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floydmtalbert · 6 months ago

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le départ

Lou + Rosie, a succession of trains, and a Westland Lysander, for @mercurygray! A follow-up to this wonderful piece, an AU in which Merc’s Joan and my Louise are running an escape line.

It is a morning of ragged cloud and fitful sunshine, the southern outskirts of the city rinsed by the recent rain and buffed up to a shine by the wind. The cold, hard light throws everything into sharp relief: the acres of cheap housing, the wasteland of railway sidings and warehouses and factories, the handful of people waiting on the platform at Ivry. They carry bags and suitcases and have a dark, shuttered look about them. No one speaks. This is Paris in its fourth year of occupation: the silver city, tarnished and battered, silence and suspicion amongst strangers.

Louise and Robert stand apart from the other travellers, huddled against the wind, his arm around her shoulders and hers around his waist. Casual, patient, as though none of this really matters. They are just a young suburban couple, newlyweds, heading to the country for the weekend.

The Bordeaux train draws in from the Gare d’Austerlitz, wheezing steam, half an hour late and already packed, even in the first-class carriages. Louise appeals to an elderly woman sat by the window, asking if she would move so that she and her husband might sit together. The woman sighs and grumbles, glaring at them with rheumy eyes, but eventually they are settled, shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip. She can feel the warmth of him even through the layers of his clothing, the sweater Ferraby had offered up, its sleeves a little too short for Robert, the suit and thick wool coat in a nondescript grey that she and Joan had chosen with care. As the train heaves itself into motion and gathers speed, he turns his head to look out of the window, and she turns her head to look at him. If only… she thinks, but stops herself.

If only we really were going away for the weekend. If only this journey would never end. If only the war was simply something happening to other people.

At Étampes, an inspector walks down the corridor, stepping over people and luggage, calling for tickets. He stops at their compartment, a police officer behind him, and there is the dutiful pause while people rifle through handbags, search through pockets. Louise takes out her ticket, waits a second while Robert does the same, following her lead, and then hands both of them over. The man glances down at the tickets, and up again at their faces, and passes them back. Then the door slides closed and he and the policeman are gone.

With great sighs the train traipses on into the flat farmland of La Beauce, where the fields are brushed green with sprouting winter wheat and the sky is a cool blue.

In the outskirts of Orléans they slow. The marshalling yards of Fleury-les-Aubrais have recently been bombed and everywhere there is wreckage, wagons thrown about, rails twisted and knotted, the ruins of buildings still smoking. In silence people stare out of the window at these signs of what is to come, while the carriages rattle and jolt over the single track that has been repaired.

At the station itself, doors slam and people come and go. They hear heavy footsteps in the corridor, Germans this time, two sergeants of the Feldgendarmerie in their grey uniforms and silver breastplates, flanking another man in a belted raincoat and trilby, a uniform in itself. Louise and Robert hand over their tickets and the identity cards bearing the names Anaïs Hélène Gauthier and Maxence Charles Gauthier.

“You are travelling to Angoulême?” the Gestapo officer asks. He speaks French well, which she always finds unsettling: no hope of hiding behind incomprehension, of playing for time with confusion.

“Yes.”

“For what purpose?”

Louise glances at Robert with a small smile, reaches for his hand. “We’re having a few days away.”

The German looks between them and then back at their papers, turning them over in his hands, lingering. Time seems to slow. Louise holds Robert’s hand tightly in hers, feeling his pulse racing against her own skin, just as her thoughts are racing. How would she act if she were entirely innocent, if she really were a young Frenchwoman taking a trip with her husband? How would Anaïs Gauthier behave? She would hardly care at all, would sit there and deal with it, this little interruption to her day.

And so Louise puts her hand on Robert’s cheek, tilts his face down to hers, and kisses him. Nonchalance, Gallic insouciance, in the face of everyday inconvenience.

At last the Gestapo officer turns his attention away from them. Questions are asked of the other passengers in the compartment, and then he tells them all to wait and steps outside with their documents.

The elderly woman sighs, and the two men sat next to her, minor bureaucratic types, mutter in low tones, complaining about the delay, wondering if they will still make their meeting in Blois. Louise says nothing. Sweat prickles under her arms, in the small of her back. She can feel the dampness of Robert’s hand, as well, and still the thud of his pulse.

He puts his mouth close against her ear and says, so quietly only she can hear: “What are they doing?”

She forces herself to smile, coyly, as if he has just whispered an endearment. She turns her face into his neck and then tips her head up to murmur into his ear, her voice no louder than a breath. “Checking lists. Noting names. Don’t know.”

The door opens again with a crash and the officer reappears. “Alright,” he says, passing the documents back, before he and his military policemen head into the next compartment.

Don’t ever look relieved, she had been told at Beaulieu. The instructor’s voice echoes in her ear, even at the distance of two years and hundreds of miles. Don’t look relieved, because being relieved means you were scared, and being scared means you have something to hide. Louise keeps her expression calm, indifferent, but as she returns her identity card to her handbag Robert smiles at her, and she can’t help but smile back, a hint of triumph in her eyes.

The train jolts forward, and they are moving again at last, on through the city of Orléans itself, the city of la Pucelle, Sainte Jeanne d’Arc. Louise thinks briefly of Joan, her Joan, who had seen her off the night before last with deux bisous and a handful of francs Louise was sure had come from Joan’s own purse and not from London. Hardly a maiden, dressed not in breeches and armour but in immaculate skirt suits, and still the kind of woman to be spoken of with something approaching reverence.

Louise smiles a little to herself, looking out of the train window at France, for which she had come in the first place, and thinking of Joan, and Ferraby, and all of her comrades, and every airman she had guided back into the fight, for whom she had stayed.

Soon they are out of the city and into the bare fields of the floodplain with the line of the river visible as a distant fringe of willows. Robert dozes, his cheek resting against the top of her head, while Louise pretends to sleep and instead keeps track of the other passengers in the compartment. The pair of government officials leave for their meeting in Blois, and two young women take their place, gossiping in low and urgent voices about a man they know, a real salaud, who is going with two girls at once. Should they tell the girls? The debate goes on without ever reaching a conclusion. At Amboise, the man sat next to Louise disembarks, and a mother with a small child replaces him. The train rumbles across the river on a stone bridge and edges its way through the drab suburbs of Tours. Only the elderly woman remains, but when Louise makes a show of waking, just before Saint-Pierre-des-Corps, she sees that the woman is fast asleep, her head nodding on her chest. No one who heard Louise mention Angoulême sees them stand up and retrieve their suitcase and shuffle down the corridor to the end of the carriage.

Robert jumps down onto the platform and takes the suitcase from her, and then holds her around the waist and lifts her down beside him. The guard blows his whistle and the train draws away, leaving a scattering of passengers behind. They file towards the exit while Louise and Robert walk towards the concourse and the ticket office.

They stand on the platform on the other side of the station, waiting for the slow train to Vierzon. It is deserted: there is no one around, no one else taking the train with them, no one to notice them on this February afternoon with the sun casting long shadows and the wind cold on their faces. When the train arrives it is empty, too, and they climb into a compartment and lean back against the faded and threadbare plush.

She touches his arm. “Not long, now,” she says, and he nods, looking at her steadily.

Outside on the platform a whistle blows, and the train lurches forward, on into the countryside. Through their pale reflections in the window are the flat fields of the floodplain between the Loire and the Cher, stretching away to the horizon, brushed with the glow from a setting sun. The sky is a luminous blue like the blue of a stained-glass window. Poplars stand like plumes in the drift of sunlight.

At Azay-sur-Cher a young man is waiting for them. He flicks away the stub of his cigarette and comes forward to greet Louise, kissing her on both cheeks while the two of them go through the little rigmarole of the double password.

She turns to Robert, puts a hand on his elbow. “This is Guy, our air movements officer,” she explains. To the Frenchman she says: “Voici Bob!”

Guy grins, a handsome, boyish grin. “Salut, Bob, ça va?”

“Uh…” Robert takes his outstretched hand and shakes it. “Ça va?” he replies, glancing at Louise with a small smile, and she nods, beaming back at him, both of them remembering sitting in the attic of the atelier, stifling laughter as he stumbled through the phrases she was trying to teach him.

Guy leads them to a shed behind the station house where four bicycles are stored. He wheels the spare one beside him as they cycle off into the gathering dusk, over the level crossing and onto a single-track road meandering through the fields. The land is flat and bare and unending, broken only by lines of poplars planted as windbreaks, willows along the rim of a drainage ditch. Through the trees to the east the moon is rising, replacing the dying sun with its own silvery light.

After a few miles they turn off onto a farm track and bump over ruts and potholes out into the fields. Guy brings them to a halt by a small copse, and dismounts to survey the pasture stretching out before them, looking left and right, squinting into the gloom, taking a few experimental strides over the rough earth and patchy grass.

