#and everything is Acute and Scary

[hobisexually]

x

[luveline]

hey jade! maybe this is a tad more angsty than you'd like but could I request prison!Spence getting a visit from bombshell!reader and Amy? or a phonecall with them? q

ty for your request <3 mom!reader, 1.4k

“Best behaviour,” you’re whispering, hand on Amy’s small back, her shoe digging into your hip. “I’m serious, baby. Big feelings are okay, but we can’t be loud. We can’t shout.” 

She frowns. Amy’s been a little against you these last few weeks. “I’m not shouting.” 

“I know.” You try and fail to divide your attention between her and the line you’re following. You almost miss the sound of the buzzer that ushers you forward. “Okay, I’m right here. I know everything has been super scary, and you’re my brave girl, but I’m right here. You can tell me anything. Okay?” 

She rubs your chin with her nose. “Okay, mom.”

“Okay. Let’s go see daddy!” you cheer under your breath, enthusing your voice with some false joy. 

Your nerves threaten to make you sick, but you have to be the put together one. This is the strife part of the marriage you’d signed up for. Though no one can blame you for handling it poorly —who could ever expect Spencer to be where he is right now? 

You carry Amy into the penitentiary visitor’s room with apprehension, shoulders stiff, fingers aching against your little girl’s rough denim jacket. The room is laid out strangely, but there’s a clear division between the prisoners and the visitors, though there’s no overarching perspex. There are dividers, sure, but you can touch him. You can see him sitting near the middle of the room, his hair in violent disarray, his eyes locked onto you already. 

You speed up your walking. 

Desperate, your knee knocks into a chair as you try to touch his face. 

Spencer lets you for a half a second, before he moves away. “You’re not allowed to touch me,” he says, voice laden with a raw apologeticness that threatens to trip you up immediately. 

“Daddy!” Amy says, squirming in your arms, her foot on the desk as she tries to shove herself over the short partition. 

Spencer, in a dads instinct, reaches for her without thinking. “Amy, Amy,” he says. 

“No touching!” a guard shouts clearly. 

Spencer pushes Amy gently back into your arms and holds his arms up in surrender. The guard veers his way, but walks off again when he sees Spencer’s compliance. 

“Daddy,” she whines, holding out her hand. 

“Sit down,” Spencer says to you. 

You sit down. The gap between both you and Amy and Spencer widens, her little legs pumping restlessly into your thighs. You’ll be bruised as a soft pear when you go home, but you barely feel it now. 

“Shh,” you say, wrapping your arms around her like a straight jacket. You don’t really have a choice. “Shh, baby, shh. Remember what mommy said, okay? We have to be quiet, or they won’t let us see your daddy anymore. We have to follow the rules.” 

“It’s okay,” Spencer says. He clears his throat. “Hey, Amanda?” 

She looks up in surprise at her full first name. “What?” she asks. 

“God, it’s so good to see you.” His voice thickens with emotion, but he keeps a tight handle on it. “I miss you so much, sweetheart. So much.” He looks at you. “I miss you,”  he says again. 

“We miss you too.” You wipe your nose. “It’s weird just being mom and Amy at home.” 

Weird isn’t the right word. Amy has cried herself sick five nights a week for the last month, because if her mom is home, why isn’t her dad? Why can’t she talk to him? Where did he go? 

“When can you be home?” Amy asks, reaching toward the glass again. 

Spencer looks around the room before he reaches over the half-partition to hold her hand. He gives you a look: watch my back. 

“I don’t know yet,” he says, holding her hand tightly, and giving her fingers little squeezes, “I’m sorry, princess.” 

You give him a look of your own: change the subject. 

You miss Spencer more than you’ve ever missed another person. There’s never been a feeling as acute as this in your life, you don’t know what to do with yourself when you aren’t with him. The only thing you can do is be Amy’s mom, and you’ve always felt that Spencer made you better at it. Without him, you’re struggling. 

He looks like he can tell. 

