astronomy Tower, after all: to be left alone. But as the days passed, the empty space where his presence used to be began to feel glaring.

You’d tried to push it out of your mind, but the curiosity had grown unbearable enough that you’d tentatively asked Ominis about it during an uneventful Charms lesson.

“Ominis, has Sebastian been… acting strange to you?” you’d asked, keeping your tone casual, though your pulse quickened when his head tilted curiously in your direction.

“Strange how?” Ominis had replied, his pale eyebrows furrowing slightly.

“Like… I don’t know. Just… off. Avoiding people or…” You’d trailed off, unsure how much to give away.

Ominis had considered this for a moment before nodding slowly. “He has been acting a bit distant,” he admitted. “He hasn’t said anything, but I can tell something’s bothering him. I thought he’d eventually tell me what was going on, but…” He’d shrugged, his expression troubled. “He hasn’t.”

The knot of guilt in your chest had only tightened. You couldn’t shake the feeling that it was your fault, even though you’d told yourself over and over that he deserved your sharp words and the distance you’d forced between you.

“Earth to Chouette,” Imelda’s voice snapped you out of your spiraling thoughts. She stood a few feet away, dressed in her emerald green Quidditch robes, her hands on her hips and her sharp eyes watching you with a mix of impatience and concern. “You planning to sit there daydreaming all day, or are you actually going to suit up?”

You blinked, glancing down at the half-tied laces of your boots. “Sorry,” you muttered, hastily finishing them up and standing to grab your robes. The green fabric felt heavier than usual—or maybe it was just the weight of everything else pressing down on you.

Imelda rolled her eyes but smirked. “First-game jitters? Don’t worry; they’ll fade as soon as the whistle blows.”

Vivian Warrington, your team’s Keeper, looked up from where she was adjusting her gloves. “Imelda’s right,” she said, her tone encouraging. “We’ve practiced enough. You’ve got this.”

Ophelia Selwyn, one of the Chasers, chimed in from the corner as she braided her long blonde hair. “Besides, the Gryffindor team is full of hotheads. We’ll have them scrambling in no time.”

You forced a small smile, grateful for their attempts at reassurance, even as your stomach twisted into knots. The sound of the crowd outside grew louder, the anticipation palpable.

Imelda clapped you on the shoulder as she passed by, grabbing her broom. “Come on,” she said. “Time to show those lions why Slytherin owns this pitch.”

You nodded, following her lead and grabbing your broom. The sharp scent of freshly cut grass hit you the moment you stepped out onto the pitch, the sight of the towering stands filled with students and staff making your heart race. The Gryffindor team was already assembled at the opposite end of the field, their scarlet robes catching the sunlight. Rory Fitzwilliam, their Seeker, gave you a cocky grin from across the way, his broom resting casually on his shoulder.

The boys on the Slytherin team were also already on the pitch, their brooms slung over their shoulders as they lingered by the edge of the field. Grayson Turner and Alexander Mulciber were deep in conversation, their laughter carrying over the noise of the stands. It didn’t take long to figure out what—or rather, who—had their attention.

Sebastian was standing a few feet away, surrounded by the cheer squad. Amelia was practically hanging off his arm, her perfectly curled auburn hair bouncing as she leaned in to whisper something that made him chuckle. The other girls flanked him, their tiny skirts swishing as they jostled for his attention, their matching tops—practically bras in your eyes—leaving very little to the imagination.

Grayson elbowed Alexander, gesturing toward the scene with a broad grin. “Merlin’s beard, he’s like a magnet. Look at them—they’re practically clawing over each other.”

Alexander snorted, his gaze fixed on Serena’s coy laugh as she tossed her hair. “Can you blame them? It’s Sallow. He doesn’t even have to try.”

You hung back, pretending to adjust your gloves as you tried—and failed—not to look. The sight of them made your stomach twist. They were everything you weren’t: tall, slim, and effortlessly perfect, their uniforms a dazzling blend of all four house colors, designed to stand out against the backdrop of the pitch as they moved.

Imelda’s voice cut through your thoughts, sharp and impatient. “Alright, enough gawking, you two,” she barked at Grayson and Alexander. “Get your heads in the game. We’re not here to watch Sallow play house with the cheer squad.”

Her words earned a few chuckles from the others, but she wasn’t smiling. She turned back to you and the rest of the team, motioning for everyone to gather. “Let’s go. Time to focus.”

The boys fell into step as Imelda led the group toward the center of the pitch.

“Alright, listen up,” she began, her sharp voice cutting through the hum of the crowd. “This is our first match of the season, and we’re going to make it count. Gryffindor’s got some strong players, sure, but they’re sloppy. They get cocky, they lose focus, and that’s where we come in.”

She turned to the Chasers first. “Mulciber, Selwyn, and I will keep the Quaffle moving. No fancy tricks unless we’re ahead by at least thirty points—stick to clean passes and keep the pressure on. Weasley’s a decent Keeper, but he gets distracted easily. Use that to our advantage.”

Next, she glanced at Grayson and Sebastian, her gaze sharp. “Turner, Sallow, you know what to do. Don’t let those Gryffindor Beaters get the upper hand. Keep those Bludgers under control and watch their formation—Their beaters love targeting the seeker.”

Grayson nodded, cracking his knuckles. “Got it.”

Sebastian gave a curt nod as well, though he still didn’t look at you.

Finally, Imelda turned to you and Vivian. “Warrington, keep your head on straight. You’ve been solid in practice, so don’t let the crowd rattle you. And you”—her eyes locked on you, her tone firm but not unkind—“don't do anything except focus on the Snitch. Fitzwilliam’s fast, but he’s not the sharpest tool in the shed. Use that. Stay calm, stay smart, and don’t let him intimidate you.”

You swallowed hard, nodding as you tightened your grip on your broom.

Imelda’s gaze swept over the group one last time, her expression fierce. “This is our game to win. Let’s remind Gryffindor who dominates this pitch. Slytherin on three.”

The team raised their fists, the energy building. “One, two, three—Slytherin!”

As the chant echoed, you felt a flicker of determination cut through your nerves. You mounted your broom alongside the others, the weight of the crowd’s anticipation pressing down as the referee stepped forward, the Quaffle and Bludgers floating in the enchanted chest beside her.

The whistle blew, sharp and piercing, and the game began.

In an instant, you angled your broom upwards, the familiar rush of air whipping past your face as you soared higher, aiming for a vantage point above the chaos. Your strategy was to stay out of the fray, hovering high above the pitch where you could scan for the Snitch without interference. It was a tactic that worked well in practice—watchful, patient, and precise.

But Gryffindor, it seemed, had other plans.

Their Beaters, Macmillan and Bellamy, zeroed in on you like hawks, sending Bludgers rocketing in your direction with ruthless precision. Each swing of their bats was calculated, cutting off escape routes and forcing you into erratic dives and swerves to avoid being hit.

“And that’s a near-miss for Slytherin’s Seeker!” the announcer called, his tone teetering between excitement and disbelief. “Looks like Gryffindor’s Beaters have it out for her today!”

You angled your broom upwards again, trying to regain altitude, but the onslaught continued. Macmillan’s latest Bludger sailed past your ear, forcing you into another sharp dive.

"Better watch out, Fitz," he called to his Seeker, "If you're not careful she might eat the snitch!"

From across the pitch, Rory barked a laugh, his broom zigzagging lazily as if he were on a joyride. “Good point,” he called, loud enough for the spectators to hear as he glanced at you. “You sure you're not maxing out your broom's weight limit?”

You gritted your teeth, scanning the field desperately. The sooner you caught that damned snitch, the sooner you could get away from these pricks. But the golden glimmer remained elusive, and every second you spent dodging Bludgers or dealing with their taunts felt like an eternity.

“Looks like Gryffindor’s Beaters are doubling down,” the commentator continued, his voice tinged with anticipation. “Macmillan sends another Bludger at Slytherin's seeker—she dodges! But wait—here comes Bellamy with a follow-up!”

The first Bludger was coming fast. You swerved hard, the force of your dodge sending your broom into a wobbling spin. Panic flared as you struggled to steady yourself, but before you could regain control, the second Bludger closed in.

The gasp of the crowd was deafening as the ball hurtled toward you. Just as it seemed inevitable that it would connect, a dark blur streaked into its path.

Sebastian.

With a powerful swing, his bat connected with the Bludger, the sharp crack echoing across the pitch as it careened back toward the Gryffindor Beaters. Bellamy barely ducked in time, his startled yelp lost in the uproar of the crowd.

“And Sallow swoops in to save the day!” the commentator shouted, his voice brimming with excitement. “Slytherin’s Star Beater showing impeccable timing there, keeping their Seeker in the game!”

Sebastian’s broom hovered close to yours for a moment, his expression sharp and focused. “You alright?” he called, his voice carrying over the roar of the stands.

Your heart was pounding, your breath coming in short bursts. “Fine,” you managed to reply.

He nodded, his gaze scanning the field. “Keep your head up, Chouette. They’re playing dirty.”

Before you could respond, he was already diving back into the fray, his bat raised and ready for the next Bludger. You watched him go, a strange mix of emotions swirling in your chest.