He returns to them and starts speaking to Louise, and she translates for Robert. “He says things look fine. All okay. There are no obstructions and the ground is firm enough for the aircraft to land. The only worry tonight is fog.”

Behind the copse is a dilapidated barn, empty but for some rusted farm equipment half-covered by canvas tarpaulins. A scant covering of straw is strewn across the floor, and cobwebs hang thickly in every corner and across the walls. Guy and Louise move with well-practised ease, slipping wordlessly into the routine. The Frenchman crosses over to a bundle of fence posts propped against the wall, and selects three stakes about four feet long, each with an end sharpened to a point, while Louise lifts the corner of a sheet of tarpaulin and retrieves some lengths of string and four torches, and tests each one in turn.

“Wait here,” she tells Robert, and she and Guy head outside to set things up.

There is just enough light to see by as they walk out into the field. A hundred yards out Guy plants one stake in the ground and waits while Louise fastens a torch to it. Then he sets off into the distance, marching with wide steps as if performing some ancient and arcane ritual, while she follows behind him, their footsteps leaving a trail in the dewy grass like the wake of a ship in still water. They position the second stake and the second torch, and pace to the right to repeat the process for a third time. Guy glances back at their work, the stakes only visible as vague shadows, and nods at her, satisfied.

Back in the barn they make themselves as comfortable as possible, unwrapping the food Louise and Robert have brought in their suitcase, and sipping ersatz coffee from a flask Guy produces from his satchel. They leave the door open despite the chill night air, using the light of the moon to see rather than risking switching on the torch Louise has kept in her coat pocket.

Guy turns to Robert and says something in French, a question which makes Louise laugh, a bright, young sound out of place in the shadowy and derelict barn. Robert looks at her, curious, and she translates for him: “He asks if you’ve flown before.”

Robert starts to smile. “Just a couple times,” he says wryly.

She looks back at the Frenchman. “Bob is an American airman. A pilot.”

Guy nods, realisation dawning, and makes an apologetic shrug. He says something else, and again Louise laughs and explains for Robert. “He says, she never tells me anything. Whether our guests are British or American, soldiers or airmen. Sometimes I ask foolish questions, but it is good security.”

Another flutter of French passes between them and they share soft laughter at some private joke. Then Guy straightens up and begins speaking to Robert, breaking off every now and then for Louise to translate.

“He says as you have flown many times before you know there is nothing to fear. But we must still explain to you our way of doing things. As it will be quite different to what you are used to.”

She waits while Guy brushes some straw aside and lays out three coins on the floor, forming an inverted ‘L’. “We have positioned three markers out in the field,” she explains, her soft English following Guy’s rapid French, “like this. The pilot will touch down at the first marker, here. He brakes, and stops at the second marker. Then he turns around the third marker and comes back to the first, where we’ll be waiting.”

Again she pauses. “The passengers jump down and unload their luggage, and then you climb up the ladder. There will be a parachute in the aircraft for you, and a flying helmet and oxygen mask.”

Robert frowns. “Will we need oxygen?”

“No, no, but that’s where the microphone is. For the intercom.” Louise smiles at him as he nods. “Every airman I’ve met wishes we had throat microphones like you Americans, but…” She shrugs. “Everything will be plugged in, but you’ll have to flick the on-off switch on the front of the mask when you want to speak.”

They take him through the procedure a second time: where they will stand, where the Lysander will land and turn, what they all must do. Robert listens intently, his eyes fixed on Guy and then on Louise in turn, a small furrow between his brows. It will be fine, they tell him. The whole thing will take no more than five minutes.

“—comme sur des roulettes,” Guy says.

Louise searches for the best translation, and settles on: “Easy-peasy.” She smiles again. “Is that all alright?”

Robert nods. “Yeah. Easy-peasy,” he repeats, and smiles back at her. “Will you, uh—will you tell him that I understand? And will you thank him for me, please?”

She turns to Guy and passes the message along, and the young Frenchman grins, and reaches out to shake Robert’s hand once more.

Presently Guy goes outside to check the landing zone, worried about the police, German troops, worried, above all, about fog. Alone again, Louise and Robert sit close together, leaning into each other.

“You’ll be in England by daybreak,” she tells him. “Before, even.”

“Yeah.” He is quiet for a moment. “Where are you headed? Back to Paris?”

“Mmm. Yes.”

Neither of them says anything more, aware that time is running out, wanting to hold on to the illusion that the night will spin on forever. They wait in silence, even when Guy returns, watching the rectangle of sky through the open door. Overhead, Orion the hunter tilts like a windmill, dragging a whole panoply of constellations behind him, and the moon climbs higher and higher, flooding silver across the fields.

At midnight, Guy gets to his feet and stretches. “Let’s get ready,” he says to Louise. She and Robert follow him out into the moonlight, ghostly shadows moving across the pale countryside. Underfoot the ground is hard with frost. Ribbons of mist are wrapped around the trees along the edge of the field and a bank of fog lies over the river.

“Look,” Guy mutters, pointing. “Fog. It could ruin everything.”

“I know,” Louise whispers back. “But there’s nothing we can do. We just have to wait.”

They wait. Dark figures in a monochrome landscape, staring at the stars, painted by the moon. Cold seeps into them. There are the sounds of night, the distant barking of a dog, the susurration of the icy breeze, and underneath everything the sound of the nearby river. And then something else.

“Can you hear that?”

“What?”

It dies away. Did she imagine it? But the sound returns, a murmur becoming a rumble.

“That’s it!”

Now there is no doubt: an aero engine, the sound coming and going on the breeze and then settling to a steady drumbeat. Louise hands the torch to Guy and he points it up into the night sky, flashing the letter ‘P’ in Morse code. The letter ‘Q’ comes back to them, a small star blinking in the blackness.

Robert points. “I see it!”

Louise turns on the first torch and sets off to the other stakes, running, stumbling on the hard, uneven ground. She reaches the second marker and snaps the torch on, then crosses to the third. As she sprints back to where the men are waiting she sees the Lysander above her, a black shape against the spray of stars.

The aircraft turns towards them, shedding height, growing larger and larger, tilting in the flow of air. The noise of the engine rises and falls as the pilot jazzes the throttle. Suddenly, shockingly, its landing lights are switched on, as brilliant as spotlights so that on the ground they seem exposed to view like figures on a stage. Then, slowly, deliberately, it touches down, bounces, hits again, and rumbles down the flarepath. They watch it turn at the second lamp, and the third, and come back towards them where they wait, deafened by the din, beside the first.

The slipstream hits them as the aircraft turns once more and points into the wind. Guy waves at the pilot in the cockpit and runs up to talk to him. In the rear of the cockpit two passengers are moving. The hatch slides back and a figure emerges and climbs down the ladder to the ground.

Louise turns to Robert, glancing at his eyes, the slope of his nose in the moonlight. She clutches the sleeve of his coat, almost desperately. He faces her, puts his mouth close to her ear.

“Thank you,” he says, half-shouting to be heard over the engine. “Thank you for everything. I wish I could say more.”

She shakes her head, and leans back so that he can see her smile. Then she leans up on her tiptoes. “In this line of work we consider it bad luck to say ‘good luck’,” she tells him, her own voice raised. “So I’ll just say bon voyage. And I hope never to see you in France again.”

He grins back at her. By now the second agent is on the ground and Guy is shouting from beside the nose of the aircraft, his words picked up by the propellor blast and thrown back at them in disorder. “Need—go! Get—quick!”

Louise ushers Robert over to the Lysander. Time hurtles at her—the engine roaring, the propellor a blurred disc against the moonlight, the stars rampaging across the sky—and she just stares at him, wanting to tell him so many things and unable to say them. He nods, as if he has read her mind, and puts one hand on the side of her face and leans down to kiss her.

Then he is gone, up the ladder and into the cockpit, and the pilot gives the thumbs-up, and Louise and Guy run back from the aircraft.

“Go!” Guy yells, gesturing downwind with his hand. “Go, go!”

The engine gains noise, roaring and raging at the night, straining for a moment against the brakes before lurching forward, bumping along, gathering speed, with Robert looking back at her, his face no more than a smudge of whiteness and shadow. Then abruptly the Lysander is in the air, a matte black shape against the luminous black of the sky, climbing, turning, swinging through the stars, and leaving Louise standing in the backwash, her hair blowing in the wind, her coat flapping around her, in tears.

The sound of the Lysander fades into the minutiae of the night. Suddenly she is cold.

Beside her, Guy is shaking hands with the two men, welcoming them to France. She stands for a moment longer, running through what she must do: clear up in the field and the barn, share out the men’s clothing in her suitcase amongst the new agents, put the identity card for Anaïs Gauthier into a slip in the lining and retrieve the papers for Irène Françoise Brochard. Cycle to the safehouse Guy has found for them, and, in the morning, catch the first train to Vierzon and escort the agents to Paris. Move on, get back to work. Keep going.