He diverts his attention from you to Amy again, ducking his head, his face posed into his most loving smile. “You’re so pretty, just like your mommy. You’re getting prettier every day, aren’t you? Mommy told me you’ve been helping make your own dinner. That’s amazing. You’re my smart girl.” 

“I make– made our favourite last night.” She struggles over ‘favourite’, but she’s as smart as her father. The words come easily. “We had, uh– butter chicken! And mommy made…” 

You blink a small tear from the corner of your eye. “I made garlic naan. We toasted them under the grill, didn’t we?” you ask with a sniffle. 

“Yes!” She looks back at you. “Dad’s plate.” 

You wipe your cheek quickly. “We kept you some,” you say, fighting as hard as you can to stop yourself from crying at the table. You can’t break down here, and you won’t. “Amy was worried you’d come home and be hungry, so we saved you some.” 

Spencer leans far over the table to squeeze your wrist. Behind him, the prison guard begins making their way to your table.

“Spencer.” You lean away before he can get caught. 

Spencer snatches his hand back to grip the partition. 

He smiles. “Angel,” he says clearly, looking you straight in the eye, “you’re doing so good. I can’t believe how amazing you are.” 

“I’m gonna fix this,” you promise. 

“No, no, angel, I just need you to look after yourself, and my princess.” He gives Amy a smile dripping with affection. “She needs lots of looking after. Don’t you, Amy? I know mommy’s doing such a great job looking after you.” 

“I miss you,” she says. 

“I miss you too.” 

“Can I have a hug now?” 

He looks back, right into the watchful gaze of the guard. He turns back with a smile that’s nearly convincing. “Not right now, I probably don’t smell very nice, and they don’t want me to get my gross smell on you.” 

“Ew, daddy.” 

“Ew,” he agrees, wrinkling his nose. “I wish I smelled like you and mommy. What smell is it today, baby?” 

“Persimmon,” she says. She preens at the suggestion that she smells good, relaxing against your chest. 

You kiss her temple. 

“Persimmon,” Spencer says. He couldn’t sound more proud. “You know what? Persimmons have lots of meaning. They’re a symbol of perseverance.” He remembers to dumb it down. “People who eat lots of persimmons are strong, they can get through anything. Maybe when you and mommy go home, you can share a persimmon, and I can eat one here, and together we’ll be strong while we wait for me to come home.” 

“You can come home now,” Amy says. “Come home with us!” 

“I can’t,” he says gently. “It’s complicated.” 

“I think daddy has the right idea,” you say, interrupting his explanation unapologetically, “I think we should go to the market when we leave and pick all the different fruits, and I’ll send some for dad here, and we can eat them at the same time.” 

“Like a picnic?” 

“I can make little sandwiches, and we’ll get your teddies,” you agree. “Whatever you want. But first, I think you need to tell daddy all about this week. What book have we been reading? Oh, and we got you some new shoes ‘cos your feet got bigger!” 

He smiles lovingly. “Oh, they did?” he asks softly. 

You know he’s gutted.

(Spencer gets out of prison almost two whole months later. He gives Amy a huge box of tangerines (with the white lie that they are persimmons, hard to find in DC, and your sweet girl doesn’t know the difference yet) with a new pair of converse wrapped in a red silk bow, promising that he will never miss another fitting. He doesn’t know where to start with you, that much is obvious, he’s so grateful to be home and he’s sick to his stomach with guilt, too. He doesn’t realise the only thing you needed was for him to come back. 

The diamond necklace is a nice gesture, though not half as valuable as his face pressed to your neck as he sleeps, Amy on his stomach, their long fingers sticky with orange peels. It makes all your silent crying worth it.)

[lalunanymph]

𝟏𝟏:𝟒𝟗𝐏𝐌 ─── your husband notices everything about you—even the things you don't notice about yourself

˚୨୧⋆ sylus x wife!reader

˚୨୧⋆ warnings: wife!reader, reader has just given birth a few months ago, jealous sylus!!, pregnancy, implied mentions of a fight, injuries, mentions of b/lood, explicit s/mut, implication of o/ral, teasing, petnames (wife, darling, doll, sweetie), daddy k/ink, breeding, shamelessly self-indulgent AND very selfship-coded :')

Nothing ever escapes Sylus’ attention. 