Shaking off the distraction, you forced yourself to focus, gripping your broom tightly as you resumed your search for the Snitch. You couldn’t afford to let your nerves—or anything else—get the better of you.

“Reyes to Selwyn—back to Mulciber—oh, and an interception by Onai!” the commentator called, his voice rising in excitement. “Gryffindor on the offensive—watch out, Warrington!”

Vivian hovered near the Slytherin goalposts, her movements precise as she blocked Natty’s first attempt and deflected another shot from Hayes. Below, Sebastian was a blur, his bat swinging with unrelenting force as he kept the Bludgers from wreaking havoc on Slytherin’s defense.

You weaved through the air, trying to maintain some semblance of focus. Fitzwilliam had been sticking close, his taunts coming at regular intervals, though you did your best to tune him out.

“Don’t get too comfortable, Slytherin!” he called, circling just beneath you. “It’s only a matter of time before you crash and burn.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, refusing to take the bait, your eyes scanning the pitch, searching for any hint of gold.

“Come on,” Rory goaded, his voice dripping with mockery. “Don't tell me you're afraid of a couple Bludgers?”

“Maybe focus on your own game,” you shot back, your voice sharp. “I don't see you holding the Snitch.”

His grin faltered slightly, and you felt a flicker of satisfaction. But it was short-lived. Another Bludger came hurtling toward you, courtesy of Macmillan. You twisted sharply, narrowly avoiding the hit, and Fitzwilliam used the opportunity to dart ahead, scanning for the Snitch with renewed determination.

Frustration burned in your chest as you dropped lower, using the movement of the game below as cover. The urgency of finding the Snitch was reaching a fever pitch—you needed to end this game before Gryffindor’s dirty tactics got you hurt, or worse, before you did something stupid.

You gripped your broom, zigzagging across the pitch, your eyes peeled for that elusive glimmer of gold. Somewhere above, Fitzwilliam was still circling like a vulture, his taunts becoming increasingly sporadic as he, too, scanned the field.

A Bludger streaked toward you from the right, its dark, menacing form closing the distance in seconds. You swerved hard, the sharp motion wrenching at your shoulder as you narrowly avoided the impact.

No sooner had you regained your balance than a second Bludger cut across your path, this one flying higher, its trajectory aimed squarely at your head. Your breath hitched, panic flickering in your chest, but before it could close the gap, a sharp crack split the air. The sound reverberated through the pitch, unmistakable and precise.

“And Sallow deflects another one!” the commentator bellowed, the excitement in his voice cutting through the din of the crowd. “The Gryffindor Beaters are relentless, but Slytherin’s Star Beater is an absolute wall out there!”

Your gaze instinctively flicked toward Sebastian.

For a fleeting moment, everything else fell away—the shouts of the crowd, the roar of the wind rushing past your ears. All that remained was him, cutting through the chaos of the pitch with a sharp, effortless grace.

You hadn’t meant to watch him for so long, really you hadn't, but it was hard to look away. The precision of his swings, the calculated way he positioned himself between you and danger—it was as if he could predict each move before it happened.

Your chest tightened, a strange mix of gratitude and something warmer settling deep in your ribs. He’d been watching out for you.

Shaking your head, you forced yourself to refocus. That’s his job, you reminded yourself firmly, gripping your broom tighter. He’s just doing his job.

Still, the thought lingered, unwelcome and persistent, as you scanned the field once more, your eyes darting in search of that elusive golden glimmer.

And then, out of the corner of your eye, you saw it.

A faint glimmer of gold hovered near the hoop of one of the goalposts, almost blending into the sunlight reflecting off the metal. It was subtle, hidden perfectly in plain sight, but there it was. The Snitch.

Your heart leapt, but you forced yourself to stay calm. You couldn’t afford to tip anyone off—not Fitzwilliam, and certainly not the Gryffindor Beaters. So you angled your broom just slightly, adjusting your trajectory to make it seem like you were simply repositioning to gain altitude.

You closed the distance slowly, your pulse thundering in your ears as the Snitch came into clearer focus, its tiny wings beating furiously as it hovered near the post.

And then, the announcer’s voice boomed across the pitch, sharp and urgent. “It looks like Gryffindor’s Beaters have seen something—Macmillan and Bellamy are signaling to Fitzwilliam!”

Your heart lurched as the words echoed through the air. You risked a glance behind you and saw it: Macmillan frantically pointing toward the the goalpost, shouting something to Fitzwilliam. The seeker's head snapped up, his eyes narrowing as he locked onto the Snitch.

Shit.

You leaned forward, gripping your broom tightly as you surged ahead. The wind roared past your ears, and the crowd’s cheers blurred into a single, deafening roar. The Snitch was tantalizingly close, its wings flickering like trapped sunlight as it darted back and forth near the hoop.

“She’s going for it! Slytherin’s Seeker has her eyes on the Snitch!” the commentator yelled, his voice rising in excitement. “But Fitzwilliam is in pursuit—this could come down to the wire!”

Your fingers tightened around your broom handle as you pushed it to its limits, the world narrowing to a single point of focus. The snitch darted to the left, and you adjusted instinctively, your muscles straining as you closed the gap. Fitzwilliam was shouting something behind you, but you couldn’t hear him over the pounding of your heartbeat.

And then, just as your hand stretched out toward the Snitch—

“—Oof!”

The impact was brutal, a sudden, bone-jarring force slamming into your side. You barely had time to register what was happening before another blow came, this one to the side of your head.

The world spun violently, the wind knocked from your lungs as your broom veered wildly off course. Your vision blurred, and the distant roar of the crowd became a dull hum, like you were underwater.

“Foul play from Gryffindor!” the commentator screamed, his voice cracking with outrage. “Macmillan goes for a body check—oh, Merlin, and Bellamy lands a direct hit with the Bludger! This is completely out of line!”

You couldn’t process his words. The only thing you knew was that you were falling.

The sensation was surreal, the world tilting and spinning as the ground rushed toward you. Pain radiated from your side and head, every breath sharp and shallow. You reached out instinctively, grasping for something—anything—but there was nothing to stop your descent.

And then you hit the goalpost.

The last thing you remembered was the blinding light of the sun and the sound of the crowd’s collective gasp before everything went black.

A dull, pounding ache throbbed in your skull, dragging you reluctantly back to consciousness. Your mouth tasted metallic, the sharp tang of blood mingling with dryness on your tongue. The world felt distant and muffled. Somewhere in the chaos around you, voices were shouting, but they blurred together into an incoherent hum.

You blinked slowly, your eyelids heavy and reluctant to obey. Colors bled together in your vision—green, silver, and the bright blue sky streaked with shadow.

Then, as the haze began to clear, you saw him.

He was cradling you in the grass, his face hovering just above yours, etched with an expression you’d never seen before—raw and desperate, and… afraid. His chest heaved as though he’d been running, and his eyes burned with barely contained panic.

“Chouette,” Sebastian said, his voice tight and trembling as his free hand cupped the side of your head, fingers brushing gently over your temple. “Hey, come on—wake up. Please wake up.”

His words didn’t fully sink in; your mind felt sluggish, as though it were working through molasses. Instead, your attention snagged on the strangest detail. There was blood—dark, stark, and wet against the emerald green of Sebastian's Quidditch uniform.

You stared at it, confused, your mind refusing to piece together the obvious. Was it yours? It had to be, but somehow, the sight of it didn’t register as frightening. It just… was.

“Hey,” Sebastian’s voice cracked as he said your name, your real name, urgently this time, panic bleeding into his tone. His hands shifted slightly, one cradling the back of your head, the other bracing your shoulder. “Merlin, just—just keep your eyes open, alright? Imelda! Where the hell’s Blainey?!”

You blinked again, slowly, and your gaze drifted upward to meet his. His face was pale, the freckles across his nose and cheeks standing out starkly in the sunlight. His eyes—deep brown with flecks of amber—were wide with fear, and you couldn’t help but think how unfair it was that someone could look so breathtaking even while panicking.

The thought was absurd, but it stuck, clinging to your mind as though it was the only thing tethering you to reality.

You parted your lips, trying to form words, but all that came out was a faint, dry croak. Your hand twitched at your side, and Sebastian noticed instantly, his eyes darting to the movement.

“Hey, hey,” he said quickly, his tone shifting slightly as though trying to coax you back fully to consciousness. “Careful, don't move. You're hurt.”

Your fingers twitched again, this time tightening around something hard and metallic. A faint fluttering sensation tickled your palm, and your brows furrowed in confusion. What—?

Sebastian’s gaze dropped to your hand, and his breath hitched audibly. His expression shifted in an instant, panic giving way to something closer to disbelief.

“Wait,” he murmured, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Is that—?”

You forced your gaze downward, your vision still hazy but clear enough to make out the small golden object clutched tightly in your fingers. The Snitch. Its tiny wings beat weakly against your grip, as though protesting its capture.

For a moment, time seemed to freeze. And then all you could focus on was the slow exhale that escaped Sebastian’s lips, like he’d been holding his breath for far too long. Relief flooded his features, softening the tension in his jaw and brow.

“Of course you did,” he murmured, his tone somewhere between awe and exasperation. “Even half-dead, you still had to show off.”