Guy is looking at her expectantly. She wipes the tears from her cheeks and puts on a smile and walks over to the men waiting for her.

#This was meant to be short. And then.#floydmtalbertfic #OC: Louise Johnson #OC: Joan Warren #C: Rosie Rosenthal #I had a lot of fun writing this; Merc! I hope you enjoy 💕#Fic: le départ

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thecrowsnestp5 · 2 months ago

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my persona 5 ocs: the crow's nest (aka a glorified pthieves hate club)

THIS IS A BIT FOR APRIL FOOLS ITS A JOKE A BIT HGFSK.

WARNING READ THIS NOW OR YOUL DIE!

this post contains SPOILERS like akechi being the black mask and causing the mental shutdowns and working for shido and being a murderer and dying in the engine room and coming back in the third semester because he was revived by maruki who was evil and had a palace all along which you saw abck in october thats where kasumi got her persona and btw kasumi is actually dead and thats just sumire pretending to be her sister. yeah. spoilers like that

by clicking the "read more" button, you are giving me legal permission to mine data from you

will you sign the contract?

cool, thanks.

the crow's nest is an au of mine featuring my super fucking awesome radical ocs who are all EDGY AND MISUNDERSTOOD and BEST FRRIENDS with goro akechi ,,,, because theyre all just edgy,,, and they kill people... and its EDGY did i mention its edgy because it is.

let's start with the first one, who isn't actually EDGY, but akechi's PREPPY coworker.

that's right. a ROBOT CAT. with CANNIONS built into his ARMS. akechi felt the same way, don't worry. i'm being self aware so that's COOL.

his name is lysander. like akechi, he was made to be a hitman sneaking around in the metaverse. but unlike akechi, he was made by rich people. i dont wanna change this line wtf is with the dig on akechi

lysander is a robot and his personality is robot but who cares about personalities. hes a HOMOSEXUAL for mrogana and hes a soffttt boi....,and gay

akechi fucking HATES HIM because hes GAY and SOFt. akechi HATES GAY PEOPLE

lysander has a persona, and for the people who dont know persona 3 and therefore dont know how a robot can have a persona, I AM AN ELITIST AND I HATE YOU AND IM GOING TO GATEKEEP LIKE AN ASHOLE@!!

it's not like they're ALL robots anyway. onto our next—fleshy—ally! WAS THAT A FUNNY JOKE PLEAE TLEL ME IT WAS UFNYN HNJTJKDFHG

this is ロキシー Okanoue. shes a BAD GIRl, and shes SMART but a BITCH. and akechi met her on the INTERNET where they bonded over wanting to BRUTALIZE AND MRUDER the pjhantom thieves

ロキシー preteneds to be a sweet girl whos cute and nice... but shes a BIOTCH!!!!!! she3s an egocentric fuck and she hates you personally and will put a curse on your entire family for fun. also, shes meant to be attractive, but i drew her so bad here that she looks nothingburger

akechi is the real leader of the crows nest but she despises him just as much as the pthiebes and wants him dead so she also tries to be the leader so akechi and roxy i mean ロキシー are just the most annoying incompetent people in the world

meet bunki kuboyama, i am madly in love with him.

bunki is so handsome, smart, honest, and kind. he loves the environment and always stays out of peoples business because hes just such a good guy. he loves women but hes not attracted to them because he is also a homosexual, feminist ally!!!! hes just so slayyyyyayay

akechi hates him for NO good reason!!! i mean its probably because bunki deliberately makes people feel like shit and manipulates their feelings for his own benefit and also openly talks about wanting to mack on shido who literaly ruined akechis life but IDK HES JUST SUHC A GOOD GUY!!! i am not biased

all of bunkis traits are good. i am in love with him

nest is chifuyu oishi who is... sniff... EDGY.... emo bad boy....

his personality is the angry one. idk. i had nothing planned for him at this stage in development

aechi hates him too because he hates everyone. but chifuyu breaks into his house at 3 am every night to steal 5 billino dollars from him and then punches him in the nose 87 times. thats what he does. but hes just so edgy and misunderstood... you dont get it... heh...

he was in a human trafficking ring OK NEXT CHARACTER

this is kiyoe hino shes two feet tall

kiyoe is RICH, snd thats enough to know she sucks major ass. shes a childish petty ASSHOLE!!!!!!!! but she thinks shes sthe shit, also daddy issues

akechi hates her because she is annoying and doesnt listen to people which is kinda like him and roxy but idk hes not a hypocrite all of these people are super ncie and good just EDGY and MISUNDERSTOOD.... heh... eyes glow red

if she stopped being such a stupid idiot for once she could be smart but shes not. L-ING MY A OFF

and the one who i put last because i HAAAAAAAATE her, etsumi fukunaga. she is like haru

shes basically just haru.

etsumi acts exactly like haru from the cute outer shell to the murderous tendencies, there is literally nothing original about her shes haru.

akechi feels the same way about her as he does haru, becuase shes haru

she's also an ex-ballerina with an eating disorder and she killed her dad which leaves her with a perpetual guilt that eats at her evrey day but WHO GUVES A SHIIIET

i have sto0len all of your personal information now ok bybebebbtbybebebyebe

#the crows nest au #persona #persona 5 #p5 #persona oc #persona 5 oc #p5 oc #goro akechi #lysander p5 #roxy okanoue #bunki kuboyama #chifuyu oishi #kiyoe hino #etsumi fukunaga #persona 5 spoilers #p5 spoilers

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gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan · 8 months ago

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Candle Store

Author’s note: More of Ramiel and Jophiel in Husbandry AU.

Summary: Ramiel and Jophiel wander into a Candle store

Warnings: None? Let me know if I need to add anything!

Tagged: @barn-anon, @bleedingichorhearts, @c-u-c-koo-4-40k, @egrets-not-regrets, @kit-williams

Tagged: @sleepyfan-blog, @ms--lobotomy , @thevoidscreams, @i-am-a-dragon34, @gra93fruit-blog

Tagged: @felinisnoctis

Ramiel had noticed that they were running low on candles for the private shrine that the Primaris Marines have set up in their quarters. While he could go to the quarter master and request some candles, in exchange for work.

Another option could be to make the candles, but Jophiel had noticed what he was looking over and had said that one of the times that he had been going through Gannet Point, he had spotted a shop dedicated to selling a wide variety of candles.

Ramiel had pointed out to Jophiel that they would need to get local currency in order to buy candles from a baseline shop. Jophiel had grinned at him saying that some people had commissioned him for his embroidery and he'd gotten those commissions done.

He had gotten local currency, among other things, for the needle point work that he'd finished recently. Jophiel was happy to spend some of the local currency on candles. So the pair of them had made plans for during their time off to go to the candle store and check it out.

Ramiel really liked candles, they soft light they gave off, the flickering light that glowed softly in the darkness. The way that they illuminated something, without being overly bright.

The pair of Primaris Marines go to the Candle shop, it's only about a twenty minute power walk away from the Loyalist Base, and still is in Gannet Point.

After double checking, before heading out to the shop, it was rated Space Marines friendly and they headed into the store. It had wooden colored walls. It had a lot of different kinds of candles in glass containers with wooden tops.

Ramiel coughs a little at the strong scent that comes wafting, invading his nose and he quickly puts on his helmet in order to filter out the almost overwhelming smell of all the different kinds of scented candles.

He sees Jophiel stagger a little bit and his eyes water as he puts on his helmet and groans to Ramiel quietly that he might get a small headache from the overpower smell of the different candles.

Despite that minor hiccup, they look around the shop, there are a bunch of base line humans in the store, and some of them are in the candle shop uniform.

One of them is looking at the pair of Space Marines nervously- one of them going into the employees only section of the shop. Ramiel and Jophiel had noticed that, but were very happy to go through the various candles, lightly holding them and assessing the look, smell and quality of the candles.

Discussing the various pros and cons of the different candles, particularly the scented ones. They turn when they hear someone approach them and see a first born space marine in an Astartes-sized version of the candle shop uniform approach them.

He's heavily scarred and neither Jophiel or Ramiel can figure out which Chapter he's from. "Hello there brothers," The first born says slowly, a slight lisp, due to a scar that carves through his lips that has his face in a permanent sneer. "I see you are enjoying the shop. Is there anything I can do to help?"

"Oh- we were just looking for some candles," Jophiel says, the more talktive and outgoing of the pair of Scout aged Primaris Marines cheerfully.

"I can recommend you some Astartes-tolerable scented candles, if you would like." The First born marine offers.

"That would be great," Jophiel says with bright smile.

"I go by Lysander," The First Born says. "Can I know your names?"

"I am Jophiel," Jophiel introduces, and waves a hand at Ramiel, "And this is Ramiel."

"It's nice to meet both of you," Lysander says, "Just as a reminder, little cousins, do you have local currency?"