Other than cunning resourcefulness being his trademark which many associate with ravens—his favorite bird—another marker of your husband’s personality is that like a hawk, he’s acutely aware of everything.

Tonight’s date night after you’ve given birth to the twins didn’t go exactly as planned.

While Sylus was in a convenience store, buying the both of you drinks to whet off the balminess of the summer evening, you were approached by an obviously drunk man who asked if you were here alone.

After countless times of trying (and failing) to convince him that your husband wouldn’t be too happy about his unwanted advances, the man in question whose ring is around your finger appears, tall and imposing.

Safe to say, the night ended with one bloody nose, and a pair of split knuckles, the latter being the ones you were currently patching up. 

Your husband is reclining back against the plush pillows, black dress shirt unbuttoned slightly and showing off the deep divot of his pecs. His face is a mixture of emotions—anger, frustration, possessiveness, a hint of concern. All coalescing into one tense ball he keeps close to his chest as the adrenaline from the encounter with that sleazebag still hums through his veins. 

You stow your phone back into your purse, sighing.

“I've texted Sara to keep the twins for the night. I think we're both too angry and might say or do something rash.” 

His expression softens and he lets out a sigh, the anger and tension slowly starting to ebb away as he gazes at you.

“... that’s good. I wouldn’t want them to see me in this state.” 

You sigh again, picking up his bandaged hands.

“Y’know, I did tell him my husband was a big, scary man, but he still persisted in demanding a date,” you bring your husband’s knuckles to your lips, kissing the contused flesh softly. 

Sylus grunts, rolling his eyes, though his expression softens at your sweet gesture. “Some people just don’t know when to take a hint… so, I had to make a point.”

You scoff, clutching his hands tighter. “Yes. By socking him in the face. Very classy.”

Instead of appearing reticent like a sane person would, Sylus chuckles. “Didn’t see you complaining when you were cooing all over me, patching up like a good, little wife.”

His words make a flash of heat run through you, and you shoot him an exasperated glare. “Well, at least you looked sexy doing it. Punching that asshole in the face. Consider that compensation for tonight’s turn of events," politely, you add, “Thank you for defending my honor, darling.”

He lets out a low chuckle, and wraps his arms around you, pulling you onto his lap. Crimson eyes darken with a mixture of desire and affection, his thumbs rubbing circles on your hips. 

“No need to thank me, sweetie. It’s always a pleasure of mine to defend your honor. No one gets to disrespect you without facing repercussions.” 

You squirm in his lap, hitching a breath when you feel his hands play with the straps of your dress. Slowly, he drags them down, touch hot and insistent as the pads of his fingers graze your bare shoulder.

“Really, Sylus?” You try to look vexed, but the breathlessness his touch incites only fuels him to misbehave further. “Defending me has seriously gotten you all hot and bothered?” 

Your husband grins at your teasing tone, a wicked gleam in his eye as he continues to push the straps of your dress down further, baring more of your skin to his heated stare. His hands continue to explore, tracing over your exposed skin. 

“Hmm. I suppose seeing you in danger… really ignited something in me. Hearing someone insult you and disrespect what’s mine… makes me want to claim you all over again.”

Warmth fills your cheeks, and you fail to fight back a shiver. “T-that doesn’t make any sense.” 

Sylus’ fingers are now trailing your collarbone, tracing the marks he left there from the night before.

“It doesn’t need to make sense, doll. It’s something primal. Seeing you in danger like that… and the look on your face when I punched that idiot senseless… It's titillating. I just want to claim my wife, remind you and everyone else that you belong to me, body and soul and future baby.” 

Heat licks down your spine, and you shudder at his words. 

“F-future baby?” 

Sylus’ hands snake to your bare back, caressing the expanse of skin with soft, ticklish circles. Without warning, he leans in, lips hovering close to your ear, his breath hot against your skin.