You wanted to reply, to say something snarky, but your mind was moving at half-speed, too focused on strange, irrelevant details. Like the way his thumb brushed lightly over the back of your head, his touch warm despite the chill in the air. Or the faint, woodsy scent clinging to him, mingling with sweat and grass in a way that shouldn’t have been appealing but somehow was.

“Alright Blainey’s coming,” Sebastian said, sounding relieved as he glanced up. “Don’t pass out on me again. At least not until we get you to the hospital wing.”

The clatter of footsteps and urgent voices cut through the haze around you, signaling the arrival of the professors and school matron.

“She’s awake,” Sebastian called out, his voice firm but still tinged with tension. “But she’s not… she’s not okay.”

Madam Blainey appeared at his side, her presence a whirlwind of efficiency and calm. “Alright, back up, Mr. Sallow,” she instructed, her voice brisk but not unkind. “Carefully now.”

Sebastian hesitated, his jaw tightening as though the very idea of letting you go was unbearable. But at Blainey’s sharp look, he shifted, moving away from where you laid in the grass. The movement made your head spin, and a faint groan escaped your lips.

“Easy,” Sebastian murmured, his hand brushing your arm in a fleeting, grounding gesture before he let go completely. His absence felt immediate and cold, the warmth of his arms replaced by the clinical touch of Blainey’s wand.

“Let me see,” Blainey muttered, her wand tip glowing faintly as she began a series of diagnostic spells. The soft hum of magic passed over you, and you caught snippets of her muttered assessments: “Concussion, bruised ribs, and… laceration to the scalp. Not too deep, but there’s significant blood loss.”

You tilted your head slightly, gaze flickering from Sebastian’s stained uniform to the crimson on your own. The sight still didn’t fully register—it felt more like you were watching someone else’s body, detached and distant.

“Can you hear me, dear?” Madam Blainey asked, her voice cutting through the fog in your mind. “I need you to stay awake for me. Don’t let yourself drift off.”

You managed a faint nod, though the effort made your head throb painfully. “’M awake,” you mumbled, your words slurring slightly.

“She’s holding the Snitch,” Kogawa observed, her tone tinged with a mix of disbelief and amusement. “Remarkable. In all my years…”

Madam Blainey glanced at your hand, where the Snitch still fluttered weakly between your fingers. “Well, at least you caught it,” she said wryly. “Now let go, dear—you’ve done your part.”

Reluctantly, you loosened your grip, and the Snitch buzzed free, its tiny wings carrying it upward before it disappeared into the sky. The motion earned a cheer from the Slytherin stands, though it felt distant and dreamlike, barely breaking through the haze clouding your thoughts.

“Is she going to be alright?” Sebastian’s voice broke through the chatter.

Madam Blainey glanced at him briefly, her expression softening. “She’ll be fine,” she assured him. “But she needs to get to the hospital wing immediately. Help me get her onto the stretcher.”

Sebastian was already moving before she finished speaking, stepping forward to lift you carefully under Madam Blainey’s guidance. His hands were steady, his grip firm but gentle as he helped lower you onto the floating stretcher Blainey conjured with a wave of her wand.

Kogawa nodded, turning to address the crowd that had begun to gather near the edge of the pitch. “Clear the way!” she commanded, her voice slicing through the noise. “Back to your seats!"

The walk to the hospital wing was a disjointed blur. The stretcher swayed gently, Madam Blainey guiding it with precision while Kogawa kept the path ahead clear. The castle’s familiar corridors felt foreign, the towering stone walls blurring together as your vision wavered.

Every so often, you instinctively reached out, your hand brushing against something—someone—warm and solid.

Each time, Sebastian's response was immediate—a firm but gentle squeeze, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Still here,” he murmured.

When you finally arrived at the hospital wing, Madam Blainey wasted no time moving you gently onto one of the crisp, white beds.

“She needs Wiggenweld,” Blainey muttered, reaching for a vial on a nearby tray. “And rest. Lots of it.”

Sebastian hovered at your side. “What can I do?”

“Sit,” Blainey said sharply, not bothering to look up as she poured the shimmering green potion into a goblet. “And don’t get in my way.”

Sebastian didn’t argue. He pulled up a chair beside the bed, his posture tense as he watched Blainey work. You caught glimpses of his face through half-lidded eyes—his jaw clenched, the furrow between his brows deep with worry. It was a look you weren’t used to seeing on him, and it tugged at something deep in your chest.

“Here,” Blainey said, holding the goblet to your lips. “Small sips, dear.”

The potion was warm and thick, sliding down your throat with a soothing heat. You grimaced at the taste, but the pain in your ribs and head began to dull almost immediately.

The sound of hurried footsteps broke the quiet, followed by a familiar voice.

“There you are!” Imelda’s sharp tone cut through the air like a whip as she burst into the hospital wing, her green robes slightly askew and her hair in disarray. Her eyes zeroed in on you, narrowing as she stormed over. “Merlin’s beard are you alright, Chouette? I can’t believe those Gryffindor idiots knocked you out like that! I swear, if I see them in the halls I’ll—”

“Miss Reyes,” Blainey interrupted, her voice cool and firm, “if you insist on yelling, I will have to ask you to leave. She needs rest, not your shouting.”

Imelda clamped her mouth shut, though her scowl remained firmly in place. She perched on the edge of the bed opposite Sebastian, her gaze sweeping over you critically.

You couldn’t help the faint smile that tugged at your lips, though it was more of a grimace. “You’re late,” you murmured, your voice rasping slightly.

Imelda snorted, her glare softening. “I had to stop Mulciber and Turner from hexing half the Gryffindor team… Seriously, though, that was ridiculous. What were they thinking? Bloody Gryffindors—”

“I think Kogawa will handle it,” Sebastian muttered, his tone sharp. “They won’t be playing in Gryffindor’s next match, that's for sure.”

“Not enough,” Imelda grumbled, crossing her arms. “They should be disqualified from the whole season.”

Sebastian’s hand brushed yours again, drawing your attention back to him. His expression was softer now, though the worry hadn’t entirely left his eyes. “But you don’t need to worry about that,” he said quietly. “Just focus on getting better.”

Imelda glanced between the two of you, her brows raising slightly, but for once, she didn’t comment. Instead she sighed, grumbling about Gryffindor’s lack of sportsmanship. “Honestly, if Weasley thinks he’s captain material, he’s delusional. Can’t keep his team in line to save his life.”

Sebastian let out a weak chuckle. “Garreth doesn’t exactly scream ‘authority figure,’ does he?”

Imelda smirked. “That’s the understatement of the year.” She leaned forward slightly. “So, how’d you manage to pull off that ridiculous catch?”

Sebastian straightened in his chair, his jaw tightening slightly. “Instinct,” he said simply.

Imelda raised an eyebrow, her lips twitching as though she wanted to make a comment, but she refrained. Instead, she sighed and crossed her arms. “Well, I suppose I should thank you for that. Can’t have my Seeker out for the season because of a couple of Gryffindor thugs. Especially considering she made the catch of the century herself. Merlin’s beard I can’t believe you caught the snitch, Chouette!”

Before either of you could respond to Imelda, Madam Blainey returned, her expression brisk as she carried a goblet in one hand and her wand in the other. Her sharp eyes took in the laceration on your head with a practiced sweep. “Alright,” she said, her tone efficient. “Let’s take care of that cut.”

She raised her wand, murmuring an incantation under her breath. A soft, silvery glow emanated from the tip as she carefully traced it over the wound. A warm, tingling sensation spread across your scalp, and you felt the skin knit together seamlessly. The ache dulled almost instantly, leaving only a faint soreness behind.

“There,” she said with a satisfied nod before handing Sebastian the goblet. “Now for the potion. It’ll help with the pain and speed up the healing process.”

Sebastian leaned forward, his free hand resting on the edge of the mattress as he held the potion toward you. “Here,” he said softly, his voice gentle in a way that sent a flutter through your chest. “Slowly.'

You hesitated for a moment, your eyes flicking between him and the goblet. There was something unbearably tender in the way he held it, his fingers steady despite the faint tension in his posture. Finally, you nodded, and as you leaned forward, he carefully brought the goblet to your lips.

The potion was thick and bitter, its taste lingering unpleasantly on your tongue, but a soothing warmth spread through your chest with each swallow.

When you finished, he pulled the goblet away and set it aside. Madam Blainey watched you closely, her sharp eyes scanning your face for any signs of distress.

“Good,” she said with a curt nod. “That should take effect quickly. You’ll need to stay here overnight for observation, but you’ll be back on your feet soon enough.”

Imelda rose from her chair, brushing her hands on her robes. “Guess I should let the rest of the team know you’re alive,” she said, her tone gruff but not unkind. “Mulciber’s probably halfway to hexing someone again. I’ll be back soon, okay?”

You managed a faint smile, your voice soft as you replied, “Thanks, Imelda.”

She waved a hand dismissively. “Don’t thank me yet. You’ll have a lot of groveling to do if you want to make up for missing practice.”

With that, she strode out of the hospital wing, her boots clicking against the stone floor. The door swung shut behind her, leaving you alone with Sebastian as Madam Blainey returned to her office, muttering something about an 'incident report'.