"I do have local currency with me," Jophiel says as he pulls out a hand stitched and embroidered pouch that rustled with local currency in it.

Lysander nods and goes over the various options for candles that are Astartes-safe scented and they decide on half a dozen different candles. The expense for the hand crafted candles is a little surprising to Jophiel- but he's able to cover the bill with an easy smile.

The way that Ramiel had been like an kid in a candy story as they looked around the Candle store had been worth it, well worth it to see the happy expression on his often melancholic brother-cousin's face.

#warhammer 40k #warhammer #space marine husbandry sentience #space marine husbandry #adeptus astartes #oc: Ramiel #oc: Jophiel #oc: Lysander #In the Queue

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thelonelybrilliance · 5 months ago

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thelonelybrilliance/TolkienGirl: My Year in Fanfic

In addition to posting a nice even number of unique fics for AO3 scrolling purposes (60), I also launched some ambitious projects, finally wrote a few one-shots for my favorite small fandoms, and completed some megafics. The Silmarillion Gold Rush AU (cc: @abadpoetwithdreams and @wearetakingthehobbitstogallifrey) is steadily progressing. @mapleymood and I are bringing The Summer I Turned Pretty into the realm of literature 😉. And my endless analysis of Friday Night Lights with @itspileofgoodthings has produced yet more fictional musings.

Without further ado:

COMPLETED MULTI-CHAPS:

Pharmakós - An epic, entirely original saga that took several years to complete (started in 2021). In our Gold Rush retelling of The Silmarillion, the Finwean cousins (Maedhros, Fingon, Finrod) lead a diplomatic delegation to Doriath, only to encounter unexpected friends and foes under Elu Thingol's roof

The Figurehead - My take on Stranger Things Season 5, with Steve/Nancy as the heart and soul. Picks up right where Season 4 left off (started in 2022)

with unbroken rhythm - Estrela waits in Mithrim. But Mithrim itself is not unchanging, and unlikely news has a way of finding its mark (Gold Rush AU)

here is my hand, my heart, my throat, my wrist - Maedhros, finding his voice (Gold Rush AU)

WIP MULTI-CHAPS:

crooked love (in a straight line down) - Broken promises, distant memories... Taylor Jewel and Jeremiah Fisher should have nothing in common but mutual resentment. Why do they share a growing understanding instead? (The Summer I Turned Pretty crack-treated-seriously sequel, with @mapleymood)

nativity scenes - An ongoing look at the first memories around each Finwean grandchild's birth (with @abadpoetwithdreams and @wearetakingthehobbitstogallifrey, Gold Rush AU)

To the Young Who Want to Die��- Sequel to Pharmakós; a not-entirely-triumphant return to Mithrim (Gold Rush AU)

Penetralium - A different sequel to Pharmakós; Melkor Bauglir moves house, licks his wounds, and regroups (Gold Rush AU)

ONE-SHOTS (by fandom):

The Silmarillion

Gold Rush AU 2024 Installments

Red Rising

born to raise the sons of earth - She’s proven Eo right. And it wasn’t because of me. It wasn’t because of love. It was because it was the right thing to do, and because mighty Kavax was more a father to her than her own ever was. (Mustang, pre-series & Morning Star)

Lights that do mislead the Morn - If she didn’t love him, why learn him? (Mustang/Cassius, Morning Star)

Swan Song - It’s only now, loitering at the threshold of the med-bay, that Mustang can admit she’s been avoiding this moment. She’s afraid of her brother. She’s afraid of losing Darrow—and the future she’s trying to safeguard for them both. For Pax, her deepest thoughts whisper, half-haunted that even the voices in her head can be heard by listening ears intent on betrayal. She’s afraid of the war turning inward, ally against ally. She shouldn’t be afraid of the man in the bed. (Mustang/Cassius, Morning Star)

looking for an easier world - How I miss them—the friends whose lives have marched on without me. (Cassius, Dark Age)

worth no less than a brother - Today, instead of Aurae’s ministrations and musical voice, I have a bloodydamn Bellona with coffee-breath aiming hits at every part of my body that hasn’t already sustained major trauma. (Darrow & Cassius, Light Bringer)

Wasteland - He is not a man on a journey. He is not a man who can afford to fail. (Diomedes, Dark Age)

Imperative - “I wonder how he shall bear death,” Roque muses. He selects a grape to pluck. How he can eat them after Fitchner—“Even after everything, I wonder that.” (Cassius & Roque, Morning Star)

we can still hear the sound of the surf (though we shall land no more) - Kalindora told me to trust this man, who holds a wicked, serrated blade over my chest and purses his lips as if deep in thought. (Lysander & Atlas (& Cassius), Light Bringer)

A Deep-Sworn Vow - “You think I’m a man?” “I think you’re a pissant little boy possessed by a demon.” (Victra/Sevro, Morning Star)

forgetting is a kind of mercy - Even with her heart carefully armored by layers of fierce temper and her tongue as sharp as one of her blades, it is her turn to be compassionate, because it is my mother who is dead. (Pax & Electra, Dark Age)

the dead do not suffer the living to pass - Three lives, three passages. (Julian, Pax, Cassius, Red Rising)

Friday Night Lights

Clear Eyes - Season 2 Codas (ongoing - 11/15 completed)

in what distant deeps or skies - Smash and Tim go on an adventure (s1)

I lie to myself all the time (but I never believe me) - Like a bruise, is hope. You have to come around to its existence, its tenderness. (Tim, Jackie, Bo, s1)

you know it might be worth it for once - Come into my life, she was saying, like he’d never left it. (Tim/Tyra, s5)

The Queen's Thief

had chosen thus to fling his soul - “This will be the last journey, I promise,” she murmured, after a moment. “Another mark beside my name,” he said lightly. (Gen & Helen, pre-Queen of Attolia)

we insist on love (when all we want is mercy) - Every power that Eugenides knew—and some, maybe, that he didn’t—had brought him here, alone at the foot of a secret stairwell, waiting for a queen who wasn’t his. (Gen/Irene, Queen of Attolia)

a swing in prime - The truth of his loneliness was the only thing he could never tell her. Honesty stopped short when checked by love. (Gen/Irene, King of Attolia)

neutral islands - Helen did not know whether she ought to take note of her own enjoyment of Sophos’ company… yet enjoy it she did. (Helen/Sophos, A Conspiracy of Kings)

a kind of contentment - Eugenides, Kamet, and promises kept. (Gen & Kamet, flashback connected to Thick as Thieves)

A Shop for Killers

Dragonfly - Amidst all her learning—their learning—about how to be people who shared a roof and pretended not to share a history, Jian was the only witness to the slow development of her uncle’s real self. (Jeong Jinman & Jeong Jian)

Gethsemane - One does not walk into hell and expect a favorable outcome. (Jeong Jinman & Jeong Jian)

Pride and Prejudice

just as they used to be then - “I have commissioned a Mr. Plimer to come and take your portraits while you are at home,” Mr. Darcy said, seeming satisfied with the explanation he had received. “He is an accomplished miniaturist, and I believe the small table in my room will be amply improved by the addition of your three faces, if you will oblige me.” It was a compliment that could not but bear a sting. (Darcy & Wickham, pre-canon)

Mara, Daughter of the Nile

behold thou my heart (which grieveth for thee) - Sheftu had plucked hope like a flower, even while he should have heeded its thorn. (Mara/Sheftu, missing scene post-canon)

The Witch of Blackbird Pond

like rain carrying the memory of lightning - Confound the girl, but she’s in every sky and storm, in every wave and calm. (Kit/Nat, Nat POV missing scene)

White Collar

Patchwork Man - Back in the world, new anklet and old digs—it doesn’t have to be perfect to be too good to be true. Because that’s the heart of the matter, isn’t it? When you slip the noose, the world doesn’t become a kinder place, and it certainly doesn’t stop turning. (Neal & Peter, s2)

Once Upon a Time

parallels - It’s a bad day to be Emma Swan, sure. But it’s also a bad day to be an overly self-assured, literally underhanded pirate. (Captain Swan, s2)

The Office/Friday Night Lights

the drop-dead dream (the chosen one) - In which Michael Scott does not mourn his stepdad (unless he does), and has his life changed at a Dillon Panthers game (unless he doesn't).

#my fanfic #my fic #2024 writing #2024 recap #my writing #a productive year #shout out to my friends and co-authors

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tashamacie · 1 year ago

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Finished piece from the Kalos Crisis AU.

Click image for better quality.

Lumiose has been under attack for over a month with no end in sight. No one can leave, no one can hide. A barrier surrounding the city. It's hazy glow dampers the daylight leaving the streets washed in a film ashy fog. Lysander's hold over Lumoise Tower stands strong. His loyal dispels fight to take the rest of the city and defeat the citizens who resists the massage of the rapture.