"Yes, doll. Future baby. I'm going to fill you with my seed. Breed you over and over until I'm sure you're pregnant. And in a few weeks, we'll have a mini-us growing in your belly, a physical reminder of my claim on you."

His words are soft and sound almost sweet, but the filthiness in them makes you gasp, involuntarily arching your body into his. 

“Sylus…”

The idea of him claiming you again so boldly after defending you from danger turns you on like nothing in this world can. You know you have much to discuss with him about having another baby, considering you had just given birth to Sabrina and Protus a few months ago. But, in this instance, desire overtakes logic and all you want is to feel your husband deep inside you again. 

His lips are cool when they touch your jugular, trailing down the column of your neck until they reach your heaving chest. 

“Sy…” you whisper, eyes fluttering close. “Stop… teasing me.” 

You want this, he realizes with a jolt. You want this as much as he does. 

He lets out a low chuckle, hands continuing to caress every inch of your skin. 

“Oh, my pretty little doll. It’s not teasing anymore. It’s a promise.” His lips touch your ear, the heat of his breath and words snapping the last of your resolve. “And you know I never break my promises, doll.” 

A whimper slips from your parted mouth. The heat in this room is too much to bear, pressing down on you with the weight of an ocean closing in.

You can barely breathe when you exhale, “Breed me. Please… breed me.” 

Your bastard of a husband grins at your desperate plea, his hands gripping your hips tighter. It’s the predatory confidence of a man who knows he has you completely at his mercy, begging for him to claim you completely. 

“Say it again,” his fingers dance to the hair at the nape of your neck, sinking his fingers into your soft locks and using it to snap your face up to meet his darkened gaze. “Tell me you want me to breed you. Tell me you want to only belong to me.” 

The bite of pain pulls a wanton moan from your trembling lips, and you lose all bearings and composure, giving in to the desire which always leaves you wanting more of him on your knees.

“Oh god... please... breed me, Daddy. Make me yours. P-put a baby inside of me and make me a mama again…” 

Sylus’ eyes darken at your plea, the possessive need flaring in his chest. Those blood-red eyes burn with the desire of keeping and making his promise come true.

“Lay back, sweetie. Go on—there’s a good girl.” His bigger body hovers over you, pressing you into the bed. “Good girl. You're such a good girl, doll. Asking Daddy to breed you, begging to be filled with my seed, to carry my baby. You're mine. Mine to breed, mine to claim. Mine to make you a mommy again."

His words whip through you like an electric shock. You gasp, eyes fluttering and body arching further into his touch. 

“Please… yes…” 

As much as his self-control is reaching its breaking point, he needs to hear the words coming straight from your mouth; his grip on your hips tighten, eyes darkening with possessiveness. 

"You want this, doll? You want Daddy to fill you up—make sure you're pregnant with my baby?"

Your nod is equal parts desperation and desire. You lick your lips, nodding.

“Yes,” your whisper is like a bullet tearing through his chest, leaving it hot and stinging with pure need. “Yes, I want it so badly.”

Sylus groans, your words igniting the unquenchable thirst inside of him to make you his, his, his. 

Tearing the flimsy dress off your frame, he digs his fingers into your hips, mouth leaving a burning trail of kisses and bites across your neck, your jaw, your chest. 

Your hands grapple at his clothing, pulling off his expensive, tailor-made button-down and slacks, reaching into the heart of him to expose him fully to your lustful gaze. 

He sucks and licks on your nipples until they become all puffy and swollen just for him, and the second you tell him you can’t take it anymore, Sylus stakes his claim by sinking inside of you—inch by delicious inch.

Your pretty, milky pink nails stab into his shoulders, dragging down red lines across the pale expanse of his back. Your heels dig into his hips, and the way you’re desperately clinging onto him, makes him wonder if you want to fuse your body as one with his. 

“Sy… Sylus…” 

Fuck. He digs his teeth into the soft flesh of your neck, strong hips snapping forward, giving you one powerful thrust after another. Your walls suck him so perfectly, like you were made for him. 

