#Marie Greer

[grilledcheezy92]

Thinking about Milo in high school during group projects, letting his project partner know they're welcome to stay for dinner.

They see all the pictures of pack outings and ask "Are you sure it'll be okay, looks like you've got a big family."

"Nah, it's just me and my ma. That's all... family friends." Milo replies.

There's a man in the earliest photos that's still there through all of the current ones. Older, more haggard, but present. Removed from Milo who looks to be with his own age group but still standing with the woman who is clearly his mom.

Thinking about Colm coming home drunk one night while Milo has one of these school friends/project partners over and seeing this simmering seething rage in Milo. Whether it gets to Milo's temper boiling over or a shouting match or not.

Thinking about Milo apologizing the next day, embarrassed that anyone had to see his dad or his reaction to his dad.

[definitelynuwonhere]

Happy Mother’s day to Marie Greer

[dani-ya-dig]

Happy Mother’s Day to: Sam Collins, Trish yuurivoice, Celine Aveross, Huxley Redacted’s moms, and Marie Greer

[skunkox]

Darlin' and Hair

Below the cut are headcanons, probably more suited for/ canon to my version/s of Darlin'.

Darlin running their fingers through Sam's chest shirt and happy trail when they're trying to self sooth or deep in thought. Sam finds it comfortable but checks in if it lasts more than two minutes.

When it comes to their own hair, it may be the only thing they attempted to really take care of in any capacity on a regular basis. It's something they have control over, and it's one of the first things people take notice of. I feel there's a small circle of people that they let touch it.

Sam, Milo, Marie, Asher and Baaabe.

(As of now)

Sam:

Darlin' has a lot of hair. It's very much an all-day affair when it comes to its care. It takes about a year or so for them to seek out help from Sam just to part it into sections. This would later snowball into helping them wash it. Outside of care, they often let him "play" with it while they're cuddling. It takes less than 5 minutes for Darlin' to fall asleep when he does. Sam uses this like an off button when he sees them fighting sleep. It's happened during get-together with the pack.

Milo:

Definitely has tried to fix them up before a pack meeting or before their parents would see them after a fight. It was always a fix now, ask questions later kind of situation. When they were younger and needed to confide in someone about their home situation, hair kept their hands busy and made it easier to talk.

Marie:

Has healed them up so many times but there hair would always tell just how bad a fight had been. Marie would see how they would fret as a kid about being seen visibly roughed up. Or rather. Letting their parents see them like that. Marie would keep hair care just for them at her place.

Asher:

They realized very early on that Asher didn't believe in personal space. Guy was pretty lanky as a kid, too. It wasn't uncommon for his hand to end up on their head. They accepted this bit of physical contact for the most. At least until he started saying some off the wall shit or was increasingly putting more of his body weight on them. They still are like this to this day and will continue to do so till they're old and decrepit.

Baaabe:

Actually loves doing hair and misses doing it for others. It took time for Baaabe to work up the courage to ask, and Darlin' was skeptical. When they did agree, they were pleasantly surprised by how gentle they were about it. Especially their tender spots. Baaabe has been doing their hair for all big events. Occasionally if Baabe is not in the head space to to maintance on their own locs, they'll call them over to do it for them hair days are their bonding time and Ash couldn't be happier about it.

[moronkyne]

Marie Greer with long and prideful strings of gray hair, the most doll-like brown eyes with tints of gold, dark skin covered in both lighter and darker birthmarks, and a pudgy tummy that falls over the waistband of her jeans

Samuel Collins with a bigger bottom lip, a missing/silver tooth, curly hair that brushes his shoulders all too often no matter how often he cuts it, a tattoo on his sleeve (it’s a heart), and steady hands

Gregory Keaton with an effortless seeming fade (hair), tattoos covering the map of his body, a watch that nearly indents that man’s wrist, black stud earrings, and more grey hairs than there are countries in Europe.

Gabriel Shaw with clear glasses that laid just above his smile lines, heavy sideburns, a slight overbite with thicker teeth—loner canines—and a chipped front tooth, scars that aligned his cheeks, and a baseball cap from a team he had coached.

[aragaki]

Darlin/Pack Members

Because my self-control is zero and I just think Darlin' is the most interesting listener character who also deserves the entire world and William Solaire's wallet.

Milo

Already wrote some about them here but they're my non-canon otp so ofc I wanna talk about them more

The pack's most photogenic couple. Milo puts in the effort to look good and dress well but Darlin' is just the most effortlessly good-looking. They can roll out of bed in yesterday's clothes and unbrushed hair and any candid shot looks like it belongs on an influencer's curated social media. It drives poor Milo crazy.

Before they moved in together, Milo would send messages to Darlin' throughout the day to let them know what he was up to and where he was going. They never asked but he knows it makes them more comfortable and he's always happy to do it.

Christian can't make his jokes about Milo's wolf size for nearly as long when he's mates with Darlin'. Darlin' isn't a brute, they're a protector, so of course they notice the way Milo's smile tightens when Christian piggybacks onto Ash's jokes. They give him three chances to knock it off and after he doesn't listen to them on strike three, they start swinging. Darlin' doesn't ask Milo to talk to David about how he's feeling but he has to anyway when David interrogates him about what caused Darlin' to break Christian's nose.

Darlin' has always been Marie's favorite and she has no problem saying as much. She's wanted them as her kid for as long as she's known them, little spitfire that they are, and is beyond happy when Milo finally makes it official.

This also means that Marie is Darlin's primary healer and gives them twice the ration of shit that she gives anyone else - including Milo! She loves them so much but will not hesitate to kick their ass for being reckless.

Milo is without a doubt Darlin's lifeline during pack meetings. It's a lot, being home and surrounded by people you thought would be fine without you - who are upset with you for thinking so - and Milo knows all the best places to escape with them. They never admit to needing a breather but he always knows.

Milo and Darlin train together!! They absolutely do!! Darlin' knows they can rock Milo's shit and he does too, and he loves it. When they spar or box together it's always going to end in a makeout session. He can't help it, they look so damn fine all fired up and sweaty. They've absolutely gotten caught but no amount of teasing will get them to stop.

Darlin' doesn't mind dressing up for Milo. It's not their thing usually, simple and maneuverable works best for them but every now and again they can be persuaded with plenty of kisses. Fancy restaurants make them feel out of place but Milo always seems so happy to see them under the light of glittery chandeliers and that makes them happy too.