In the outskirts, between the walls, around the corners, bellow the ground sheltered in the walls of the subways, and even by Lysander's side, the people of Lumoise City rally to take back their city and by doing so save the rest of the world from the same fate. Ash fights on...

yaaaaayyy Hope you like. Check out my first post regarding the Kalos Crisis AU on my page. It has an overview of the time line.

#pokemon anime #ash ketchum #pokemon au #pokemon #ash #kalos crisis #pokemon xyz #pokemonxy #greninja #pikachu

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mist-the-wannabe-linguist · 7 months ago

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"1. What was the original thought that led to the creation of this character?" I love to hear where people get their inspiration from. I'm not sure which character to pick since you have a lot of them so just talk about whichever you want to talk about the most at the moment :)

since no character was specified I hope you don't mind if I talk about the whole of Skies over Jura, because the original concept is actually some three years old now. It's a little silly but it started as a Temeraire crossover AU of Frankenstein by Mary Shelley. Back then, as is my tendency to get attached to a canon character with nearly zero "screentime" and mold them into my own character, I was obsessed with the character of Ernest (Victor' Frankensteins middle brother with a grand total of two tiny scenes in the book), cause I felt there's a lot of potential in an overlooked formerly sickly child middle brother who goes through nearly the same trauma conga line as Victor does while never having any idea what's going on. And since back then I have just gotten back into Temeraire lore and in Frankenstein pretty much the only insight into Ernest's personality we have is that he wants to be a soldier (in the 1831 edition at least), I thought "hey, what if aerial corps instead"

I have long since abandoned that AU due to a lack of ideas and interest, but I've found old art of Agrippa recently and got pulled right back in. Didn't want to keep it a Frankenstein AU anymore so I changed the characters and made the thing into its own story. So basically Ernest is now Lucien, Victor is Saturnus, William is Noël, Alphonse and Caroline are Theodor and Eva, Elizabeth is Béa and Henry is Lysander. All other SoJ characters are original

Agrippa herself actually changed very little tbh, she only got more stocky and her design a little plane-ified

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ladyinbooks · 6 months ago

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...please tell me more about The Terrible RP AU™️ 👀

Oh dear lovely Anon, you've done it now because I have been gnawing over The Terrible RP AU for at least... six months. So, apologies in advance, but you have handed me a wonderful excuse to ramble about this (and thank you for letting me! ❤️)

The Terrible RP AU. Aka: The Oedipus Complex AU. The first thing you need to know, is it's entirely @castleflower's fault, because she rec'd me a song (Only One King - Tommee Profitt) and my brain just leapt on it, and so the general fic premise is this: Aubrey Draxios raises a monster.

In short: for reasons I will not go into here, Lysander's parents die a lot sooner, and Aubrey is not in line for the throne. Instead, he's a political prisoner. He's assigned to Lysander as his tutor, and spends the next ten years carefully raising him for one specific purpose (i.e. Aubrey's revenge). They're not actually related, but Lysander occasionally calls him 'mimmir', and it's a whole horrible mess in the way only those two can manage.

I will also add that Lysander is very good at this revenge thing, and a lot of people meet a lot of creative ends. I mean, Lysander would do anything for Aubrey, so it's all for the greater good - right? He's only being a good ward/charge/student/whatever-the heck-he-is by helping out his beloved teacher mother lover.

(And to everyone who made it this far: I'm so sorry. I warned you it was a terrible RP AU! 😅)

#lady replies #rarely pure #lysander kyrios #aubrey draxios

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socialshakespeare · 1 year ago

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Reading 6: Sunday, June 23

The sixth read-through - and only drink-through - of A Midsummer Night's Dream!

Drinking game rules here (they'll also be included in the Big Block o' Text before your reading).

(Most of you are double or triple cast, so double check which lines you have to read.) You can look up the lines of the characters here. The names listed below all go with the Folger Edition.

Please submit your confirmation or any request to understudy here. If you’re in any doubt, please ask.

Times and time zones:

EDT (US): 4:00pm CDT (US): 3:00pm MDT (US): 2:00pm PDT (US): 1:00pm BST (UK): 9:00pm AEST (AU): 6:00am, Monday June 24

Leader: @mariposagal

Cast:

Oberon, Theseus: @astrangergivingthestrangewelcome Bottom: @l832 Helena, Snout, Mustardseed: @wildechild Robin Goodfellow (Puck), Philostrate: @thestorywitch Lysander, Snug, Cobweb: @sayyestothejess Hermia, Starveling, Mote: Gabby C Titania, Hippolyta: @actorinfluence Demetrius, Peaseblossom: @infinitelytheheartexpands Quince, Prologue, 2nd Fairy: @mariposagal Flute, Egeus, Fairy*: @rainincastamere Understudy: purplemuskrat, trashprinceofdenmark (DD)

Please submit your confirmation here - liking/reblogging this post does not count!

Read the Guidelines. To avoid the differences between editions that make for confusion and missed cues, please use the Folger edition of Midsummer during the read-through.

Be on time, be prepared, and make sure you know which lines to read. Good luck!

#social shakespeare #cast list #a midsummer night's dream

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fat-slobby-hunks · 1 year ago

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AU'S:

Agent au:

My muses but they're all special agents working for a shady undercover organization. Their bodies are enhanced with special enhancements that give them miraculous agility at the cost of their metabolism and waist line.

Kinks: weight gain, force feeding, latex suits, stuckage, feeding machines and more

Organizations:

The org: nameless shadowy government agency. Employees spies and supplies them with the mysterious chemical [bhm] that allows them to perform inhuman feats

Hazbin Incorporated:

A third party organization that employees the not so silent but very deadly spy known as Angel Dust. Only seeks power and profit.

My muses but they're all royalty in world of pure candy.

The Phantom Thieves:

Ryuji, Akira and Yusuke a trio of gentlemen thieves by night and normal (kinda) citizens by day. Ryuji is a former athlete, Akira a streamer and Yusuke a plus sized model and artist.

Rocket Food Enterprises:

Run by Lysander and Giovanni

These two Rocket Food enterprises. It's considered the food of the future. They own gyms, diet pill and exercise equipment companies. They have multiple food brands all disguised as trying to curve obesity and spread awareness for health and fitness. Giovanni handles the business while Lysander does tech.

Candyland Au:

Kinks: princess tf, intelligence loss, inflation, force feeding, and more

Farm Au:

My muses split amongst various positions of a farm dedicated to raising and breeding hucows and other hybrids.

Kinks: animal/pig play, breeding, exhibitionism, chastity, milking, force feeding and more

Space pirate au:

My muses sailing the cosmos as space pirates

Cyberpunk au:

My muses in a general cyberpunk setting

Axiom Au:

My muses as passengers aboard the Axiom space ship from Wall-E

Fantasy Au:

My muses in a high fantasy setting

Western Au:

An anthro hazbin/helluva boss au featuring the characters In an old west setting

May add other series eventually

Key characters:

Stolas:

Species: owl

Bio: rich son of an oil baron with some shady ties to a criminal organization. Lives an runs a local library.

Sheriff Lucifer:

Species: hell stallion (fancy horse)

Bio: sheriff and big shot around town. Keeps things running smoothly. Has a passion for rubber ducks and apples

Husker:

Species: cat chimera

Bio: the happy saloon's disgruntled bar tender. Town drunk, gambler, and former outlaw all in one grumpy package.

Alastor:

Species: deer

Bio: owner of the hazbin saloon, local celebrity and radio star. Is secretly running various criminal enterprises beneath the floor of his humble saloon.

Zestial:

Species: spider

Bio: the town undertaker noones quite sure what he gets up to...

Angel Dust:

Species: spider

Bio: waiter and occasional dancer at the local saloon. Showed up in town one day in bad shape and never bothered to tell anyone why.

Asmodeus:

Species: avian demon (big bird man)

Bio: exotic thrill seeker, entrepreneur and owner of some of the most popular adult entertainment locals across the county. Run's a local club called Ozzie's. (100% not in love >:[ )

Fizzarolli:

Species: imp

Bio: a performer an comedian. Works at towns largest and only theater

Blitzo:

Species: imp

Bio:

Moxxie:

Species: imp

Bio:

Asgore Dreemurr:

Species: goat boss monster

Bio: the mayor of town and owner of the east garden in the county fair.

Location's

Pentagram Sheriff's department:

Hazbin Saloon: the local watering hole and definitely not a front for any illegal business.

#mun speaks

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thehaemanthus · 2 years ago

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July Reading

I was on vacation, then I got sick, then Life, so reading this month is slower. With one exception.

I re-read books of the Alice Worth series and the Jacky Leon series, which I've talked about before. I think both are classified as urban fantasy. Alice Worth series is probably written better, but Jacky Leon holds a very special place in my heart.

Alice Worth is a MPI (Mage Private Investigator) who solves mysteries with her ghost sidekick. There's werewolves, vampires, witches, other mages, and all sorts of nasties. The series is more or less about Alice dealing with her deeply traumatic past to find love and family. The themes and lessons can hit you over the head at times with how obvious they are, but it's a fun series.