The silence that settled over the room was heavy but not uncomfortable. You glanced at Sebastian out of the corner of your eye, noting the way he sat perched on the edge of his chair, his hands clasped tightly in his lap as though he didn’t know what to do with them.

“You don’t have to stay,” you managed.

Sebastian’s head snapped up, his eyes locking on yours. “I… I mean, if you want me to leave, I can."

You shook your head almost immediately, the motion making your skull throb. “No,” you said quickly, wincing. “No, that’s not what I meant.”

His expression shifted, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. “Alright,” he said quietly, sitting back in his chair but still leaning forward just enough to keep close. “Then I’m staying.”

The declaration hung in the air, solid and steady. You nodded faintly, unsure what to say, your gaze flicking down to your hands as they rested on the blanket covering your lap. The silence stretched between you again, but it wasn’t awkward. If anything, it felt like a fragile truce.

After a moment, Sebastian cleared his throat, breaking the quiet. “That scared the hell out of me,” he admitted, his voice low but resolute. “When I saw you fall…”

You looked up at him, startled by his tone. He was staring down at his hands, his brows furrowed deeply. “I thought I wasn’t going to get to you in time,” he continued, his fingers gripping the edge of the chair. “And then when you hit the goalpost, I just—” He stopped himself, exhaling sharply.

“I’m fine,” you said softly. “Sebastian, I’m fine.”

He looked at you then, his brown eyes meeting yours with an intensity that made your chest ache. “You’re not fine,” he said, his voice tinged with a quiet anger—not at you, but at the situation, at what had happened. “You’re covered in blood, Chouette, and you could’ve…” He trailed off, shaking his head.

You swallowed hard, unsure how to respond. Part of you wanted to remind him that you’d known the risks when you took the position as Seeker. But another part of you—the part that still felt the phantom ache of the Bludger hitting you—wasn’t sure what to say.

So instead, you said the only thing you could. “You caught me.”

Sebastian blinked, his eyes softening slightly as the words sank in. A faint, wry smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “Yeah,” he murmured, his tone almost self-deprecating. “Guess I did.”

The silence lingered between you, steady like the quiet after a thunderstorm. Everything still felt a bit muddled—your head aching, and every small shift sent a dull throb through your ribs. But the steady presence of Sebastian sitting beside you made the world feel just a little less disjointed.

After a moment, you spoke, your voice soft and tinged with fatigue. “Do you think Blainey will let me at least listen to some music?”

Sebastian turned to look at you, eyebrows lifting in mild surprise. “Music?” he repeated, his voice low. “In the hospital wing?”

You shrugged, immediately regretting the motion as it pulled at your bruised ribs. “I mean… it’s not like I’m going anywhere anytime soon,” you muttered, gesturing vaguely at the pristine white sheets and the shelves of potion bottles surrounding you. “Might as well have something to make it a little less… sterile.”

He leaned back slightly in his chair, considering, before his mouth quirked into a faint grin. “Well,” he said, “it’s easier to ask for forgiveness than permission.”

Before you could ask what he meant, he reached into the pocket of his Quidditch robes and pulled out his phone.

Your brows knit together, incredulous. “Are you kidding me?” you asked, your voice hoarse but still managing to convey your disbelief. “You brought your phone onto the pitch? That’s—”

“Against the rules,” he finished for you, smirking in that familiar way that made you want to simultaneously roll your eyes and—no, not worth finishing that thought. “So is half the stuff I do,” he said with a shrug, casually unlocking the screen. “Besides, what’s the worst Imelda could do? Bench me? Highly unlikely. I’m indispensable.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but the faint teasing in his voice made it impossible to hold on to any indignation. Instead, you watched as he scrolled, the glow of the screen illuminating the freckles dusting his nose and cheeks. For a moment, the sight of him so focused, so comfortable, almost distracted you from the ache in your head.

“Any requests?” he asked.

You hesitated for a beat, your hazy mind dredging up old favorites. “Something from… The Lumineers maybe?”

Sebastian’s head tilted slightly, and he shot you a knowing look. “Oh, so we’re going indie folk, are we?” he teased.

“You literally have the same taste in music,” you shot back. “Don’t pretend you’re not just as bad.”

He chuckled, the sound warm and low. “Fair point,” he admitted, his fingers pausing on a track. A moment later, “Stubborn Love” by The Lumineers began to play, the strum of the guitar and drag of the strings filling the air. You noticed Sebastian relax a little, leaning back in his chair as his foot tapped absently.

“I forgot how much I love this one,” he said after a moment, his voice thoughtful.

You tilted your head slightly toward him, curious despite yourself. “Didn’t peg you for someone who’d get sentimental over music.”

“Shows what you know,” he shot back lightly, though his eyes twinkled with faint amusement. “I’ve had this particular playlist since fifth year. It’s practically a masterpiece.”

“You think way too highly of yourself,” you muttered.

“Maybe,” he said, his tone light. Then, after a pause, he added more quietly, “But you’ve got to admit—you’d probably love this playlist.”

He was right, you probably would.

You let the faint smile on your lips grow just a little, your eyes drifting shut for a moment, the music washing over you. And when you opened your eyes again, you found Sebastian watching you, his expression unreadable but… softer, somehow.

“Better?” he asked.

You nodded, the faintest smile tugging at your lips. “Yeah,” you murmured. “Better.”

← Previous Chapter Next Chapter →

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cuppajj · 3 days ago

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Is this the ask box? If not I'm so sorry I'm not used to tumblr literally only got it to follow your au. It's great btw love everything about it.

But anyways can I bonk Dragonberry on the head with a stick to get her attention and say hi, but with a really long stick so I'm not close to her when I do so? She's my favorite but she's scary and I while I would prefer to write her a letter but I don't want her to have my return address.

Also I've had my own au in the works but never actually bothered to start writing or properly figuring things out till after coming across your au which inspired me to start doing so and I just wanna know how you set everything up and figure out how to use who where and how you split stuff into arcs? I currently have 2 arcs based on the continent one being Crispia and the other being Beast-Yeast and both have chapters but Beast-Yeast is becoming a lot longer than Crispia due to how my au is set up and the fact the canon Beast-Yeast storyline isn't fully out and I was just wondering if you have any advice on what's best to do? I do want to eventually post my au and I've already gotten to work on the designs but I don't know the best approach to make it into something that others who are unfamiliar can understand.

Also sorry this turned out kinda long!

You can!! Though would advise against using the stick bc if she feels like it she could grab it and fling you while you’re still holding it

As for your second question about how I use arcs, it really just boils down to being a way to manage all the characters that are in the AU. Each saga focuses on one beast (including their respective of the original 5), the protag who is usually related to them in some way, and whatever story takes place in that specific arc alone. They’re meant to be mostly self contained, but they’d feed into a bigger narrative. The Vanilla Saga is a little different because while it’s technically self contained, Crepe as the main main character dabbles in a little bit of everything; but only crepe (also choco technically). You’re not likely to see Princess in the Lily Saga unless the two stories surrounding Dragonberry and Midnight Lily overlap.

I do have plans for sagas to overlap before the “all stories converge for the final saga” part, for example the Vanilla and Berry sagas will converge in Parfaedia well before that, but that would be a single story arc before they split up again. Some sagas can/would share the same events but would still largely be self contained.

Im going off on a ramble here but basically, BAAU’s sagas are just info management lol. With so many characters and stories to handle, it would be very confusing and bad if all of them were crossing over at every turn. When you’ve got a plot line that can serve as its own thing, it’s easier to tell where pieces of information belongs.

So that being said I should really start tagging the sagas in some of my baau posts 😭😭😭

#beast ancients au ask #sometimes I talk abt baau like I’m gonna make it an entire story and I hope that I can dispel that 😭 warriors of christ forgive me but I am #merely creating things off the narrative in my head that I could only dream to make lmao

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skyrim-forever · 2 days ago

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Sujamma Sundas

Thank you @sulphuricgrin for the tag and lovely, eerie scene <3

Tagging: @theoneandonlysemla @bougainvillea-and-saltwater @dirty-bosmer @pocket-vvardvark @changelingsandothernonsense @scholarlyhermit

[This week Sujamma has been brushing up on his literacy. It's hard being a humble Nix-Hound. Reading doesn't come naturally to him, but he's doing his best! This week Sujamma is hoping you will help him learn to read!

Post a favorite scene, favorite sentence, favorite dialogue, favorite anything from any fic you've written! If you haven't written any fic, feel free to share your ideas. If you don't have any, recommend a friend's fic!]

I've decided to share this scene from Chapter 3 of my AU fic These are no times for people like us aka my angsty AU about what if their son grew up without a father. This scene is after an argument between Theodora and her son as he's come home to find a certain mer a bit too close to his mother and Ondolemar is taking what might be the one opportunity he has.

There’s nowhere for Arthano to go, nowhere other than out into the darkness. Howling rain and wind, the waves aggressive from sound alone as the night hides them. So he doesn’t go anywhere, choosing instead to kick at the sand in a feeble attempt to take out the anger. Though the dents he makes are unsatisfying, still so much emotion in him, the young man collapses along the shoreline letting the tears fall in the comfort of the night. The rain added extra deniability if anyone were to see him. The sound of footsteps behind him, not hearing them until they are too close, proves someone is here.