One time he did manage to piss off Darlin' during a fancy dinner so they pretended to propose to him in front of the entire restaurant and it nearly gave him a heart attack. The cake and champagne they were given more than made up for it though.

When Darlin' sits down, Milo has the habit of coming up behind them and massaging their shoulders and neck. He has a hard time keeping his hands off of them at the best of times but he wants to help get rid of some of their stress so small random massages are his way of helping with that.

Darlin' likes things that are simple and physical, they're a tactile person so they've absolutely got a photo album of them and Milo. Marie even gave them some old pictures of them together from their teens for it. Milo finds it one day by accident and if it had him crying on their bedroom floor for 15 minutes that's between him and Aggro.

Speaking of Aggro, he has a love-hate relationship with Darlin'. They're convinced the cat hates them, the way he swats at them and hisses. They say Milo is Aggro's person and he's jealous that Darlin' takes up so much of his attention. But every night, he tries to climb up and sleep on Darlin's chest, head resting under their chin. And if Milo tries to move him to cuddle with Darlin' he gets a full-force bapping to the face until he gives up and lets Aggro do what he wants.

Darlin' has absolutely shifted and laid down so Aggro could climb up onto their back and nap there. They'll never tell a soul.

I talked about it in my other Milo post but Milo kissing Darlin's scars!! They've been through so much and it's affected their self-image so much. Milo can't stand that. So he kisses each and every one, even the ones that make Darlin' lip curl in disgust at themselves, and say something about them that he loves. Physical, emotional, about their personality. Anything. This praise king could go on forever. And he means it and that's what makes Darlin's heart ache the most.

And when they start to believe it, Milo couldn't be more proud. The crease between their brows when they see themselves smoothes out. They don't sneer at the bite marks that are dotted around their skin nearly as much. They get confidence in how they look, and in how desirable Milo finds them. He can't wait until it turns into true self-love.

Milo has no problem being the in-between for Darlin' and David. Both have strong personalities. Both can word things that, while meant to be loving, can be harsh and wound the one who hears them. Milo doesn't have a lot of patience, but he is fluent in Grumpy Wolf at this point. His interventions have honestly brought the unintentional hostility between them down and made it easier for them to talk about their thoughts, feelings, and opinions on their own.

When they're shifted, they're almost always stuck together. Doesn't matter if it's a hunt, a run during the Solstice, anything. They will not be separated. They're both ready to throw themselves headfirst into whatever danger might happen to protect the other, much to the exhaustion of the rest of the pack who really wish they would just stop throwing themselves into danger.

Asher

"Well mark me down as scared AND horny!" Has been Ash's response to basically everything Darlin' has done since they were teens.

Seriously, there would be no denying that Darlin' intimidated Asher when they joined the pack. A new wolf from outside of Dahlia joins the pack with a chip on their shoulder a mile wide and so fearless they'll jump in first into any problem??? They're intimidating but also!! They aren't mean to him!!

He was without a doubt one of the members of the pack who tried to help Darlin' integrate the most. He'd include them in anything he could, even if it made his other friends side-eye him. He was shameless about it too!! If they wouldn't spend time with him, he'd be following them around like a lost puppy. It was like they had a second shadow.

Some members of the pack scoff and roll their eyes at Asher but not Darlin'. Even if they don't seem interested in his rambling they're always paying attention. They've always listened. And he didn't realize how important that was to him until it was gone.

Becoming pack beta and David's second in command was a huge shift and he's well aware that plenty of people don't think he's up for it. But Darlin' was never one of them. They had their own quiet belief in Ash and what he could do, never questioned his fit for the role. Even as they withdrew from the pack they knew that David could handle it if he had Asher's support.

After Darlin' fell into the wrong crowd, Ash was the most vocal about getting them back and bringing them home. No argument mattered to him, Darlin' was a member of the pack and they needed to be there. He wasn't above saying it was just because he missed them. That didn't change when they stopped being teenagers. He still feels like a dumb kid with a huge crush who missed his chance.

Then, all at once, it all falls apart. Darlin's unempowered friend is almost killed, by Darln's own mate, and the Shaw pack is rallying behind them to try and push the department to act. Then it goes quiet. They leave, saying they're heading up to be with their family and Ash feels like someone hollowed out his chest. It's how he imagined it feels like when someone's mate dies - a constant ache in his chest. Which he knows he shouldn't feel because regardless of his feelings Darlin' isn't his mate. Hell, they just had to leave theirs because he was a shitty person!!

He's confused and it only gets worse when he finds out Darlin' had been lying to them. That Quinn was still at large, that they put the pack at risk, that they were putting themselves at risk trying to handle it alone. They didn't rely on the pack. On their friends. On him. And his impostor syndrome kicks him off on a spiral. But it doesn't take much to pull him out of it, not when Darlin' is finally back in his life.

As mates, Ash is the Will Smith red carpet meme. He wants everyone to look at his mate, to know that he's their mate and they're soooo in love!! It drives poor Darlin' insane.

And he can get away with it!! And damn near anything because Darlin' is so weak to Ash's puppy dog eyes. They have been since they were teens. If Asher wants a grilled cheese at 3 AM all he has to do is flash those eyes and Darlin' is hauling themselves out of bed, but grumbling about it the entire way.

Asher and Darlin' spend a lot of downtime gaming together. They trade recommendations back and forth, play each other's favorites, and terrorize everyone else who ends up in their lobbies. Darlin' can get a little heated and toxic during PVP but it's always defused by Asher doing an uwu voice and making Darlin' choke on their laughter.

David and Milo are happier than Asher when they finally get together, they've been listening to his lovesick pining for years and they're TIRED.

David

aka the character that got me into shipping Darlin' with their pack members

David and Darlin have such an interesting dynamic!! The devoted pack alpha and the wayward lone wolf. They both have strong personalities and we've seen them come into conflict with each other

But there's love there. There always has been.

I fully believe that in a David/Darlin' relationship, it'd be a case of he fell first and fell harder. It wasn't love at first sight, David's a bit too cynical for that even before his dad died. But there was a pull to the newcomer that drew him in and helping them settle in wasn't just because of his role as beta.

They were always there, in the background of David, Milo, and Asher's teenage years but never front and center. Always on the fringes, like they never found their footing. Something he wouldn't notice until it was too late.