Jacky Leon is a loner werecat who gets pulled into Situations involving werewolves (enemies to the werecats), fae (technically allies but...), vampires (eh, just there for Jacky), and more. Like many a protagonist, she is also dealing with some trauma in her past and learning how to be a part of her new world and new family while also building a family of her own. I adore this series for interactions with a cute kid, Big Family Drama, and interesting politics.

Also re-read Dark Age (enjoyed it more this time, forgot about Ephraim and his broom and had to put the book down to laugh, the violence was softened because I knew what to expect but BOY) in preparation for...

Light Bringer

No spoilers

I mean. Holy shit. Pierce Brown had me in a stranglehold with the first three books of Red Rising. I was demoralized and honestly wondering, do I still love the series as much after Dark Age? After all of those awful things? Are these books just too heavy for me, has my brain been poisoned by fun romances? Light Bringer answered that question.

It's a tighter book, with less POV characters all over the place. Events are easier to follow, but that doesn't mean they are any less clever, jaw dropping, or exhilarating.

Both Iron Gold and Dark Age exhausted me while reading, like the characters themselves must have been exhausted. Light Bringer brought me back up. Hope, perseverance, love, and change are big in this book.

Brown mentioned something a while back about getting back to Darrow, remembering that he's the protagonist or something along those lines. You really feel that with Light Bringer. The other POVs are there and they serve a purpose, but I really felt the beauty of Darrow's story. The POVs also sort of...center Darrow? He feels more present throughout the book. Virginia's POV was kind of just...there? In a good way, I love all the content we get from her, but it wasn't the neatest part of the book I think. I didn't mind it while reading though.

Darrow goes on a genuine journey after such a huge loss in Dark Age. And when you reach the end, you sort of understand why the next book is called Red God. Darrow isn't a god or anything-- he doesn't feel or act that way. If anything, he has become humbled. But with the way he moves through the world and what he'll bring to his enemies and allies, it's easy to understand how the world could view him as a god.

And Lysander au Lune broke my heart but I already wrote about that

(minor spoilers)

Light Bringer was also really fucking funny. Interactions between Cassius and Darrow made me grin and cry. The play between Cassius, Darrow, and Sevro was so nostalgic, I felt that in my gut. Lyria is also hysterical and, as always, a perfect sweetheart. And her traveling companions know it too :)

#monthly reading

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waynes-multiverse · 1 month ago

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Professor Dean, here I come!!! 🤓🎓😍

You finally got to see a play on Broadway, an excellent production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

Yes!!! Midsummer Night’s Dream is my favorite! Good choice 😁

Also, those descriptions of New York in the beginning drew me right in. The weed and piss got me, especially as someone living in a big city. It’s everywhere 🤣

A man saved you by grabbing hold of your arm and waist before you fell, bunching the fabric of your coat beneath his hand. You gasped when you stared up at a familiar face. A sharp jawline covered with stubble, just neat enough to be respectable; dark brows shaded over green eyes, trained on you; bowed lips pursed with confusion.

Gah, I love that she fell right into his arms! It’s always my favorite meeting for two characters 😝💕

You’d told him about it a month ago, after his lecture on fairy lore.

*snorts* God, what I wouldn’t give to hear Dean’s lecture on fairies 😂 (It’s my favorite comedic episode of SPN lol)

“Oh, incredible. That was the best Bottom I’ve ever seen.”

You’d heard some of the girls in your class whispering about it after class one day—a full-on engagement that fell apart two years ago.

Oh? Interesting. Wonder what happened there… 😏 And of course all the girls in class are talking about him. If he’d been my professor, I either would’ve been a straight A student and listened to every word that left his lips or I would’ve failed because I would’ve stared at him and daydreamed too hard to pay attention

That was another thing. He didn’t really talk like any professor you’d met in your life.

Man after my heart lmao

And I love how you characterized this AU Dean here because the professor profession is not easy to pull off for him if you’re leaning toward fancy university (I’ve always wanted to write a community college prof AU for him lol), but you still kept his essence alive in this one with the way he dresses more casually at school and speaks, and you can still see the “professor” part as well. Bravo, friend!! 👏

“I don’t want to be her, I just think she did so well at showing that vulnerability,” you explained. “There’s nothing worse than being in love with someone who doesn’t even see you, you know?”

He tilted his head, his amusement fading as he listened. You felt emboldened to continue your thought.

Is it just me or did he think of himself there because he’s already crushing on reader? 👀 (I mean obviously he is – he went to a Shakespeare play because she told him about it. That’s love lol)

You offered a polite thank you and went to take it back, but he held it out of reach at the last second, giving you a teasing smile.

“How about I put my number in first, so you can call me when you get home,” he said. “I’m Brady, by the way.”

How about I put a dent in your face and call the cops for harassment and stealing my fucking phone???? God, I hate people 🤬

But of course Brady’s an ass 😅

This was why you kind of hated the subway.

Same, girl. Too many weirdos and rude people 🙈

“Hmm. Is it like beginning stages, or...?”

Omfg, I snorted so loudly. I told you that story, right? 🤣🤣

But I love that Dean tried to let her handle it on her own before stepping in when the guy couldn’t take a fucking hint. Also bonus points for bringing her home too because I worried Brady would follow her and try something 😒

It was one of your many quirks, but only now did he realize how much he’d actually noticed about you.

Uh-huh… Only now you’re realizing this, Professor? 😝

He bounced a tennis ball against the wall, as was his habit. (Mostly because it bothered Benny, who had the office next to his.)

Typical 😂😂😂

“Well, there’s the famous Lysander line, ‘The course of true love never did run smooth,’” you said, “but that’s not even my favorite. That’s boring. That’s every rom-com ever, from Harry Met Sally to While You Were Sleeping, all the way to He’s Just Not that Into You, and Crazy, Stupid Love.”

This English major is geeking out throughout this entire exchange and nodding along 🤓 (Although I was surprised you’re calling rom-coms boring, my hopelessly romantic Alex 😜)

“Right? And what did he do? He dumped me the week before prom because he knew Ruby Summers would put out.”

Any relation to Buffy? What high school did she go to? Would explain all her interest in mythology 😂

Your mind seemed to be a hamster wheel on steroids, but he kind of liked that too.

Died at this description 🤣 Oh, he’s smitten, alright

In his mind’s eye, he could imagine them popping the buttons of his dress shirt, carving shaky lines of heat and pleasure across his skin.

Fuck. He bit the inside of his cheek hard to rid himself of that image, his jaw ticking in response. But another one just replaced it when his gaze met yours, half-lidded and shocked, but…contemplating.

Uh-oh. Professor Dean is wading into dangerous waters now… 😏

But no. Fucking no. He dismissed that thought as soon as it came. He was almost ten years older than you.

N’aww, but ten years isn’t so bad. Women are more mature anyways. I bet she’s even more mature than him lol

As in, forbidden fruit.

What did they all have in common? There was always a consequence for the taking and sampling part. The question was, is the price worth how good it tastes?

Omfg, I’m rolling my on the floor 🤣🤣🤣

And I always love Dean’s lack of self-awareness when he goes all “she doesn’t see me that way.” Like dude, have you never looked in a mirror or heard an audio recording of your voice?! 😆💚

Man, I can’t fucking wait for this little miniseries!!! 🤩 (I’d take a full one too, y’know? ^^) And please, gimme all the lit nerd references 🙏🤓🎓📚

10 'Til Midnight

Pairing: Professor!Dean Winchester x Student!Reader

Summary: A chance encounter outside of the classroom shifts the way you see your professor. Forever.

AN: Here’s a one-shot for @chevroletdean's 500 follower celebration! This also fulfills a request for one of my lovely Patreon members, @redhoodieone, who wanted to see AU Professor!Dean with a plus-sized student!reader. The reader is a graduate student (mid-20s) and Dean is in his 30s in this, so not really a wide age gap, but we’re still flirting with a gray area here lol.

Word Count: 4K

Tags/Warnings: graduate student!reader, plus-sized!reader, Shakespeare geekery, mythology and other nerdy classic lit. references, AU Brady sighting, sexual tension, mutual pining(?)

The ash cloud of exhaust rose up from the sidewalk steam grates. It infiltrated your nose as you hurried down a few well-worn concrete steps and into the bowels of the subway, a transition into deeper darkness.

To you, that acrid, mini plume of pollution was the smell of New York City; old cigarette buds and weed hash, fresh tequeños and hot dogs wafting from the open door of the bodega on the corner, mixed with a whiff of piss.