“Go away Mother, I’ve heard enough from you. You like keeping secrets so keep your thoughts a secret as well.”

“You should not speak to your mother like that.” Him. In spite of the rain, the match inside him is lit again, so is the flames spell he readies as he stands up.

“Who the fuck do you think you are you fucking piece of shit?”

“The object of your ire.” What? Again, confusion washes over him. “You are angry at your mother for keeping what I am a secret, you are angry that she would associate with me at all. Further, you are angry at the Thalmor for how your life specifically has been affected, in all of those I am the common denominator. Your ire is with me, not your mother. Keep it focused on me.” Feeling the fire at his fingertips, Arthano agrees.

“You’re right, you are the problem.”

Magical ability was innate to Altmer, the only thing Arthano really appreciated about that part of him. Where others struggled with the practicals, it came naturally for him. His old mentor Voranil had taught him a lot about conjuration, even more of enchanting which had been his specialty. An old friend of his mother’s Teldryn Sero taught him destruction when the Altmer he looked to as a father revealed his true colours. That had been easy too. All manners of fire and lighting he could make; it felt powerful to do such a thing, being on the receiving end much less so. As he pulls his arm back with the intent to rid himself the problem, the other simply grabs his wrist and lightly twists. Not causing any pain but making the flames dissipate to the younger’s shock.

“What did you-”

“Have you killed anyone?”

“No…” But you have .

“Then I wouldn’t recommend picking it up now.” He removes his hand. “If nothing else, be better than myself in that regard.”

“I am better than you.”

“Of course you are, already leagues braver than I was at your age. Though I wanted to kill my father, I never put any plans into action; you, however, saw the moment and seized it. Quick thinking, smart.”

It would seem much of what his mother told him was true about the mer in front of him.

“Your paternal grandfather was not good to his family, he lied, gambled, stole, cheated, had no morality. Your father spent his whole life trying to escape his legacy, replace it with his own.” Maybe they could share this one thing in common, aside from the obvious of their appearance, hatred of their fathers. Now, they could even share the desire to escape their legacy. But it is odd, everything about him was odd, that he commends him for trying to burn him to a crisp, the fact that wouldn’t work due to the heavy downpour doesn’t matter. An attempt on his life was just made and he was… proud of him? Was that what it was? And why does the thought of it ease the weight of the earlier revelation?

#tesblr #sujamma sundas #oc: arthano #ondolemar has known about his existence for like 72 hours at most #already so proud!!!#look at the boy!!!#seizing the opportunity!!!

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duckmumbo · 2 years ago

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i adore the team rancher idea PLEASE tell me more (also jimmy gets to pull a grian by following him to his home server lmao)

~moonie

Original post for context

OK SO BASICALLY this is really only legally blonde inspired bc i wanted to have the trope that breaking into a server is very dangerous and can actually kill someone, solely so Jimmy can break into hermitcraft and be extraordinarily injured and tango freaks out in that way where you get mad but it's just because you're scared and he goes "YOU BROKE INTO HERMITCRAFT??????" and then Jimmy goes "What like it's hard" and then passes out for several days.

also for Plot Reasons Xisuma is the only one with admin abilities and also is nowhere to be found nor can he be contacted (there is nothing angsty going on here he is simply taking his yearly very long nap) and so they can't let Jimmy actually die because he's not whitelisted and wouldn't respawn on the server, if at all

also also one day after Jimmy recovers, martyn pops up and jimmys like :o how and martyns like i have no idea and then theyre hanging out and then suddenly stuff starts to go missing and theres glitches and all the hermits are on edge because it reminds them of the end of s8 (which was not a simulation here) and they start accusing jimmy and martyn of causing it and they try to defend themselves but also they cant really because they have no proof but it's actually not them it's something else

#what is that something else? its a secret ;D #this au is soooooooo #roy talks #answered #i feel like i should have an au tag for this #but also idk #eh #moonie my beloved #team rancher #jimmy solidarity #tangotek

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cj-the-random-artist · 3 months ago

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Is this my best comic ever?? Nope. Do I think I characterized either of these two particularly well in this comic?? Not really. Did I spend an unreasonable amount of time on it to the point that it would be a waste to not post it?? Yes, yes I did.

I really committed to this one, spent a lot of time on those backgrounds and treated myself to ample suffering with the perspective, which is not my strong suit but I am happy with how it ultimately looks. Yay perspective and background practice!!

(Tbh I shouldn't talk like I think this one sucks, I think I've just been staring at it for so long that my brain has decided it's not good and it's actually way better than I think it is, and honestly I am quite happy with it. The artistic process really is something, isn't it?)

The inspiration was basically me reminding... myself... to take breaks sometimes... by drawing for several hour stints during my only little bits of free time. Which totally tracks. Probably. But I've been rolling around in my brain this idea that Lambert is a very uptight people pleaser and anxious workaholic, but Narinder, at least since adjusting himself to the circumstances (which probably took at least a century, maybe two) has discovered the joys of self care, and has made an active effort to chill tf out. This has not made him any less terrifying to the cultists (save for Lambert's closest disciples), nor has it made him friendlier to really anyone but Lambert (and maybe his siblings), but he sure has found some serious peace of mind. That said, I can't place what his motivations are here. Perhaps he is secretly concerned about Lambert's sanity, because he doesn't want them to turn into what he was, or maybe he's just trying to steal away some quality time with his one and only friend, but regardless of the reason, I spent too much time on this for nobody to see it, dang it.

That said. Enjoy this silly little comic that I spent way too much time on, and I hope this silly comic brings you some joy today.

#cult of the lamb #cult of the lamb fanart #cotl #cotl fanart #cotl lamb #cotl narinder #cotl narilamb #narilamb #(like honestly narilamb is a qpr to me specifically and i intend this as such but this can easily be read as romantic as well tbh)#also we get some bonus jalala and rinor in this one!! and some bonus... implied leshycat. technically #not gonna tag those individually cuz there's just like. not enough of it for me to feel like those tags have any meaning #but they're here as a bonus. also jalala and rinor are fun to draw maybe i should make a mini comic just about them sometime #rambles aside pls enjoy this ridiculous comic that i spent an unreasonable amount of time on it was a joy to work on #and even tho its not my best comic ever i do love how it turned out it was such a good time #the yet untitled qpr narilamb au

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bonefall · 1 year ago

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Herb Guide: Deaf Warriors and Hearing Disabilities

UPDATE 1: Added more harshness to the lipreading section based on initial feedback; minor rewording of some lines!

A reference for Warrior Cats fans creating characters with hearing loss, blending human advice with cat biology, written for an in-universe perspective on living with and managing such disabilities.

AKA Bonefall casts Spell of Stop Being Weird About Snowkit on all amoebas in 500 mile radius

[ID: A headshot of three cats, a brown tabby with a shredded ear (Strikestone), a solid white cat with blue eyes (Stonewing), and a gray cat with a mane (Dovewing).]

In the five Clans, hearing loss is both one of the most common sensory disabilities, and one of the most intense to adapt to. Through any mix of simple infections, birth abnormalities, or even just getting older, any given Clan can expect at least 1 in 4 of its cats to have some form of hearing loss.

Hearing loss is any impaired ability to hear, defined as not being able to hear noises under 20 decibels. Deafness is "profound" hearing loss, which means their hearing STARTS at a noise that is 81 decibels (ex: motorcycle, middle-distant clap of thunder) or louder. Most deaf people can still hear slightly, but sound is "muffled" and they can only hear VERY loud noises.

Hearing loss = Any impaired ability to hear. Normal hearing is 20 DB or lower.

Hard of Hearing (HOH) = Mild to severe hearing loss; starts between 21 DB and 95 DB.

Deaf = Profound hearing loss at 95 DB or higher; a clap of thunder is a quiet whisper.

MOST hearing loss will affect one ear more strongly than the other, and the cat will be HOH. The vast majority of cats with a hearing disability will still be able to understand their Clanmates, if they're just spoken to louder and more clearly. Cats who are born deaf (congenital deafness), however, tend to have profound hearing loss which affects their ability to understand speech.

Cats rely on their hearing and sense of smell much more strongly than they do on their eyesight. With hearing that's 4x more sensitive than a human's and can differentiate between 1/10th of a pitch, a Clan's healer would recognize hearing loss as a disability long before humans would even notice a problem.

Since hearing loss starts with the high-pitch noises that prey makes, like squeaks and chirps, hearing loss is a major reason for a senior warrior to begin to consider retirement. However, with proper support and accommodation, ANY warrior could adapt to this disability; Especially cats born deaf and younger HOH warriors with lots of time to re-learn.

This guide covers;

Common Causes

Traits and Challenges of Hearing Loss

Communication: Signs, lipreading, and more

Unique Challenges Clan-by-Clan

Sources are linked in a separate post, here, and linked again at the very bottom!