He fills you up over and over again, until every load becomes more painful. But, you can't get enough. You keen, beg, and cry for more, milking his promise to make you a mama again for what it’s worth.

Hours seem to pass, ravaging passages of time that are marked by more cum filling you; his shuddering, animalistic groans for you take it darling, take it all, take all of me like music to your ears.

Sylus collapses on top of you, breathing hard and red in the face. His chest heaves as he tries to catch his breath, his hand coming to rest gently on your stomach, caressing the soft skin with shaky fingers.

“Mhm… you’ll be the death of me one day, you know that, sweetie?” 

Giggling, you use what remains of your strength to twine your arms around his shoulders. The both of you stay like this for a while, slowly coming down from the high.

Briefly, your hand grazes your belly, and you wonder idly if what he promises has come true—if his seed has already taken.

Sylus, ever keen and observing, chuckles. It’s like he knows exactly what you're thinking. Planting a gentle kiss on top of your head, his voice is low and tender.

“I wouldn’t worry too much if I were you, sweetie. I have a feeling you're already pregnant with my baby."

Your eyes widen, and you give him a shock look. 

Stammering, you say, “How do you know?” 

But, you should know this is Sylus you’re talking about. Mastermind of the N109 Zone. The leader of the most notorious organization alive. 

He’s always two steps ahead of you, seeing what you can’t see, anticipating what you can’t expect. 

Your husband’s palm drifts down to join yours on your stomach, his hand gently resting on yours.

“Call it a lucky guess… or, intuition. A few little signs here and there. Besides, I'm not letting you out of my sight until you confirm it."

His words make your head spin, and you give him a look of reproachful intrigue.

“A… few signs here and there? What are you talking about?” 

Sylus nods, his touch reverent and tender. 

Without caring for your astonishment, he lays down his observations like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“Your scent has been different, sweeter, a little intoxicating. Your body is more sensitive, more responsive to my touch. And there's a glow about you, a soft flush on your cheeks, a sparkle in your eyes. It's subtle, but I notice when it comes to you, doll.” 

You gape at him, and without thinking, tighten your grip on your belly.

As if he has a sensor on you, Sylus immediately notices the subconscious gesture.

“Mhm... You've been doing that a lot lately, doll. Touching your belly, caressing your stomach, as if you're already feeling the baby growing inside you. It's adorable, but it's also a bit of a giveaway.”

His tone turns teasing and you flush, flustered beyond measure.

“Wh-what are you? Some kind of werewolf?” You hiss, “How're you so attentive?!”

Your husband chuckles again, amusing himself by brushing a strand of hair away from your face, his fingers gently tracing your jawline.

“It's not a matter of being a werewolf. It's just a matter of paying attention to the woman I love.” His grin turns soft, becoming tender at the edges. “I notice everything about you, doll. Every little detail, every change in your body, every little thing. I can't help it. I can't stop watching you. And you just happen to have a few tell-tale signs right now that are screaming 'pregnant'.”

Pouting, you glare at him churlishly, deciding to challenge him. But, underneath the pomp and bravado is an innate curiosity to see how far your husband’s perception can go.  

“Tell me more then, since I myself don't seem to notice anything.”  

Sylus grins at the sarcasm dripping from your tone, and decides to indulge you. 

“Hmm, you really want to know? Well, here's another one... Your taste has changed, darling. A little sweeter, a little richer. Something I can't seem to get enough of, but it also seems to have gotten stronger lately.” 

You blanch, warmth flushing your cheeks.

“You mean... whenever you eat me out... you noticed my taste? That's...” 

Your speechlessness amuses him, and he chuckles, voice growing deeper, laced with hunger and heat.

“I notice everything about you, remember? Even the smallest changes in your body,” he drawls, glancing at the spot between your thighs. “Especially when it comes to the places I spend the most time on, tasting and exploring... Every. Single. Time.”

He punctuates his words with soft kisses to your neck, flustering you even more.

All you can mutter is a cute, little, “Hmph,” scowling and fanning your cheeks. 

Sylus adores your reaction to his words, and leans in, his lips brushing against your neck, teasing your skin.