This was the city of broke creatives clinging to their fragile dreams with both hands, usually while the natives rolled their eyes. You were one of those shiny happy people with a dream and the battle-tested will to make it happen, especially tonight. You finally got to see a play on Broadway, an excellent production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

You replayed your favorite scenes in your mind like 1940s movie reel, except it was live in technicolor. An unconscious smile spread across your lips, but you had to hurry. Your train was about to leave in…

You checked the time on your phone—ten minutes to midnight—and compared it to the digital sign up ahead. Your eyes widened.

Shit! One minute?!

You had no choice but to try and run in your heels. That had you skidding to the open doors as they began to close, but you just managed to slip inside, albeit literally slipping with a yelp.

“Professor?” you said, breathless and shocked.

He was just as baffled, but he finished helping you up as your name fell from his lips.

“You okay?” he asked.

You nodded and thanked him for the save, still catching your breath.

“Here, sit down,” he said, gesturing to a couple of empty seats on the subway. You joined him in sitting, though you ignored the stare of the guy standing closest to you who was holding onto a rail. He wore jeans and dirty hipster Vans, a brown bomber jacket and a gray beanie. The stench of weed and cheap cologne clung to him.

And his gaze followed you until you sat down. Slightly unsettled, you were subtle in the way you angled yourself toward the man beside you.

Professor Dean Winchester.

He really was the last person you expected to see on your way home tonight. You still couldn’t believe you ran right into him!

But then, you noticed the playbill sticking out of his coat pocket (his coat looked more expensive, a dark charcoal gray with a high collar, and it suited him).

“Oh, you…you saw the play too?” you said in excitement, showing him your own playbill that you fished out of your purse. You’d told him about it a month ago, after his lecture on fairy lore. You thought he might enjoy a play that was all about the convergence between the fairy realm and the human realm.

He’d admitted that he’d never seen a Shakespeare play live, but he said he’d look into it. You didn’t think he was actually taking you seriously though.

“Uh, yeah, I did. I’ve never been a big Shakespeare guy, truth be told, but you hooked me,” he said. When he smiled, it made the corner of his eyes crinkle a little.

You couldn’t help but smile too every time you noticed that…even though it made your cheeks warm in a blush. He really had no business being this handsome. And the suit? All crisp and black, paired with a classic, off-white dress shirt and a black pinstripe tie.

Clearly he’d dressed for the occasion of going to the theater, because usually he was one of the chillest professors you knew. He showed up to class in jeans, boots, plain henleys and jackets, though never without his watch, a classic leather time piece with a silver watch face and bold black numbers. It was so vintage, you’d asked about it once when you met with him to talk about one of your essays on Native American burial practices. He’d told you that the watch belonged to his father, who passed away a few years ago now.

“So what’d you think?” you asked. “Weren’t the sets beautiful? It was so ominous and creepy in the ‘forest,’ and ethereal too, like the fairy realm part of it.”

He nodded, smiling slightly wider at your enthusiasm. “Yeah, was a good production. The actors were top-notch.”

“Oh, incredible. That was the best Bottom I’ve ever seen.” You paused, realizing what you said, and a nervous giggle tumbled out of your mouth. “Well, the character. Not the ass—donkey—whatever. You know what I mean.”

The man laughed, rich and deep and washing over you pleasantly, even though you half covered your face in embarrassment.

“Can’t argue with you there. The ass was hilarious,” he smirked.

Another giggle, and you flipped through the playbill again to distract yourself from looking at his ruggedly chiseled face. Why, oh why did he have to be so fucking attractive? And somehow he was still single. You’d heard some of the girls in your class whispering about it after class one day—a full-on engagement that fell apart two years ago.

“But really, the actors who played the couples in the love quadrangle were awesome,” you said. “Helena was my favorite.”

He raised his dark brows. “Really? The girl who gets shit on the most in the play?”

That was another thing. He didn’t really talk like any professor you’d met in your life. You let out a snort.

He tilted his head, his amusement fading as he listened. You felt emboldened to continue your thought.

“In her mind, she’s probably thinking, ‘Well, even if he’s yelling at me, at least he’s acknowledging I exist,’” you said, “which is incredibly sad and isn’t giving Shakespeare many brownie points for feminism, but it’s a reality that some women go through.”

After a moment, he seemed to see your point with a nod of his head.

“That’s fair,” he said, arching a brow. “Though I gotta hope you don’t let any guy talk to you like that.”

You shook your head with a smile, but before you could answer him, your phone slipped off your lap and tumbled to the dirty subway floor. You twisted away so you could reach down and grab it, but you caught that whiff of cheap cologne again. Gray beanie guy let go of the rail and bent down to scoop up your phone before you could. You offered a polite thank you and went to take it back, but he held it out of reach at the last second, giving you a teasing smile.

“How about I put my number in first, so you can call me when you get home,” he said. “I’m Brady, by the way.”

That oh-so-gracious offer was followed by a glance down your dress. You sat up straighter, adjusting the collar of your coat back over your neckline with a weary huff.

“Ah, you know what, I’m good with just my phone…please.”

This was why you kind of hated the subway. You didn’t know when you were going to have to interact with a creep trying to steal your phone, shoot his shot, or look down your dress as a consolation prize.

You held out your hand expectantly, but still, “Brady” didn’t take the hint.

“Aw, what, you have a boyfriend or something?” he asked.

“Oh my God. Are you fucking serious?” You sighed and decided a white lie was best here. “Yes, I have a boyfriend. Now give me my phone, please.”

“Hmm. Is it like beginning stages, or...?”

“Jesus Christ, dude.”

“Hey, I’m just saying, maybe we can grab a bite to eat, theeen you know. If things are going well, we could take things back to your place,” he said, his brows popping with sleazy suggestion. He still held the phone away from your grasping hand in frustration.

“Hey,” a deep voice cut in.

You hesitated, glancing back at Professor Winchester. He glared up at Brady with a stony look that you’d never seen on him before.

“Give her the damn phone,” said the professor. His tone boded no argument.

Still, Brady pushed his luck.

“What, you her boyfriend or something?”

The professor didn’t bother to answer the question, but he stood from his seat, his long coat draped down all six feet and change of him, broad shoulders and calm confidence. He stared down at the lankier, scruffier pothead. Then he held out his hand.

Brady shifted back on his heels, seeming to realize that he didn’t want this version of Midnight on the Orient Express—the kind that ended up on the 6 o’clock news the next morning. With a roll of his eyes, Brady dropped the phone into your professor’s hand, complete with a dickish quirk of his lips. Professor Winchester gestured at him to fuck off.

“Walk away,” he said.

To your astonishment, the Brady just tossed him a “fuck you, bro,” and went to the other end of the car. You stood up too, just as the subway pulled to a stop. Professor Winchester handed you the phone.

“Thank you,” you said quietly.

“Is this your stop?” he asked, still glancing back with a suspicious eye at the asshole still glaring at your backs.

You nodded, biting your lip.

“Okay, come on,” the professor said. He laid a guiding hand on the small of your back and joined you in stepping out of the subway car. To your relief, Brady stayed on the train.

“Thank you,” you said again. “Really, you didn’t have to miss your exit for me.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Dean said, with a shake of his head. His frown was still in place just thinking of that fucking loser. “I’ll have better peace of mind knowing you got home safe.”

Once you told him that your apartment was another few blocks away, he knew he was going to be walking you home. You told him you weren’t that new to the city, but in his mind, it still wasn’t a safe neighborhood for a young woman to be walking around by herself at this time of night.

He had no other motive than that, however…

He’d been pleasantly surprised to see you tonight. You were a flash of scarlet that tumbled into his arms, the scent of your floral perfume teasing his nose before he caught sight of that little dress clinging to your curvy form, ending just a couple inches above the knee. But you drew your wool coat closer to your body, hiding the tantalizing flash of red from view.

It was for the best, he thought, as he cleared his throat and tried to find something else to focus his eyes on while you two walked together. He couldn’t help but land on your face again, on your pretty painted lips.

A deep, full-bodied red.

It was a familiar shade. You’d worn it before, while chewing the end of a pen absently in concentration during one of his lectures on the difference between skinwalkers and shapeshifters—those long, pointed nails tapping a quiet rhythm against the plastic. It was one of your many quirks, but only now did he realize how much he’d actually noticed about you. If nothing else, he always knew he had your attention.

He also knew you were getting a master’s degree in English, and you were taking his class as an elective. You’d actually sought him out before the semester started to make sure you got a spot in his class.

“Sorry, sir, I know it’s early. I’ve just been trying since last year to get into this class, and I really wanted the chance to take it before I graduate this year.”

He’d shifted in his swivel chair with his jean-clad legs casually crossed. He bounced a tennis ball against the wall, as was his habit. (Mostly because it bothered Benny, who had the office next to his.)

The repetitive bounce really helped him to think sometimes; it was basically his version of a fidget spinner.

“You like mythology that much, huh?” Dean asked.