Then Gabriel dies and Darlin' got together with Quinn. Instead of being distant, they're absent entirely. David knows that Quinn is their mate but something about that burns at his core, makes him feel queasy and unsettled. Like it's wrong. But htere's nothing he can do, he has a pack to run and protect.

The anger and hurt he feels when he finds out that they've been lying to him for so long. That they're trying to hunt down Quinn on their own, so stubborn and self-destructive. The fact that they consider themselves expendable and would risk breaking themselves to avenge their friend and protect the pack. He wants to shake them by the shoulders and tell them they're loved but he knows it'll be better to show them instead.

The pack meeting goes better than he hoped, with members both scolding and reassuring Darlin' of their place and their value. He watches them the whole time out of the corner of his eye and he says it's because he wants to make sure they don't bolt but he knows deep down he's just happy to see them back where they belong

The road to becoming mates is even more bumpy with Darlin' than it would be with Angel. He has to balance being their alpha and their partner and he already feels like he's failed them as a leader, they couldn't even trust him about Quinn.

The shift to being mates came with no small amount of arguing. Darlin' likes to fight with David on just about everything and it drives him crazy. It doesn't matter what it is, big or small it's always some kind of fight or contest and it makes his blood boil but at the same time he loves that little sparkle they get in their eye whenever they challenge him.

When there's a pack run and they're all shifted there's a 100% chance that Darlin' is gonna slam into David's flank and snap at him. Doesn't matter how many times he tells them to stop over the link, they're always going to start shit in a way even Asher wouldn't try.

Honestly, it's like David has two betas the way Darlin' and Asher flank him. And Darlin' isn't above mean-mugging clients if they think they aren't being taken seriously. (again, David tells them to stop. They don't.)

Scary movie nights are even more fun when David and Darlin' are sat next to each other, the contrast makes Darlin's abject terror even more hilarious.

[us3rnam3-r3dact3d]

the world (it burns through me)

Chapter 5

Ao3 | 3.7k Words | Darlin's POV

Dr. McDreamy is on the case. X-rays, bone fragments, and late night confessions.

TW: Medical jargon, discussion of broken bones, trauma, and abuse, Alexis Solaire (just ya know... general warning for her)

It had been two weeks since you��d made your prodigal return to the 10-19, and in that time, you’d managed to avoid having any conversation that delved past surface platitudes and small talk with David. You weren’t sure if you’d consider your conversation in the office to be an argument, but that’s what it felt like. You thought about apologizing. But then, you didn’t really think you were wrong. 

David drove you to the firehouse every day. You hung around the house while he was on shift, napped across the bunkroom and lounge, ate the seemingly endless snacks that spawned in the kitchen every day. He drove you back to his place at night. You chatted with his spouse while he cooked dinner. You watched reruns of Grey’s Anatomy and The X-Files in the living room late into the morning hours, too restless to sleep. You could see the front door from your spot on the leather sectional. You guarded the two of them while they slept. 

You bothered Sam, mostly to avoid talking to the rest of the fire crew. Asher followed you around when he wasn’t on a call, his pathetic puppy dog eyes wide and terribly effective. Milo had attempted to talk to you a few times. He would call out to you, the familiar cadence of bickering and teasing coloring his tone as he shouted down fleeting hallways; “Tanker!” Even after so many years of living in Dahlia, his heavy, North Eastern accent hadn’t settled into the more neutral, South Western tones of those around you. You supposed that you couldn’t shake Washington out of your mouth, even after being here for over a decade. 

You were faster than him, always had been, and you escaped into the relative safety of the ambulance bay. Neither of them followed you there, in Sam’s domain, where they couldn’t trap you in the context of your past with them. 

Sam was a fresh start. Sam and Vincent and their nervous probie didn’t know you, didn’t know how reckless and stupid and stubborn you were. You didn’t have to sit with the heaviness of it all, with the betrayal you’d levied against them, the abandonment. 

David needed you. They all did. And you’d left. They hated you. They had to hate you. 

Eventually, Dr. Collins (and he was a doctor, his gossiping little probie ratted him out) convinced you to accompany him to an off-the record appointment at Dahlia General late at night. 

“Your name won’t end up on any paperwork.” He assured, huddled in the back of the ambulance as he ran paperwork between calls. He looked so fucking good in his uniform shirt. Navy and fitted, the short sleeves curled around his biceps as tight as skin. You wanted him to lock his arm around your throat and squeeze. 

There was something wrong with you. 

“I don’t have any money.” You said.

“That don’t matter.” Sam shook his head, that little crease deepening in his brow. Perpetual worry. Continuous stress. Your finger twitched to reach across the miniscule space between you, him crouched over his clipboard on the ride-along bench, you sat criss-cross on the gurney he’d just disinfected. You wanted to ease the tension from the lines on his face, spread your grubby fingers across his skin until it went slack. “Officially, we’re providing medical treatment to no one, so there’s no one to charge for it.” 

“Clever thing.” You grinned. Sam didn’t strike you as the sort of man who blushed, but if he did,  you imagined it would look something like this. His head ducked, his mouth quirked into something resembling a smile. You could spend a lot of time chasing that expression on his face. 

 David didn’t ask questions as you walked to Sam’s truck instead of his that night. They must have conspired about this. Petulant frustration bubbled in your gut. You swallowed around complaints, huddled into Sam and didn’t meet David’s eyes as he called out the same thing he did every time someone he cared about got into a vehicle he wasn’t driving:

“Be careful.” 

Sam’s truck was smaller than David’s and older too. You ran your fingers across the leather seats and dashboard, shifting to better accommodate your still-sore ribs. He huffed as he plopped himself down into the driver’s seat. His keys jingled with the tremor of his right hand. You’d been watching Sam’s hands for two weeks now, too weak to watch his eyes for more than a few seconds at a time. You could map that shake like a stretch of familiar road, curving and rough and so known to you you didn’t have to think as you drove it. 

Dahlia General was a big hospital. It was Dahlia’s only Level One trauma center, so it was where the 10-19 dropped off most of its critically injured patients. You’d crossed the threshold of the ER countless times since you were a probie, often for yourself. You had the record for the most on-the-job injuries in the house’s history. Gabe had a plaque made and everything.  

Sam didn’t pull into the ER bay, but instead into a covered parking garage that led to an employee entrance. He leaned over you to pull out a red decal that he hung from the rear view mirror. His name was inscribed in white text across the surface; Dr. Samuel Collins. 