“Mhm... why are you scowling at me? Are you embarrassed? Are you... thinking about all the times I've tasted and explored you, doll? I can practically see the memories playing in your head… it's delicious.”

You squeak, slapping a palm to his mouth, feeling like your face is hot enough to explode.

“Sylus!” 

He laughs, though the sound is muffled against your palm. His hand drifts down to your belly again, the gleam in his eyes possessive this time. 

The white-haired devil pries your hand from his mouth, kissing your wrist and placing it back down onto the bed. “Oh, doll. You're just too cute when you're flustered. And it's even cuter when you try to shut me up. It just makes me want to tease you more, Y/N.” 

Emboldened and somewhat foolish, you plaster on your faux confidence, egging him on. 

“Oh, yeah? Well, I think you’re dead wrong.” 

Sylus snorts, finding your foolish certainty endearing. 

“Are you doubting my observation skills? Are you saying I haven't noticed a thing? That I'm not paying attention to the little changes in your body… that I haven't noticed how you're reacting?”

You smirk, nodding. 

“Mhm hmm. I know my body better than you, Sy. You may be my husband, but I’ve been living in this meat suit for years. And I’ll know when I’m pregnant. Besides—” you giggle, enjoying the look of faint amusement spreading across his features. “—I bet you a hundred dollars that if I take a test right now, it’ll come back negative.” 

Sylus cocks a brow, eyes glistening with the challenge. 

You continue, oblivious to his smirk. “My period is due in a week, and I don’t have morning sickness, nor do I have any cravings. Besides, weren’t you the one who said we have to plan our family smarter? Why do you want to be right so badly?” 

Your husband chuckles, enjoying your bold confidence. His grip on your hip tightens, and he kneads the flesh, shrugging. 

“You’re so endlessly fascinating, doll. Yes, I do think we should space out conception times, but I never did say I wouldn't want more babies. Especially when they are living proof of our commitment and love for each other.”

Oh. You swallow hard. When he puts it that way…

But, you’re much too thick headed to give in. 

You cup his cheek, gaze softening, though the spark of a challenge remains in your eyes. 

“Fine. We’ll see who’s right tomorrow.” 

Sylus grabs your hand, enjoying the warmth of your skin with a touch of feral amusement in his crimson eyes. “And if I’m right? What is my reward, doll?” 

Grinning, you tease, “A hundred dollars.”

Your husband tilts his head to the side, as if considering your strange wager.

“... make that a hundred kisses and a dinner, doll. I don’t want your money.” 

Scoffing, you roll your eyes. A hundred kisses and a dinner—that’s easy for you. 

“Fine. We’ll see that I’m right tomorrow, then.” 

Night fades and the next day dawns.

You wake up to an empty bed, sheets rumpled and still warm. Your eyes land upon an innocuous pregnancy kit on the side table, fresh from the store.

Sylus is nowhere to be seen, though you suspect he’s downstairs in the kitchen sipping on a cup of coffee. Not wanting to look like you were chickening out of this bet, you huff and go straight into the bathroom, putting the test to use.

You’re going to win this bet, and Sylus will have to eat his words. There is no way your husband would be correct. All he has is a hunch while you know your body inside and out. 

No singular person in the world, not even the one you share a bed with every night, can claim to predict something as mercurial and unpredictable as a pregnancy which hasn’t happened yet—unless they were a prophet or someone from the world of Dune, you think with a scoff.

The timer goes off and you grasp the test, about to smirk and prance downstairs to show Sylus how far off his observation was, when you come to a hard pause.

“...”

You blink, checking the test and rechecking it again. You look at it closer to the light, scrutinizing the stupid white stick from front to back, wondering if it’s faulty or broken.

A languid knock on the door interrupts your thoughts, and you look up to find your husband leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed and an infuriating smirk on his face.

“Go ahead, doll,” he gloats, noticing your reaction, the pallor of shock written all over your face. “Read the result out loud to me.” 

You swallow hard, setting the test down in defeat.

“Impossible.”

But, knowing how competitive your husband can be, he’s not going down without a fight.