(note: this guide doesn't cover devices of any kind, but one of many reasons why cochlear implants are controversial is because an implant will destroy that remaining hearing. They aren't hearing aids; hearing aids amplify sound. Aids and implants are two different things)

Common Causes

There are DOZENS of ways to destroy the incredibly sensitive ears of a cat. ANY infection or injury can lead to permanent damage. That can include,

Injury gone sour, from battle, hunting, accidents, etc

Concussion, or a hard enough blow to the ear

Ear Mites, especially if the cat can't stop scratching it

Swimming in cold or dirty river water

Fungal or bacterial infections

Allergies, which can lead to sinus infections. Even an infection in the mouth or throat can spread to the ear!

There doesn't even need to be an infection. Around the ages of 7 - 11, a senior warrior may begin to gradually lose their hearing. Sometimes, through genetic factors or degenerative disease within the ear, an even younger warrior will lose it for "no reason."

It just happens, and it's incredibly common. They will usually begin to notice it when they stop being able to hear and hunt small rodents, because hearing loss will start with high-pitched noises.

Healers can do very little about this, besides attempting to clean any wax out of the ear canal with flax oil and a dab (such as moss, wool, or cloth). There are SO many ways for it to happen and so little in the way of treatments, that it's practically inevitable.

The majority of hearing loss is from infection or disease, but the most predictable way to see deafness in the Clans is in kits born white with blue eyes. In fact, ALL pure white cats are more prone to being born deaf!

Pure white without blue eyes: 17% to 22%

White with a single blue eye: 40% (and usually on the side of the blue eye)

White with two blue eyes: 65% to 85%

In an afflicted kit, the inner ear will rapidly degenerate. They typically lose most of their hearing by their 4th day, and will only be able to faintly hear extremely loud noises.

Of course, there's also various other birth defects that can result in deaf and HOH kits, even if they aren't white with blue eyes. The ear canal and hearing organs can just not form correctly! Any kit could be born with hearing loss, and they can have any type!

If the loss came from injury or severe infection, chronic pain in the inner ear is also common. Nothing can be done about this besides painkillers such as poppy seeds. This condition is rare in born-deaf cats.

Most cats with hearing loss will also permanently hear a repetitive, single-note sound. For most it's a faint, tinny "ring," but others can hear hissing, crackling, or humming in high or low pitch.

At first, this constant noise can be distracting or even debilitating, preventing them from focusing or sleeping, until... you just get used to it.

There is no way to turn the noise off. It can get worse or better, but it's forever. Sleeping and not being stressed out will help, but over time, they typically learn to tune it out. Being reminded of it is usually annoying, just like when someone reminds you about manual breathing.

(We call this condition tinnitus. It is up to you what you would like your cats to call it, the same way they refer to pneumonia as greencough. Tinnitus is a LOT broader than this little snippet, but this is not a guide about tinnitus, this is about hearing loss)

So to summarize that,

There's a billiondy-million ways to damage one's hearing.

Losing your hearing from age or disease usually results in being hard of hearing (HOH) as opposed to deaf, and is likely to affect one ear more than the other.

It starts with high-pitched noises like rodent squeaks.

Cats born white with blue eyes have a massive chance of being born deaf; their inner ear degenerates.

But, any kit could be born with any type of hearing loss, not just deafness.

Most cats with hearing loss will hear a distracting, repetitive noise. They just learn to tune it out.

Traits and Challenges of Hearing Loss

Hearing impaired cats are LOUD.

Even warriors who have mild hearing loss will often end up speaking much louder so they can hear themselves, or not notice the sounds they're making as they shift around in their nests, scuffle sand at the dirtplace, or trample through crunchy leaf litter.

If one of their ears is better than the other, they'll usually try to stand with their "good side" facing any speakers or other sources of noise. They might appear to be constantly standing at an angle, with their head turned towards the sound. It might be so second nature that they don't realize they're doing it.

Plus, a cat with hearing loss in only one ear will lose their hearing's "distance perception," the ability to pinpoint a sound's location. EXACTLY like how losing the sight in one eye causes the loss of "depth perception," they will have difficulty telling how far away a noise actually is.

Warriors who lose their hearing later in life typically have years of experience in knowing how prey behaves and what sorts of actions make noise; but cats born deaf have to be taught this.

Instead, born-deaf cats tend to associate "sound" with "vibration." Echoes, rumbles, and the sensation of their own humming or laughter can feel very pleasurable. Their whiskers are so sensitive that they can even feel drafts of air from someone speaking in front of them! Because of that, cats with impaired hearing do better with low, rumbling "sounds" rather than high-pitched ones; even when they can't hear either. They can feel lower pitched noises.

(NOTE: Decibels are the measurement of volume, and Hertz are the measurement of pitch. These are different things, NOT interchangeable. HIGH pitch and LOW volume are lost first.)

This is why hunting is so difficult when cats begin to lose their hearing. Their sense of smell and sight can be perfectly intact, but a lot of how a cat hunts is in listening for delicate little sounds and balancing them in both ears to figure out prey's exact location. So, when a cat is learning to hunt without their hearing, they have to rely on their other senses and keep their whiskers low, dusting the ground with their chops and front paws, in hopes of their quarry making a vibration they can feel.

IMPORTANT: Don't forget that cats have carpal whiskers! They are short whiskers on the front paws of a cat, used primarily for "grappling" with other cats and struggling prey. They are less sensitive than facial whiskers, but still very useful for a hearing impaired warrior.

"Dusting," keeping the face low, is still more effective than relying entirely on "Sweeping" movements with the paws.

The younger the cat is, the more time they will have to practice and master this. Cats born deaf, who have never relied on hearing before, are usually better hunters than older warriors learning completely new techniques.

But. Clan cats aren't the only danger in the forest.

A warrior who is deaf or hard-of-hearing will not hear danger approaching, and is easy to sneak up on. Even if they keep themselves completely quiet, an intelligent fox or an enemy warrior can launch an unexpected attack on their unsuspecting target. The wilderness is dangerous, and it's not feasible to keep one's whiskers pressed to the ground at all times, even if vibrations did carry far enough to detect such danger before it's too late.

So, it would be recommended for warriors with hearing loss to not wander too far without a hearing Clanmate capable of alerting them to sounds.

They also will have a VERY difficult time acting as part of a "battalion," in large-scale battles.

In fights with dozens of entangled warriors, while they're focused on fighting the cat in front of them, they will have a hard time hearing commands. Even if well-trained in visual cues like tail signs, deaf and HOH warriors might fail to respond to yowled orders like, "RETREAT" or "SECURE THE ENTRANCE."

Even if the warrior isn't fully deaf, battles are loud and chaotic! It's very likely that such orders would get lost in the clamor of hissing and screeching cats, if the cat has any difficulties with hearing at all.

In summary,

Cats with hearing disabilities are loud.

Hearing loss in one ear will cause the loss of distance perception, and they will often stand at an angle with their good ear facing the noise.

If they were born deaf, they have to learn what makes noise.

Highly tactile, they tend to rely on whisker-sense to "replace" their hearing.

Keeping their facial whiskers low to feel for vibration, "dusting," is a very useful technique.

"Sweeping" with the carpal whiskers is also useful, but less so than "dusting."

They are in increased danger from things sneaking up on them, and shouldn't go anywhere unsafe without a buddy.

Following battle commands in large-scale battles will be difficult or nearly impossible, making them bad "team players."

Communication: Signing, lipreading, and more

(psst! @twiigbranch has a free-to-use version of pawspeak if you credit them!)

Since the majority of these cats lost their ability to hear later in life, most warriors with hearing loss will speak "normally." By "normally," that means they will talk the same way they did their whole lives, just louder so they can hear themselves better.

Over many years, they may begin to stop enunciating their words, 'slurring' their sentences, and their pitch may be a little off. Even then, it's rare that a Clanmate would be able to "tell" they have hearing loss just from their cadence.

But, meanwhile, cats who are born deaf will have a very complicated journey with speech.

It's PIVOTAL for the kit's development that the family and the Clan takes an interest in trying to communicate with them. Deaf children often become isolated from communities that don't seem to care about them, the same way any other alienated child would. This can result in trauma, lack of self-confidence, and behavioral issues.

Even if your project doesn't have Pawspeak (or doesn't have it yet!), kittens WILL find ways to communicate with their family and Clan. Sign language can evolve organically from home signs, unique gestures that will rise for a deaf child to speak with their family. BUT, the sooner they're introduced to a true sign language, the better they will be able to communicate.

Sign languages can also die naturally, simply fading away if the next few generations don't keep them alive. It's possible for the Clans to have gone through a few, over the years!

(Note: Sign languages are full languages, not just "physical versions" of a spoken one. American Sign Language and British Sign Language are from totally different families, even further from each other than English and Russian!)

It is also possible for cats born fully deaf, who have never heard words, to learn how to speak verbally... but, this takes a LOT more time and effort than using a sign language.

Teaching a deaf warrior how to say words is not quick, or easy, and is a very physical process. It involves a lot of dedicated practice time back-and-forth, with the apprentice placing their paw on their mentor's throat to feel their voice, and being coached on how to mimic the exact inflections of every word. It can be very repetitive, and very boring.

Even with lots of training, speakers born deaf have a noticeable "accent." They pronounce consonants better than they do vowels (aeiou), and often lack tone and inflection. Each warrior is an individual, and using a speaking voice is a skill some will be better at using than others.