“Not a word.” He hissed as your mouth started to fit around a smart comment. You pressed your teeth into your tongue as he cut the engine. 

You passed a series of locker rooms with a handful of exhausted looking doctors in green scrubs and rumpled white coats. They seemed not to see you, but a few of them stopped their hurried paths to shout a greeting to Sam. Some of them called him by name. Some, the younger, nervous-looking ones, scurried past him without making eye contact. If they did address him, it was always with his title instead of his name. Sam’s face darkened each time, slipping into a waxy, distant mask. 

Sam dismissed the x-ray tech handily. He had no white coat, no badge with his name, no credentials, but everybody still treated him like a doctor. He stepped into the darkened room, took a deep breath, and turned to you. His face was blank and slack. 

“Right.” He nodded. “Hands and ribs.” 

Sam ran the x-ray like it was the most familiar thing in the world to him. He laid out your hands, palm down, marked them left and right, laid a heavy, protective apron over your chest before stepping behind a wall and running the machine. He had you stretch out on a cold, metal table and took images of your ribs. He led you from the x-ray room down a secluded hallway to a small exam room, the lights still off. 

“You’re a doctor.” You said into the pin-drop quiet between you. Sam sighed out through his nose. 

“That I am.” He replied. 

“If I were a doctor,” you cocked your head to the side, let the unnatural curl of your top lip pull your mouth into a vicious sort of smile, “I wouldn’t take the pay cut to be a paramedic captain.” 

“Yeah well…” Sam’s face darkened, the joke slipping past him and landing as an insult. You swallowed around the apology that beat at the back of your throat. “We aren't the same person.” 

There was a rap of knuckles against the door of your exam room. You jumped, a jolt of pain running up your ribcage and catching your breath. Sam’s bright eyes caught yours for a moment before he reached for the door handle. 

The prettiest man you’d ever seen in your life stepped through the darkened doorway, x-ray films in his thin, long hands. He was wearing the same sort of white coat that all of the interns and residents in the locker rooms were wearing, but his was stark and pressed and perfect. Underneath it he wore a set of maroon scrubs, separate, it seemed, from the rest of the hospital. His hair was so blonde it was nearly white, his skin pale and flawless, his gray eyes shining even in the darkness of your exam room. He smiled, his teeth straight and white and sharp. He extended one of those long hands to you, and his touch was cold as fuck when you met it. He looked nothing like Patrick Dempsey, but your mind supplied the moniker McDreamy anyway. 

“Hello, there,” he smirked, his voice tinged with a smarmy British accent. You flinched at the sound of it, your face curling in disgust. His eyes flicked across your features, but seemed to find no offense among them. “You must be-”

“Porter.” Sam warned from his spot in the corner. “Please, just tell ‘em what’s going on. No flirting.” Dr. McDreamy turned on the heel of his fancy shoes, held a hand up in the scout’s solute. 

“No flirting.” McDreamy repeated. “Now, if you don’t mind, Samuel, I have a patient to attend to. Don’t forget that I’m doing you a favor.” 

“Yeah,” Sam rolled his eyes and made for the door, “add it to my tab. Just come get me when y’all are done.” 

Some childish, stupid part of you wanted to ask him to stay. Part of you wanted to reach out, fold his hand in yours, and let this whole stupid appointment pass over you like water, knowing that Sam would take it all in for you. You tightened your shaking fists and swallowed down that need like bile. 

McDreamy set your x-rays in the light box and flicked it on. He studied them for a moment before casting his eyes over his shoulder to you. 

“You’re a friend of Sammy’s?” He asked. You snorted at the endearment. 

“I’m a firefighter.” You lied. Porter hummed and turned back to his images. 

“Your hands are fine,” Dr. McDreamy said after a moment, his canines glinting as he pointed out your intact knuckles, “just bruising. Your ribs…” he shook his head and clicked his tongue, one long finger trailing over the x-ray of your shattered bones before stepping towards you and lifting your shirt to examine the swelling. “You’ll need surgery.” You pressed your lips together and recoiled from his touch. 

“Nah.” You shook your head. 

McDreamy blinked up at you. You’d finally caught him off guard, thrown him off his rhythm. 

“The bone fragments-” you liked the way his posh accent curled around the word. You shivered at that particular thought. 

“I don’t care.” You managed to cross your arms. “I’ve survived plenty of bone fragments.” Dr. McDreamy held your eye for a moment longer before sighing and nodding. 

“Sam will have wandered off by now. He can’t help himself.” He made for the door, collecting your images and handing them over as he did. You folded them until you could stuff them into your back pocket. McDreamy cringed at the sight. 

He led you through the near abandoned halls of Dahlia Gen. You’d always thought that this place would have stayed as bright and loud and alive at night as it did during the day. At least, that’s what the ER was like. The emergency room was like a living creature, teeming with movement and noise. Marie Greer was the charge nurse down there, and she ran most night shifts with an iron fist. Every time you’d ended up in her care, she’d reamed you out within an inch of your life only to bring you back again with her excellent medical skills. You wondered if she was down there tonight, running her ER like a conductor before an orchestra. You wondered what she would say if she saw you. If she would be the one who could convince you to lay down, get treated, get surgery, get better. 

You wouldn’t risk it. You’d slip out the back and hope she didn’t catch sight of you. 

“You know,” McDreamy said as he led you past a door with big bold letters stating NO ENTRY BEYOND THIS POINT, “pretty face like yours… I could work out that scar tissue faster than you can say ‘please.’” You stared up at him, that smug smile on his face. 

“Go fuck yourself.” 

Porter laughed. After a moment, you joined him, ribs be damned. 

You came upon a door that was marked GALLERY. Porter swiped his keycard and opened it, poking his head in before leaning back and motioning you in. 

Sam was sat in what looked to be a stiff, uncomfortable chair, alone in a gallery space facing a glass panel. His back was bent, elbows on his knees, his posture that of intense focus. You chanced a glance down and caught sight of a vast, brightly lit operating room. A sea of doctors and nurses were moving around a patient on a table like ants. Movements were synched and smooth, flowing between each other as naturally as breathing. Standing over the patient’s left side, at the epicenter of all of the movement, was a woman draped in surgical gowns and gloves. You could see fire red curls escaping the bun and scrub cap at the base of her neck. Her face was pinched in concentration, her hands, painted red, were tying knot after every knot into the flesh of the patient’s still-beating heart. Sam’s shaking hands tried in vain to copy her movements.