“And the result is…?” 

Tossing him a scowl, you throw your hands up in the air, caving in so he can pipe down and just kiss you already. 

“Positive,” you groan, wrapping your arms around him. Sylus responds without a shred of hesitation, grasping your smaller body and holding it tightly to his, secretly elated at this reveal. The ghost of his chuckle brushes your neck.

“Yeah, doll? Say it again. Tell me I’m right.” 

You exhale a watery giggle, tears filling your eyes. The feeling of pure love fills your chest, and you look at him like he’s hung the moon up in your sky.

You’re going to be a mommy again; Sylus has made his promise come true. 

Touching your forehead to his, you breathe in his comforting scent, feeling the softness of his sleeping robe underneath your palms on his chest.

“You’re right, darling. You’re always right,” you whisper, the love you feel for your husband overflowing from your eyes. “It’s positive.” 

Nothing ever escapes Sylus' hawk-like attention, and for that, you love him a little more than you did before.

sydawn lore: we have twins together—a baby girl and a baby boy named sabrina and protus. initially, the scans and tests only picked up sabrina and it was literally on the surgical table when the doctors made a discovery that there was another whole ass baby inside of me (they called it a shadow pregnancy when one twin completely overshadows another) so long story short, we have two babies together with a third on the way :,) ok thx for reading bye !

— reblogs and feedback are seriously appreciated !! thank you all for your support <3

© lalunanymph. do not copy elements of my selfship and reproduce it into your own bodies of work. do not translate and share across on other platforms.

[scivors]

Andre Nikto head canons

We have little information about Niko but here's what I've gathered..

((Also I'd like to kindly add, hi, hello, my name is Mika and I am a Bosnian. The chances of me adding some accurate slav head canons are always high but never low!!🙏🏻 ALSO IM TERRIBLY OBSESSED WITH NIKTO SO IF ENJOY THIS AND YOU WANT DATING NIKTO HEAD CANONS PLEASE LET ME KNOWWW))

Genuine head canons:

Andre Nikto (Никто) is a (scary) Russian military man, roughly 193/194 centimetres (when you compare him to Simon's height) He suffers with acute dissociative disorder (better said DID) yet is still serving the military cause of how he preforms during battle.., so the military still views him as a ideal soldier for combat despite his disorder..

No hate but from what I've seen in some art works claiming it's his "face reveal" you people have to understand that under his mask, his face is disfigured.. so, no he won't be an attractive super model under that mask of his..

I don't think you people are aware how badass Nikto is as a character, almost SIMILAR as Ghost who's in the military for the same reason as everybody else, to risk their life.

Although judging by Nikto's voice lines, he doesn't care who he's killing..if it were up to him, if his teammates serve him zero purpose he'd care less if they die..(after all, you're just a target..) but being a professional, he can't allow that to happen to his teammates

If you look up closely, Nikto wears a military uniform that is different from everyone else with MP-0 written on it. Now if you don't know, MP stands for Military Police (enforcement agencies connected with, or part of, the military of a state.) and zero next to it meaning "nothing" and this is important which is what Nikto refers himself as..

Yeah so about that..

I have a theory about Nikto's nickname

After being captured and brutally tortured with whatever sick tendency mister Z had in store for him. It was Mister Z that couldn't really get much Information about Andre.

They would start torturing him while repeating to Andre that he's nothing, he's no one, what he is is nothing but what he is is everything. Those words play in the back of his head and they never seen to go away.

(This is extremely relevant cause Mister Z tried to get to know a bit of Andre by looking through some research come to find his citizenship and language are censored making him a nobody. Keep in mind, if he found any information about Andre viewing from personal life etc. it will be used as blackmail..)

After recovering his scars and taken to therapy after 7 years he was diagnosed with DID

NOW moving on to the DID part

(What I said about the fact that people overlook Nikto's disorder, I mean it..

Some don't really write about his disorder which is fine but when someone does it gets messy. )

Alters aren't easy to deal with, it's actually gonna haunt you till the day that you die cause there's no cure for it. And in Nikto's case it's from PTSD and Nikto is very aware of his alters..