Lipreading is very difficult. Most warriors born deaf will never learn how to do this, or even want to, as it takes an immense amount of time, effort, and tutoring. It will be more common for cats with more moderate hearing loss, especially if they lost their hearing later in life.

These are REQUIRED for a proper lip reading;

Clear view of the face. If the speaker is too far away, moving around, covers their mouth, stands in a dark place, or has their back turned, their lips can't be read. There are many ways that the view of the face could be obstructed.

Slow, clear speaking. If they're talking too quickly and mumbling their words, it will be extremely difficult to catch all of what they said. A better lip reader will be able to read faster.

Mental awareness. A cat who is tired to exhaustion, unable to focus, or not expecting to be spoken to will not be able to process what's being said. Lipreading is an action that takes brainpower.

MOST IMPORTANTLY: A single speaker, not overlapping with others. Lip reading is nearly useless during clanwide arguments. If there's tons of cats talking over each other, shouting out and interrupting, responding to unseen lips in the crowd, or even if an important speaker is just at a bad angle for the deaf warrior's line of sight to catch, they will not be able to catch everything.

Lipreading is also an action that takes focus. If the cat is tired, unable to concentrate, or isn't expecting to have to read lips, they won't be able to process what words the mouth was forming. It works best one-on-one, in clear lighting, looking straight ahead at the speaker... and even then, the BEST lipreader might only catch 40% to 50% of the words said.

So, it's truly reading. Interpretation. It isn't straightforward like language is. From, "I see a herd of deer, all of them are bucks" they might only catch, "...a... deer... of them... bucks." They will have to guess the meaning based on context!

(Look into a mirror. Quickly chant "Red right wrong" three times. Do you see how similar your lips look to form those words when you're not trying to clearly enunciate them? That's what lipreaders deal with.)

So, while there are other options, a sign language is absolutely the best choice if possible in your setting. Especially for cats who were deaf from birth, sign language is the ideal solution.

VERY IMPORTANT TIPS FOR WRITING A HEARING DISABILITY:

Please avoid them speaking with broken grammar, in third person, or with overly simplistic vocabulary, as if they are a toddler or a caveman. If a deaf cat is taught to speak, they will also learn grammar. BAD: "Examplefur go hunt. Me catch mouse good." OK: "I'm going hunting. I'm good at catching mice."

They will not suddenly "forget" how to speak if they lose their hearing, unless they have another condition such as brain injury.

Lip reading is inferior to signing.

They cannot perfectly catch every single word spoken in all conversations via lipreading, especially when the speaker isn't making an effort to include them, or it's during a disorganized group argument.

In ideal conditions, 30% to 40% of the words spoken will be picked up, and the reader will "fill in" the missing vocab with guesswork.

Teaching a deaf cat to speak verbally is a dedicated process, not something they easily "pick up."

Cats born deaf will almost never pick up lipreading, it is more common in milder forms of hearing loss.

Showing hearing clanmates making an effort to include hearing-impaired warriors, like doing translations or just making sure they understood everything, is massively appreciated.

A good culture around hearing loss is the best thing in the entire world for these cats. Support, respect, and acceptance are sincerely the most important factor in how well a hearing impaired warrior adapts with their disability.

So with that in mind, let's also explore the unique challenges in the terrains and culture of each Clan.

Unique Challenges Clan-by-Clan

Because of the nature of this disability, certain Clans are going to be more difficult for a hearing impaired warrior to function independently in, both in terms of environmental hazards and of culture.

Deaf and HOH warriors will not hear the sounds they're making if they step on noisy terrain or accidentally rustle nearby plants. Some enemies also rely more on stealth to attack their targets than others, and some territories will provide more places for prey and predators to hide. Water-related hazards will naturally cause there to be MORE disabled cats in some Clans more than others, which could mean that there will be less stigma and better community.

Environment means a lot to a cat with hearing loss!

RiverClan

Because this Clan is notorious for swimming in the river, they would have a massively higher rate of hearing loss (and scent loss) than other Clans; ESPECIALLY in late autumn and winter. This also means their healers would be MUCH more experienced with treating ear problems in general; but that's a subject for another guide!

(to answer a stray question before I eventually make that guide: RiverClan can make primitive earplugs out of beeswax to protect their hearing, but may need to trade with ThunderClan to acquire that.)

The important thing to note is that compared to other Clans, RiverClan has the highest rate of having HOH warriors. This means that there would be better support systems for hearing loss than in other Clans, and a cultural "bank" of techniques and knowledge to be shared.

They still have the same proportion of kittens born deaf compared to other Clans, but apprentices without hearing in RiverClan would have a bigger pool (heh!) of mentors who have experience with accommodating their disability.

Plus, you don't need to hear fish to catch them. While they'd still have issues hunting water voles and other wetland-loving rodents, fishers aren't at a significant disadvantage when it comes to providing food to the Clan.

Advantages--

High concentration of cats with similar disabilities provides community, and influences the broader culture to be more accommodating

Healers would have lots of experience with the injuries and illnesses that lead to hearing loss, leading to better treatment

Hearing is not necessary for catching fish, and thus has almost no bearing on how skilled a hunter would be.

Mentors would have better techniques for teaching deaf apprentices

Disadvantages--

Will not hear drowning cats. If you drop into that water you're on your own, bucko

Winter will be even harder than usual, when the river freezes over and fishing becomes more difficult.

Overall, RiverClan is THE best Clan for a deaf cat to be part of.

WindClan

With wide open spaces and lots of hills that offer a good vantage point, sight and vigilance is much more important for survival in a moorland than hearing. There's even an advantage to Pawspeak here; you can communicate from across the open moor without screaming out your location to all the prey!

On top of that, moorland has low-laying vegetation. It isn't a grassland, or filled with splashing water, or covered in crunchy leaf litter. There's not a lot of things TO accidentally make noise on, unless the warrior is trying to hide in a gorse or common heather bush, and WindClan is notorious for relying on speed over stealth anyway.

The one drawback to being a deaf moor-runner is that they will not hear baying hounds. Dogs are extremely common in moorland, either as sheep herders or as companions to human hunters shooting grouses. That said, the fact that hounds are the ONLY big predator they'll need to worry about immediately makes WindClan's moor safer than any woodland territory.

Badgers, boars, and foxes hate open spaces like moorland. It's just dogs that are a big concern, and hawks for smaller cats. There are very few "sneaky" predators in this area; most rely on speed.

So being a moor-runner is one of the best jobs that a warrior with hearing loss could have in the Clans... but the minute that they start to have problems listening to any orders, a tunneler should stop working underground immediately.

Deaf apprentices should be excused from their mandatory tunnel training, except to learn how to do evacuation drills.

There is no light underground. Even if they're capable of creating rushlights or are willing to sacrifice glowworms, that light will be dim at best, and could snuff out at any moment. Communication will become impossible with a deaf cat, and even moderate hearing loss will endanger any warrior who gets separated from their team.

If something as drastic as a cave-in or a flooding happens, they will be in extreme danger. They can't be properly warned unless they're pushed by a fellow digger, and they will not be able to notice anything that isn't rumbling. If they DO end up getting trapped under rubble, they will not hear a rescue party calling their name.

It's not just themselves they have to worry about, either. Not being able to warn or coordinate with their excavation team will put ALL of them in danger.

Advantages--

Moorland requires sharper eyes than ears to begin with.

Lack of ambush predators makes this territory particularly safe without hearing.

Quiet terrain makes sneaking less neccesary in the first place

Pawspeak is especially useful across wide distances

Disadvantages--

Hounds are still a massive danger; they could get very close before they're noticed, if they're upwind.

Will not receive a warning cry in case of any hawks or approaching predators.

Tunneling would be profoundly dangerous with a hearing disability; should be heavily discouraged.

Overall rating is that this is the second best Clan for a cat with hearing loss. RiverClan's sense of community still gives them the top seat imo, but if the attitudes of their Clanmates are good, WindClan's moor is an easy territory to adapt to.

ShadowClan

This one is going to depend on what version of ShadowClan the Erins feel like writing that day, or which one you've chosen for your own project. Do they live in a dry pine forest? Or a wetland?

If you're using the idea that ShadowClan lives in a dry pine forest, especially if your project exists in Britain where spruces, firs, and larches are non-native and thus the territory is a timber plantation, refer to the new growth section in ThunderClan below.

I do not abide by that idea, because Aengus the Prize Winning Hog did not emerge from a cranberry bog for me to disrespect him in this way <3 love ur local wetland <3

(quick note: a swamp is a wooded wetland, a marsh is an open wetland, a bog is acidic, and a fen is neutral/alkaline. Wetland is the general term here.)

Wetlands are rich with soggy ground, muck, and microbe-ridden stillwater. Though ShadowClan cats don't swim for fun, they would end up with more ear infections than most Clans through accidentally falling into the swamp. It's likely that they have the second-highest rate of hearing loss in the 5 Clans, but still significantly below RiverClan.

The lush, thick ferns and reeds provide lots of cover to the notoriously stealthy Clan, but to a warrior who can't hear, this terrain is loud and frustrating. The squish of mud under your paws and the rustle of undergrowth is very hard to adapt to if you can't hear it. ShadowClan's prey of birds, frogs, and water-rodents will respond to any accidental noises by fleeing, quickly, making hunting difficult.