“Christ,” you breathed. Sam jolted and looked up at you. His face was strange and open in a way you hadn’t seen before. Something like grief was clear across his features. 

“Yeah,” he breathed, sitting back in his chair, “that’s um…” he swallowed, “that’s Alexis Solaire. She’s a cardiothoracic surgeon. She’s the best of the best.” 

“She’s not human.” Porter chimed from the doorway. “But then, are any of us?”

Sam stood, shook out his shaking hand, and turned away from the OR. As he did, Alexis Solaire looked up from her work very suddenly. It was like she had known Sam was watching, and she knew now that he had turned away. Her work faltered for only a moment before those careful knots were continued. 

He was quiet as he walked you out, hands firmly in his pockets. He waved McDreamy off impatiently, too quiet and withdrawn now to bother with his flirting and teasing. Porter slipped away into the guts of the hospital as you and Sam slipped out of them, into the dingy, dark parking garage. 

Sam sat in the driver’s seat, both hands shaking, his face drawn and pale. He had history in that hospital. He had people there. And it was too much for him. 

“Gimme your keys,” you said. Sam’s eyes snapped to you. 

“What?” He asked softly. 

“You look like you’re gonna pass out.” You smiled. “Let me drive.” He hesitated for a moment, only a moment, before relenting. 

Halfway through the drive, your fancy new phone propped on your knee shining directions up at you through the dark, Sam’s voice rose through the silence in the passenger seat. 

“Your ex,” he said, “the one you’re afraid of-” 

“I’m not afraid of him.” You snapped. Sam was only quiet for a breath before continuing. 

“Did he do this to you?” 

It was the question that had been hanging over you for two weeks, since you’d given Sam just a glimpse of Quinn in that ambulance. You wouldn’t be surprised if Sam had told David. That’s why you couldn’t bear to talk to him about anything serious, why you couldn’t let Milo and Asher chase you down and pull the answer out of you. It felt as though everybody was staring you down all of the time, that question sitting in the back of their throats, beating at their teeth to jump out at you. 

You gnashed your teeth against the instinct to snap at him, to tell him to fuck off, to remind him exactly how little he was entitled to when it came to your history.

But then again, he’d snuck you into a hospital, his hospital, got you looked at for nothing, got one of his fancy doctor friends to see you. You owed him. 

“No.” You gritted out. You flexed your hands on the wheel. You were speeding, just a bit, and purposefully slowed down. “He… it was some friends of his. One hook up and a guy she was seeing. I was… asking her some questions. She didn’t like that.” 

“What, you faced down two grown folks on your own?” Sam huffed. “No wonder you got your ass kicked.” 

“Hey, I walked away from that fight.” You grunted. “They did not.” Sam laughed, and then seemed to realize you were serious. 

“Lord have mercy,” he breathed, “you’re gonna give me an ulcer. You won?” 

“I did.” You grinned. 

“You’re good.” 

“I’m good.” 

Sam turned on the radio, flipping to a pre-saved channel that played shitty, rock-adjacent music that old men liked. He sang along to a few songs, off-key and rasping, his voice so unsure even though he knew the words. 

Sam’s house was deep in the woods just outside of Dahlia, surrounded by tall trees and overgrown grasses. It wasn’t big, but you knew it was expensive just by the look of it. Intentionally aged wood siding on a brick foundation, windows with curtains drawn. A wrap around porch with matching rocking chairs and a string of industrial looking lights. A coffee mug still sat on the wooden planks of the porch next to the plain welcome mat, empty and dark-rimmed. Sam bent to snag it as he passed, unlocking the door with his good hand. 

It was dark inside, still and cold. Sam flicked on a lamp beside the door. A sprawling living room emerged from the dark. A large, worn leather sectional filled up most of the space. Somebody else had decorated it. You couldn’t imagine Sam carefully matching the accents in the rug to the curtains. One wall was lined with floor to ceiling bookcases, stacked haphazardly with sterile-white medical texts. Knowing the costs of textbooks, that shelf alone must have cost more than the rest of the house combined. 

Your fancy new phone buzzed in your pocket. You snagged it out, hands still numb from the cold outside. David’s name lit up on the still-generic wallpaper. 

ETA??

You shot back a quick reply. 

My hand is fine. Ribs are broken, but fine. Crashing at Sam’s. Too late to drive. 

David wouldn’t argue with the ‘too tired to drive’ excuse. 

“Do you… um…” Sam was standing too close to you when you turned. You jumped, twinging your ribs as you did. You winced and stepped back, grasping at your side. “Shit,” Sam’s hands hovered over your shoulders, as though he wanted to steady you but he was afraid to touch, “I’m sorry, Darlin’. You okay?” 

“Yeah,” you replied instinctively, “I’m fine. Jumpy. Always… I’m always just a little jumpy.” 

Sam’s dark eyes flicked over your face. His full lips quirked up at the corners in that ghost of a smile you wanted to chase. 

“Do you want my bed?” 

“Nah,” you shook your head, “unless you’re joining. I won’t kick you out on the street.” 

“Nonsense.” Sam grinned outright, straight, sharp teeth. You wanted to run your tongue along them to see if they could cut. “It’s no trouble. And you’re injured. I’m not letting you bum it on the couch.” 

“Rich boy don’t have a guest room?” The anxious shake in your chest eased a bit as the banter broke out between you. Sam shook his head and stepped forward into your space again, his hands hovered over your shirt, his eyes flicking up to meet yours. Fuck, you were a sucker for brown eyes. 

“Can I?’ He asked. You nodded once. He lifted your shirt gingerly, his hands carefully avoiding actually touching your skin. He first assessed your stab wound, poking and prodding at the gauze before sliding one cold hand up, pressing painfully into your ribs. You gasped, grabbed his shoulder to steady yourself, and threaded your fingers into the fabric of his shirt. “I know, Darlin’, I know. Just lemme…” He ran his fingers along the line of your ribcage one more time before receding. His hand fell to your hip and held on, keeping you upright as you caught your breath. 

“How much longer are you gonna be doing that, exactly?” You gasped. 

“Well, seeing as you’re not getting surgery,” his tone betrayed his disapproval, “a while longer. I wanna make sure your chest wall maintains its integrity. One bone fragment in the wrong place can lead to a collapsed lung. I’m not lookin’ to pull you back from that particular precipice.” 