“Oh, yeah!” you said, as your eyes lit up. “I find it so fascinating how every culture in the world has their own stories that have still survived for thousands of years. Some of them even overlap. Like, maybe it’s technically a different creature, but they have the same name, just in another language. Or it’s the same creature, different backstory. It’s like any novel I’ve ever read—similar tropes, but the style, the packaging. That’s what becomes new and creative.”

Amusement tugged at Dean’s lips.

“Same candy, different wrapper, right?” he offered. His reward was your bright smile.

“Yeah, exactly.”

He’d approved your request without a second thought. Unlike 95% of the students who came and went through his classes, you weren’t just smart. You cared. You had a passion for this stuff…and it mirrored his own.

“So, uh, you liked that play, huh?” he asked. Wanted to rub his hand over his face right after. Smooth, Winchester.

But it succeeded in brightening your eyes again.

“Oh yeah. People tend to think of it as one of Shakespeare’s sillier plays, but it drops some interesting ideas about love, for example.” All while you spoke, you spun vivid gestures with your hands.

Dean’s remained in his coat pockets, but watching you made his smile deepen. He liked when you got like this, so animated and alive with your thoughts. It threatened to draw him out of his somewhat jaded shell.

“Oh, yeah? Like what?” he asked. Not because he really wanted to talk about what some sixteenth-century ye olde-y English douche thought about love, but because he wanted to hear you explain it.

You didn’t disappoint.

Dean had to interject. “You watch a lot of chick-flicks, don’t you?”

Your lips puckered, but the amusement in your eyes answered his question.

“Like I said, I think Helena is the most underrated tragic figure in the whole story. Yeah, she’s pretty much a doormat, following Demetrius around even though he claims he’s in love with her best friend. Even though he curses at her, threatens to kill her if she keeps annoying him, following him around like an abused puppy. We can agree, he’s like, the biggest asshole in existence, right?” you said.

“Oh, very much agree. You want some coffee?” Dean asked, pointing to a guy selling warm pretzels and drinks from his vendor cart on the side of the road. It had stopped snowing a few days ago, but the February air was still sharp and bitterly cold at this time of night. If only it were midsummer.

“Uh, you know what, I could go for some tea. Thank you,” you said. But you didn’t let that derail you from your thoughts on Shakespearean love. You were still waxing literary analysis while you dug into your purse to find your wallet, but by the time you got it out, Dean had already paid for both drinks and a large soft-baked pretzel.

Your brows furrowed. “Oh! I meant to pay for my part—”

“Don’t worry about it. Here, take half,” Dean said, and he shot you a smile while handing over your hot tea and half of his pretzel. He got your eyes to light up for a different reason as you took the treat. You thanked him with a sweeter smile.

Then you took a bite, and you kept talking.

“But then she says, ‘Love can transpose to form and dignity.’ It can make us act like idiots, right? I mean, back in high school I wrote my boyfriend’s essays for a whole year because I didn’t want him to fail English, and let’s face it, he could barely spell his own last name.”

“Yikes,” Dean chuckled. Sounded like a GED and a gas station job in that guy’s future.

“Right? And what did he do? He dumped me the week before prom because he knew Ruby Summers would put out.” You rolled your eyes, accepting Dean’s sympathies with a gracious nod and a dismissive hand wave. Still, he hoped all you’d given to that guy was your time.

"Well, the guy you're seeing now better be treating you right," he said.

You blinked, your brows furrowing a bit in confusion, until realization dawned on you.

"Oh, I don't have a boyfriend," you said with a small chuckle. "That's just what I tell pushy weirdos on subways."

Dean was tripped up for a second, but he eventually quirked a smile.

“So anyway, my favorite bar of the whole play is what Helena says in Act 1,” you said. “‘Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind.’”

In that moment, Dean’s eyes were a little too captivated.

But you broke the spell.

You glanced ahead to continue along the crosswalk with him, taking another warm, soft bite of pretzel.

“And that’s why Cupid’s always painted like a blind baby…or something like that,” you said. You laughed a little, and you seemed to realize just how long you’d been yapping his ear off. You came to a stop at what he assumed was your apartment building, but you suddenly got quiet. Embarrassed.

“Sorry, once I open my mouth on this stuff, I can’t really stop unless someone stops me and tells me I’m literally killing them with words that don’t make sense.”

“You’re making a whole lotta sense to me,” Dean replied. And he realized that he meant it. He rubbed his chin in thought. “Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind. I like that.”

Your mind seemed to be a hamster wheel on steroids, but he kind of liked that too.

“Well, did you like the play?” you asked, smiling in embarrassment. “Sorry, can’t remember if I even asked you that yet.”

He laughed softly. Even if you had, he didn’t mind answering again.

“I like it more now, hearing you talk about it,” he said. But maybe that was too honest. He padded it with something more appropriate, as your instructor. “It makes sense, since you’re an English major, but your passion always comes through in your essays. I’m really glad you decided to take my class this semester.”

You demured further at the praise. “Oh, thank you. It really is my favorite class so far this year, but…that’s because you’re the one teaching it. You're really good at telling stories. You make them simple and easy to understand, even when we're talking about hell hounds and old ghost stories, or the uh, Oedipus complex, or something.”

Dean smiled in amusement, but it was his turn to be touched, even if it surprised him too. You were just so honest and free enough to speak your mind. It was refreshing.

“Well, thank you. Glad to hear at least one person’s getting something out of it,” he said, his smile warming for once.

You smiled too, looking at him through your lashes. “All right well, thanks again for walking me home. I’ll, um…see you on Monday-ayy!”

You stepped up onto the first stair leading up to your apartment and caught an icy patch with your red-bottomed heels. A gasp fell from your lips as your arms spun out to catch yourself on anything that could keep you from falling, and that happened to be Dean—specifically his coat, and then his biceps when he moved in fast to keep you upright.

He ended up gathering you into his arms while you clung to his coat. Your red nails bit into the dark fabric. In his mind’s eye, he could imagine them popping the buttons of his dress shirt, carving shaky lines of heat and pleasure across his skin.

Hot breaths mingled in between, puffing visibly on the cold air.

“God, I’m sorry!” you breathed.

“Don’t worry about it.” He cleared his throat past the slight roughness in his voice. “You all right?”

“Yeah. Yeah, um…Take Two,” you said, laughing weakly.

You aimed to let him go and continue on up the stairs by yourself, but Dean couldn’t stop himself from trying to help you. He held your elbow at least, with a hovering hand by your waist in case you slipped again. When you finally made it to the door, you paused and turned to look at him over your shoulder. Again, that look in your eyes said you were debating something in your mind.

“You okay?” he asked again.

You nodded. “Yeah, I just, um…you know what? Never mind. Uh, good night!”

Dean nodded, giving you a casual salute. He didn’t leave until you got in the building safely, but for his entire long walk home, your face wouldn’t leave his mind. That look of internal conflict, like you’d been weighing some kind of pros and cons. He had to wonder…

Had you been about to invite him up to your apartment?

But no. Fucking no. He dismissed that thought as soon as it came. He was almost ten years older than you.

Didn’t stop Catherine Zeta-Jones from hooking up with Michael Douglas. She’s barely pushing fifty while he’s halfway into Senior Depends.

Second problem. Career ending and reputation ruining and his own clock punch at the local 7/11—kind of a problem.

You were a student.

Grad student, came a whisper from the back of his mind.

In Greek mythology, the golden apples of Hesperides in Hera’s garden were guarded by a dragon. The Norse gods also believed in their own version of immortal golden apples, harvested by the goddess Idunn. Sounded a bit like Eden, right? As in, the Judeo-Christian Garden.

As in, forbidden fruit.

What did they all have in common? There was always a consequence for the taking and sampling part. The question was, is the price worth how good it tastes?

Remembering the feeling of your soft curves under his hands, Dean had a feeling it would be more than fucking worth it.

But he shook the thought from his head, his fingertips digging into the soft insides of his coat pockets.

He was your professor. That was where those thoughts should end.

You didn’t even see him that way…did you?

You shucked your heels off as soon as you got inside your apartment. You heaved a deep sigh and shed your purse, your coat, your earrings and necklace, which you set down on the nightstand in your bedroom. You sat on the edge of the bed and fell back onto the creaky mattress.

Your hands came to rest lightly over your stomach, a safe place, while you thought back to how Professor Winchester held you so tight. Secure. Gentlemanly.

How he looked at you, his green-eyed gaze falling to your lips, like he was contemplating the best way to close that distance, bowing his head those last few inches and…

You forcibly shook your head. He was your goddamn teacher.

It didn’t matter that he was probably the youngest faculty member on campus, and you were a twenty-five-year-old graduate student. Whether or not the man was “age appropriate,” he was still your professor. You couldn’t think about him like that.

And he absolutely didn’t look at you like that…

Did he?

AN: Sorry again for all the nerdy lit. tidbits, but I had fun. 😂 I'm thinking about expanding this into an actual little series, so let me know what you think! ❤️

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