Plus, ShadowClan doesn't rely on one, large, deep, stony body of water like RiverClan does, which seems to be sedimentary rock and open marsh all around. Predators are lurking everywhere in wooded swamps, and could sneak up on a warrior who can't hear them. Foxes, badgers, and boars are a danger in this territory.

All that said; ShadowClan still doesn't seem to rely on just rodents. They eat a lot of amphibians and reptiles, which are not hunted by sound. Most of the techniques they use to catch them can just be taught verbatim to a deaf apprentice, or continue to be used the same way by a warrior who has lost their hearing.

Advantages--

Concentration of warriors with hearing loss from falling into dirty water may provide community and support.

Has a good selection of prey that doesn't rely on listening to be hunted effectively.

Disadvantages--

Swamps, wooded wetlands, are dangerous and attract predators.

Lush foliage and soupy ground make moving quietly difficult for a deaf warrior; but not as difficult as leaf litter.

So, this Clan would be firmly middle-of-the-line in terms of its accessibility to a cat with hearing loss. It would depend a lot on how you plan to approach ShadowClan in your own project; such as if you plan to build out more campbound activities, see them as being social or antisocial with their Clanmates, and what kind of territory you choose for them to have.

SkyClan

As of the time of writing this guide in 2023, when the only decent description of SkyClan's new territory is from a single chapter of Squirrelflight's Hope, it's very difficult to figure out what sorts of terrain challenges a warrior with hearing loss would face at the lake.

Hopefully I can come back and update this later!

But it's most likely is that they have a diverse, varied territory, involving the climbing of steep hills and gorges. Even at the "gorge" territory, a lot of hunting would need to take place outside of the rocky parts of the ravine, in the sparse woodlands and countrysides nearby.

For hunting on sparse woodland, see the advice for ThunderClan. Most hunting in British countrysides is going to look very similar to WindClan's open fields, so refer up there for that.

Because of how close they are to humans, both in the Gorge and at the Lake, it's HIGHLY recommended that warriors with hearing loss avoid twolegplaces. ESPECIALLY towns. Between cars, crowds, and grabbing hands, these places are already dangerous (and sensory hell) for warriors with great hearing, but outright lethal for a hearing impaired cat who won't hear these things coming.

So while the majority of the Clan is jack-of-all-trades and regularly mixes up the particular terrain they hunt in, this is going to be harder for hearing impaired warriors. They have to invent brand new, unique techniques for ALL of these different environments, some of them more difficult than others. Because of that, it will naturally be easiest for a deaf warrior to "specialize" in a particular type of terrain.

This could result in some pretty intense feelings of alienation, as their hearing Clanmates regularly mix what sorts of places they tackle. Without even intending to, they could end up making the warrior feel very left out!

In terms of the culture though, SkyClan seems notoriously accommodating. Between the part-time-kittypet daylight warriors and the way they invented an entirely new mediator role for a cat who didn't enjoy hunting and fighting, it would likely be one of the BEST Clans in terms of supporting a hearing impaired warrior, even in spite of having a "standard" rate of hearing loss since their territory is not particularly wet.

So, it's very likely that they would WANT to fix the fact they've accidentally made their Clanmate excluded, and seek solutions that work for everyone. If any Clan besides RiverClan had a Pawspeak interpreter translating Leafstar's words, it would probably be these guys lmao

Advantages--

Varied terrain means there will be at least a few places that aren't too hard for them to adapt to

Sparse woods, open fields, and even gorges, the three most common terrain types, are at worst decent for a deaf cat to hunt in.

VERY accommodating culture, the absolute best outside of the Clans with a high hearing loss percentage.

Disadvantages--

Generalist training, where every warrior handles vastly different terrain types, will exponentially increase how much training a hearing-impaired warrior must learn.

Being unable to join with their Clanmates in hunting across the entire territory could feel isolating

Rating: Close to top tier, but variable. It's going to depend somewhat on the personality of the warrior. While SkyClan will likely make a big effort to include them, the reality of needing to learn several sets of parallel skills and the way they might feel like an "outsider" for specializing could cause extra distress. Especially for a warrior losing their hearing later in life.

ThunderClan

Because of their collaborative culture and hunting style, described as snobbish and bossy by other Clans, it's very likely that ThunderClan would struggle the most with a specific type of ableism. Since they value group cohesion, it follows they may force Assimilation onto a disabled warrior rather than Accommodation.

As mentioned earlier, Pawspeak is the best thing for the comfort of a deaf warrior... but it might not occur to this Clan to encourage the majority of the Clan to adapt to a minority of warriors.

But it gets worse. Forests are AWFUL terrain to hunt in if you can't hear. Imagine walking in a field with a bunch of invisible landmines, and if you step on one, it broadcasts your EXACT location.

It's difficult to tell if your mouse is running away because you crunched a leaf and made a sound... or because a bird in a tree SAW you and is now raising up an alarm cry. If you can't actually hear what the noise was that scared your lunch away, you might blame yourself for being clumsy as a fox barrels towards you!

When it comes to forests, there are significant differences between an old growth forest and a new growth forest. BOTH of them are going to be extremely difficult for a disabled warrior to adapt to, but old growth is harder.

OLD GROWTH

In both, ground litter is a challenge, but especially so in an old growth British forest. Natural forests there are primarily mixed oak, which drop twigs, leaves, and acorns all over the ground.

These areas are bountiful, productive, and brimming with life. Both in terms of prey and predators. The varied canopy of natural, mixed-age trees allows sunlight to filter through and create an "understorey," providing lots of food and cover to lots of different animals. Unfortunately, foliage is not a deaf warrior's friend.

As previously mentioned, a mix of areas for animals to hide in and a surrounding of rattling plant life is the worst possible combination for a cat who can't hear. Worse, hunting rodents depends massively on hearing them through the leaf litter, thanks to those high-pitched chirps and squeaks which are the first thing to vanish when a cat loses their hearing.

This would be so bad that it's likely ThunderClan "works" its youngest members much harder than its seniors, assigning apprentices and young warriors to significantly more hunting patrols. Since hearing loss is so common that it's practically inevitable, and the security of a Clan allows these wild cats to live to such old ages, it would be "common sense" to ThunderClan to structure things this way.

Old growth patches are practically food pantries for Clan cats, but hearing impaired warriors will have a HELLISH time trying to hunt in them.

NEW GROWTH

When a forest is new and all of the trees in a stand are about the same age, they create a uniform canopy. Like a continuous tent. This means they're so effective at blocking out sunlight that there's virtually no understorey.

No understorey means no food. Or very little food. But it also means no cover. And, usually, significantly less leaf litter. This is because in Britain, most of these types of forests are non-native conifers. Sitka spruce and douglas fir are the two biggest offenders-- and that's significant because nothing here has evolved to EAT the products of those trees.

In ThunderClan, Tallpines is an example of this, but this type of terrain could pop up anywhere that's seen massive destruction.

No understorey to feed prey, no products of the trees which native animals can eat, a silent floor covered in pine needles which offer no hiding places, almost chilling uniformity of the strange trees in evenly-spaced rows...

All of this to say that there's an irony here, that the hearing impaired warrior will be best at hunting in the most barren parts of the forest.

There's much less things to trip up on, or rustle. Prey can be plainly seen out in the open. Gray squirrels are the most significant prey that can utilize these areas, and they DO make a hearty meal for a Clan cat. Additionally, these areas are particularly silent because they're so barren, which might make them seem "creepy" to hearing warriors, but that wouldn't bother a deaf warrior one bit!

Advantages--

Cultural sentiment of "all for one; one for all" may lead to more dedication from the Clan as a whole in connecting to the hearing impaired cat

Which could be a blessing or a curse, depending on the individual warrior's feelings.

Ability to work efficiently in the most barren parts of the forest

Disadvantages--

Cultural emphasis on collaboration in group hunting likely leads to deaf cats being encouraged to adapt to the patrol rather than their own strengths.

May result in more emphasis on teaching lip reading and 'speech therapy,' rather than the adoption or implementation of Pawspeak.

Very difficult to stay quiet in a forest if you can't hear the crunch of leaf litter and twigs.

Lots of cover means random bullshit can spring out from any corner; abundance of ambush predators.

Cover also means there's a lot of places for prey to hide, and hearing can't be used to pinpoint the location.

Lots of rodent prey, which relies on hearing high-pitched noise to catch.

Rating: F MINUS, SEE ME AFTER CLASS. By FAR the worst Clan for a warrior with hearing loss to be part of, for both practical reasons, AND cultural reasons. Awful awful awful, absolutely abysmal, failing grade. Dark Souls for deaf cats

Though remember! This part of the guide is a suggestion. You do not need to include ableism in your own projects if you do not want to, and I hope with the information that you now have, you know how to better avoid it!

"Sources?"

Right this way~

#Deafness #Hearing Loss #Herb Guide #Clan Culture #warrior cats #deaf warriors #This is not BB but I feel like I should tag it just for the cover art #Since Stonewing and Dovewing don't have hearing loss in canon #BUT I SAY THEY DO #Better Bones AU...ish. kinda #Bonefall's Herb Guides

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