“Everybody’s so worried about my bone fragments.” You grinned. 

Sam produced an oversized t-shirt bearing the name of a medical college that you didn’t recognize and a pair of fleece pajama pants. He tried again, gentleman that he was, to put himself on the couch, but you wouldn’t have it. The two of you ended up on opposite sides of Sam’s insanely large bed. His blankets were plush and worn, well loved. Sam’s things were nice, nicer than you had expected from his appearance, but it was clear he used things about as far as he could. It was a habit you saw in yourself sometimes. You didn’t think you’d find it in some richy rich doctor with a giant house. 

Sam fell asleep quickly, his quiet puffs of breath evening out. You were so tired. You laid awake, watching out of the second story window as the trees moved in silent conversation. 

“His name is Quinn,” you whispered into the quiet of the room, “and I was in love with him. Was. Maybe I still am. He um… he was rough. But I like that. I thought I did.” You turned your head against Sam’s plush pillow. “He hurt me. Did… um… all of this shit to me.” Your fingers trailed over your face. “I gave as good as I got but… I am… I am scared of him. Really scared.” 

Silence filled the room in the wake of your rasping voice, nothing but the pounding of your heart and Sam’s quiet breaths to reply to you.

[24kaicy]

Redactober Day 12 Dealers' choice

Content warning for Bullying and violence against character.

Marie Greer is a woman who hated bullies when she was younger and even now. But her pack doesn't like it when women call out the behavior of their alpha and beta, regardless of how sinister it could be. This fell apart when Marie called out some of the pack kids who were bullying her son. This causes isolation in the pack as she scolds the kids of the pack's alpha. Marie and Colm decide to leave the pack when older kids cut his face on his chin and across his nose. Marie decides that Dahlia is safer for Colm and her son.

Marie was prepared for this new pack to be more of the same. She realized this pack was different when she saw that the sons of the alpha and beta decided that the greatest crime her son committed was not knowing what Mario Kart 64 was and defending him when people were mean to him.

Marie's biggest wish when moving to Dahlia was for Milo to have friends who protect and care for him.

[slushiepizza]

Marie and Mother Mary

Relationship : Marie & Milo Greer

Tags : Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Post-Partum Depression, Gender Roles, Catholicism, Motherhood, Italian American Marie Greer

Word Count : 1,510

ao3

Notes and Warnings:

this fic kind of surprised me because I'm not super into the Shaw Pack. But I do find Marie Greer's presence and bits and pieces we know of her character fascinating. I wanted to explore Marie's mind and feelings about being a mother when she's dealing with a gambling husband; and for her to raise someone like Milo Greer- she must've done a great job as a parent.

I took inspiration from my own experiences growing up with Catholicism and specifically in relation to the biblical Mary as a religious figure; and how mothers often find comfort in the thought of a figure who related in their struggles of motherhood and womanhood. It also has a theme of gender roles/ alluding to rigid gender identities because of the circumstances that Marie grew up in.

This fic isn't really... religious per se, and it takes more of a neutral standing while still criticizing how religion could be used to provoke feelings of personal guilt and trauma in someone who grew up in it, while also giving comfort to anyone that needed the universe to say that everything will be okay. If any of the themes may cause distress in you, I do implore you not read this fic, as consuming writing is a vulnerable activity.

The year was 1993. Marie Greer walked into the empty church lot with her baby in her arms. It had been decades since she last stepped on its stone floors. The security guard stationed outside looked at her strangely, but let her in once she asserted that she was there to pray.

She passed the main building for a small garden in the back. There were rows of wooden benches but nobody to be found. Good. Marie didn’t want company at the moment. To call it a garden was an overstatement- it was tiny and cramped, overgrown with vines. In front of the benches, the centerpiece of all the foliage was a statue of the Virgin Mary. Mother Mary, she thought, the double entendre not escaping her. 

As soon as she sat down right in front of the statue- Milo wailed inconsolably like he always did. 

The baby’s loud cries echoed disturbing whatever peace that was left from the place. Marie sighed, tired and weary, of this. He was an especially sensitive child, smaller than other babies his age. Marie was used to catering to people who’d fuss over the littlest things, Colm had a particular affinity for order and cleanliness whenever he came back from blowing his month’s earnings in a night, after all. The addition of Milo to the family just added more on her plate- she had to catalog every single one of his many allergies, and make sure that the room was never dusty because he’d have a coughing fit otherwise. The replacement of their popcorned ceiling had not been cheap, either, not with Colm leaving barely anything left after his trips to Vegas.

She did this all for love. For him. For her husband. But oftentimes, she felt like there was nothing left of her to give. Dry. Hollow. 

She shushed Milo and lightly rocked him in hopes that he’d calm down but to no avail. He thrashed and turned, his nails accidentally scratched her in the arm. Marie winced and tried to soothe him, lightly patting his back. It took thirty minutes of rocking and soothing Milo until the baby went back to sleep. 

St. Mary’s weathered ivory-colored face looked down at her, her expression blank and unmoving. Her lips were sculpted into a serene smile. Her pupil-less eyes gazed back at Marie. 

Just like any other Italian-American family at the time, church was a routine for Marie growing up. Her mother would dress them in their Sunday’s best and wrangled her and her seven unruly siblings into the building. “Quit fussin’ your pigtails, Marie. I did that real pretty for you,” she’d chide. They’d sit in the back of the church because tardiness ran in that family’s blood like a curse. 

Past the twelfth and thirteenth pews, God felt distant. 

Marie would follow everything diligently. She stood up when everyone else stood up as the priest lifted the circular white wafer, the body of Christ, above the altar. As a child, her height wouldn’t allow her to catch a single glimpse of it. She’d comfort her younger siblings whenever they’d make a ruckus. But the whole thing- it went one ear out of the other. 

She could’ve sworn she tried her best to listen and followed whatever the adults did. 

I have greatly sinned, escaped past her lips as she did the same thing she had now, rocking her baby sister in her arms. At the time, she hadn’t even lost her milk teeth. 

She stopped going when she married Colm. He was the opposite of the man her mother wanted her to marry, and in retrospect, she felt that it was one of the many reasons she liked him. His mind was raucous, his eyes wild and unmoored. Like nothing was holding him back. Colm used to be an ambitious man- the thrill of being an Investigator for DUMP perfect for his unrested soul. 

Marie loved that part of him, the fact that he’d question everything, unbelieving in anything unproven. 

He said that he wanted to purge the world of assholes- the unjust, those who hurt others for their own sake. As he turned in empowered criminals in the pursuit of it, he became one himself. 

Marie met St.Mary’s gaze- almost challenging her hollow stare. Something surged through her, from the ache in her back settling to her tight diaphragm.

After the birth of her boy, Mary couldn’t cook or clean. All she did was stay in bed. Her sister came by to help take care of the house while Colm stepped outside as usual. She said that it was normal, her body had been through hell, after all. But the heavy feeling, the heaviness that settled in her chest persisted for the next two months.

 Marie hated feeling helpless- her house a mess, and her baby cried constantly. She was a woman of action, and stagnation shackled her, leaving her trapped. Her visit to the psychiatrist- and the fourth edition of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual- had told her that it was depression with a postpartum onset. She told the doctor that she refused to accept that she was a ‘bozo who was sick in the head’ and that she will cure herself with a margarita and a sorely needed hair perm alongside a fresh coat of manicure. 

And look where that got her. Crying in front of a statue in church.

She still stared at the other Mary, the statue’s size and height caused her to look like she was looking down on whoever prayed in the confined space, guiding them iin a time of need. With that, for once, Marie realized that she was angry. 

She wasn’t stuck to her mattress, fatigued, and lacked energy because of sorrow- she was so angry, the weight of her job description as wife, mother, woman, wolf, dog, bitch- Marie weighed down on her like anchors. She was angry, at the fact that Colm was nowhere to be found throughout all this, angry at her mother- for making her a mother to her own siblings when she was barely a child, angry at the fact that she couldn’t even love her child properly because she no longer had any love left in the hollow of her heart. 

The emotions had clawed the insides of her ribs and caused her to let out heavy breaths- she was a dog panting for air when there was none. 

“When does it get easier,” she demanded to the Mother of all Mothers through gritted teeth. “Tell me, Mary,” she begged, desperate, as tears started to roll down her face. “Tell me!” 

“When does being a mother ever get any easier?”

Her voice was a whisper, barely audible, as she started to sob and heave quietly. 

A soft breeze blew past the branches of the trees that surrounded her. It moved the leaves and allowed them to move gently back and forth. The statue still looked down at her, hand slightly outstretched in a supposed kind, helpful gesture. Ants crawled from the crack in the marble, they moved past Mary’s dress down to the hem, circling around her exposed foot, past the head of the sneak that was crushed triumphantly under her toes. 

Marie sank into her seat, tired. She wiped her face with the back of her hand, sniffling. Unbecoming of her, she thought. She’d rather die than let anyone see her like this. But there was a comfort between women, she supposed. Damage from rain stained Mary’s cheek like tears- not unlike the thick mascara that currently ran down her own. The air was comfortable, easy, and Marie felt light. It reminded her of the 80s. Of girls in the bathroom of the disco, talking someone out of calling their past lovers as they applied lipstick and passed cigarettes between one another.

“I guess,” she sniffed. “I guess you know better, right?” she stared into a picture that hung on a distant wall. In it, St. Mary cried as she held Jesus' dying body. “He didn’t give you a hell of a good time either,” her voice cracked pathetically. 

Girl, tell me about it, Marie imagined the statue said. The Virgin Mary had the voice of her best friend in college. Is that not what being a mother is? The pain so bad, it feels like you’re splitting in two? Going through all seven hells for your baby’s sake?

“Why do we even put ourselves through this,” she chuckled sardonically. “If I wanted to go through pain, I’d rather just listen to Colm talk about whatever fish he caught on the weekend.” 

Mary didn’t answer, and Marie understood. Milo opened his big eyes in her arms and reached up to her with tiny hands. He giggled, light and oblivious to the puffiness of Mary’s face and the swell of her eyes. She cooed at him and held up a finger. Milo wrapped his hand around it, gentle. 

St. Mary’s serene smile was still plastered on her face, her hand outstretched in the air between them. 

[hott-brownn-sugarr]

marie on some social media platform (probably facebook) :

I’m looking to get rid of some of my son’s old clothing that he has left here in my home. There are pictures below for visual, if you’d like something please contact me.

Poor Milo gets flamed once this is posted and definitely wakes up to 100+ flashback pics from Asher

[romirola]

Headcanons for Redacted Characters’ Full Names

Some of these have come up in my fanfics. Others just live inside my head. Please enjoy. 

David Gabriel Shaw

Asher James-Darragh O’Connell (credit to @floofdeloop)

Milo Anthony Greer

Marie Rose Campenella Greer (credit to @frenchiefitzhere for the middle name)

Colm Maxwell Greer

Gabriel Irving Shaw

Samuel Benjamin Collins

William Erasmus Solaire

Vincent Christopher Solaire 

Lasko Francis Moore

Huxley Charles Goldman-Jackson

Damien Ibrahim Naoum

Geordi Plitzvarnivic

Elliott Ryan Wu

Aaron Lysander Blackshear

Oliver “Ollie” Tristan Castilla Rodriguez 

[grilledcheezy92]

Marie teaching the boys how to properly slow dance for the wedding.

[definitelynuwonhere]

REDACTEDTOBER DAY 22

MILO

—

“My Hero”

“What about you Milo? Which superhero are you dressing up as?”

The young boy perked up. Sitting himself upright before he spoke. Costume Parade was one of the only two things he looked forward to during this month and he was particularly excited about who he chose to go as this year with the theme being superheroes and all that.

“I’m going as SuperMa!” He announced cheerfully.

The kids squinted in confusion, “Did you mean, Superman? From DC?”

“No? SuperMa! It’s my Ma as a superhero” He clarified, showing them a drawing he’d made of his Ma in her classic blue stripped apron, gingham cape, and light beaming ladle.

“That doesn’t count!” The basic tyke protested, “Your mom isn’t a superhero”

“She is to me!” Argued the young shifter. Milo knew his costume choose didn’t necessarily fit the ‘classic’ superhero style, but as far as his 8 year old mind was concerned, his mom was his superhero.

—

Soon, Milo has arrived home. Kicking off his shoes and shutting the door with his heel. “I’m home” the boy announced, scanning the living room for any sign of his parents. He noticed the driveway had been empty, that means his dad wouldn’t be home for dinner, again. Which isn’t new. Milo barely saw his father, except on weekends, though he usually wasn’t sober during those. He gave a low sigh before making his way down the hall, where the growing smell of riped tomatoes filled his nose. A growing smile tugged on his lips as the sight of his Ma making dinner slowly came to view. And from the smell of it, tonight was gonna be spaghetti and meatballs, his absolute favorite.

He scurried his way over, peeping his little head over the counter to get in on the action.

“Hey bud, welcome home” She greeted, a warm welcome smile spread across her cheeks. “How was school?”

“It was ok” the bot replied, letting out a grunt as he pulled himself up to sit on the stool. “Made you something”

“Did you now? Well let’s see it” Her expression expectant as she turned to face him.

The boy’s face lit up, eager to show his Ma the drawing he made. Placing his backpack on the counter and pulling out his drawing, handing it to his Ma.

“Awe Milo, is this me?”

He nodded, watching his Ma place his work on the fridge, his little heart swelling with pride as his Ma gave him a proud smiled before walking over and affectionately ruffling his hair, which he responded with giggles.

“Do you like it?” He asked, his eyes practically glimmering with childlike enthusiasm, looking up his Ma expectantly.

“I love it, Sweetheart.” She praised, placing a soft kiss onto his soft curls, earning another giggle from the boy.

“Thank you.”

Milo smiled, the two of them falling into a comfortable silence as he observed his Ma work. And as he watched, he couldn’t help but think just how much of a superhero his Ma really is.

Like Superman, she was strong. Carrying anything, from groceries to overflowing laundry baskets, and anything that stood in her way, especially when she was vacuuming. She also has super speed, always managing to get all of us out the door, on time, not to mention how she always manages to swap out any junk he tries to sneak pass her with carrots and celery, that wasn’t fun.

But that was his Ma, constantly maintaining justice and peace over the Greer Household, and barely getting recognition for all her hard work.

Milo’s gaze soon switched to one of gratitude, realizing just how much of his mother’s sacrifice gets taken for granted. He continued to quietly observed, enjoying the quiet moment they shared, one of silence, where none needed to be said to know just how much love circled the air.

“Hey Ma” He spoke, his voice quiet and small.

“Yes sweetheart?” She hummed, briefly turning from the stove to face him.

“You’re my hero.”

—

This was really rushed cuz I wanted to get it out before the day ended so it’s a lil wacked, i’m not really satisfied with it but I’m just glad I got the idea out and It didn’t rot in my head. I hope you guys still like it - N

[starlitangels]

Marie Greer has one son

He’s the youngest of three brothers and a sister

He’s smaller than average but not by much. He looks like a blend of her and her mate, but damn if he doesn’t have her attitude. His father wasn’t home as often as he might have wanted to be—it was only natural

Marie Greer has one son. God only knows she wanted more—it just wasn’t in the cards

Perhaps a blessing in disguise. One more mouth to feed with finances as tight as they were while her son was growing up... Marie Greer can manage a lot of things and is more skilled at magic than the rest of her pack—but even she didn’t think she would have been able to pull that kind of magic off

The pack would have helped—of course they would have. But she didn’t want that kind of help. She was her son’s mother and no matter what, she would be the one to raise him right

Marie Greer has one son

Marie Greer spent twenty years mopping blood off three boys’ and one girl’s faces. Mending broken bones. Giving them a verbal kick in the ass for the physical one she healed

“Marie Greer has one son,” she hears her mate mutter as two more boys just barely older than her son sit at their dining table and put enough food away to feed five unempowered people—let alone growing shifters

Marie Greer has one son. There are cushions from the couch on the floor of his room. The pack alpha and beta had to handle business outside of Dahlia for a few nights. Sleepover

Marie Greer has one son. When he’s a teenager, another face joins the throng of teenagers in the pack. They always seem to have bruises and there’s blood in their eyes. They carry a fighter’s spirit just behind their teeth, lodged in their throat, never to be swallowed down—and Marie realizes a little bit of love helps them breathe around it

Marie Greer has one son

But for twenty years she’s received two bouquets of flowers on Mother’s Day. One with her son’s sharp, slightly messy penmanship on the attached little card, and one in very neat letters that almost appear typed, signed The Shaws. But a small name in those same neat letters sits on the other side. There is also a card in a girl’s small handwriting, almost sheepishly delivered with a Thanks for everything tucked into the corner

And when the Talbots left Dahlia to travel the world, a third bouquet joins for the next Mother’s Day. The card is illegible. That’s okay. Marie knows who it’s from. She’d recognize that chicken scratch anywhere—even if she can’t read it

Marie Greer has one son. When he starts seeing a Stealth more seriously than he’s ever dallied with partners before and chooses them as his mate, she accepts the Stealth as her own

Marie Greer has one son—but she cries when the girl moves halfway across the country. She cries for the boy made alpha too young—forced into impossible decisions as an attack descends and he’s responsible for keeping as many safe as possible. She cries for his beta—torn to shreds by monsters from beyond their realm of existence while there would never have been anything she could have done; she could only leave him in the hands of others who cared about him just as much as she does.

Most of all, Marie Greer cries for her son. Who won’t tell her exactly what happened—why his Core feels so brittle when she reaches out for it. She knows magic better than the rest of her pack. She doesn’t understand why it feels burnt. His mate doesn’t offer much, but they tell her he’s a hero who probably saved thousands of lives and may have given up his ability to shift because of it

Marie Greer cries for her son—even harder than before—when they’re on vacation and she sees his pelt gleaming in the moonlight as he chases three much larger wolves down the lake’s beach. The girl is gone, but the two boys he’d known most of his life and the wolf who’d joined as a young teen were still there. Tongues lolling out of mouths in the closest approximation a wolf snout could have to a smile. Chasing and wrestling. Wild and free

Marie Greer has one son. God only knows she wanted more—it just wasn’t in the cards

Marie Greer has one son

But she is the mother of four, sometimes five

[skunkox]

"Milo's mom, has got it goin' on.

She's all that I want, and I've waited for so long.

Milo can't you see? You're just not the Greer for me.

I know it might be wrong, but I'm in love with Milo's mom."

- Asher Tolbot probably..

Darlin' totally used to refer to Marie and Stiffler's mom when Asher was giving her the googoo eyes from across the room.

[moronkyne]

mommy issues is the reason I crave Marie Greer