Let me tell you how Nikto's disorder affects him. Switching can be consensual, forced or triggered, Nikto values silence as much as the next person cause he's dealing with much inside his head already. The kind of guy that would "watch TV" while dissociating with a 100 yard glare with very slow blinking and a slight headache..

There are times where his personalities would correct him when hes referring to himself (example: I'm up..(his personality correctes him) WE'RE up..)

"He made us do this" (and other voice lines I can't recall..)

Maybe cut bits of an apple with a knife and eat it while watching TV..

He has medication prescribed for him but he didn't wanna depend on medications cause they're just drugs..they're nothing to him but just drugs..

He has dissociative amnesia too, sometimes he would wander around confused maybe even annoyed. The amnesia appears to be caused by traumatic or stressful experiences endured or witnessed..Although the forgotten information may be inaccessible to consciousness, it sometimes continues to influence behavior

Like I said he likes quiet people, someone who doesn't waste their air on small talk..

Example; don't really talk to him about the weather, unless you have something interesting to say but if the conversation is gonna go nowhere , don't talk..he finds that a waste of time

People assume just because he's Russian that he likes vodka, he doesn't like vodka...-He doesn't like any alcoholic beverage cause it makes his problems a lot worse,...maybe If you were lending him some as an offering, he'll take it but he has SOME self control, he's okay with coffee, though..

It's relevant cause he stays awake at late hours since he finds it difficult to sleep, he'll stay up late with no music, nothing, just a silent room. It doesn't matter if he tries the military tactic where you just close your eyes and turn off your thoughts, it's very different when you have voices screaming inside your head...

Despite everything he's still intelligent, so being smart + strength + sharp reflexes and you got yourself a criminal

Death doesn't phase him, but to him death is like sleeping, he's not scared of death considering that he's been through hell those past few months.

He likes the simple things, don't complicate anything..because he's quick with catching an attitude..be blunt and forward and stumble over your words..

Nikto shows confidence in the battlefield,just like König, except he has a high rush of adrenaline and will laugh at the enemies death.

Fun fact: in this one comic Price calls Nikto "psycho"

And it's without a doubt that he is one.., a sadistic, sociopathic, psychopath

After splitting, his alters can and will get more aggressive and do more harm and damage to others cause they're doing the most at protecting the host.. (depending on the alter, some wanna protect him while some wanna hurt him)

Oh by the way about the intelligence part, I mean he has a good good memory with remembering faces..

He doesn't like people looking at him funny, he'll get angry really fast and annoyed at the same time.., he won't show hesitation when it comes to approaching you and asking you what are you looking at (it's like trying to avoid eye contact with a homeless man Infront of a store, that's how scared you would be)

He's slow with jokes or any form of humor that you throw at him??? You'll be excited to tell him a joke, and when you do he just looks at you and tells you never to do that again..,or just straight up tell you he doesn't get it...??? and probably trying to explain it either he gets it or not he'll still tell you that it's not funny

He doesn't argue, or he does? Arguing with him will costs you avoiding getting objects thrown at you so you can get out of his sight..tragic, now you have a teammate that hates your guts and won't apologize for it.

[piper-2244]

sophrosyne

how liaison intern!reader and spencer grapple with a recent case that's taken an individual toll on them

angst! eeek! word count: 1277 warnings & tags & stuff: lowkey sad, reader cries a little, mentions of schizophrenia (in an unsub), and correlations to spencer/diana are hinted at, it’s mentioned that that unsub gets shot, like the beginnings of a crush showing but otherwise no fluff, just gentle spence as always, social commentary & my personal thoughts on our justice system definitely peek through. very first attempt at some bigger sad scary feelings authors note: hi!!! im alive!!! and guess what!! its my birthday!! i'm 20 which is totally insane. anyway i missed you all and i HAVE been writing, just not posting. it just got like too much when it registered that THAT many people are reading my stuff, yk? i do appreciate all the love SO MUCH but its still a little scary. anyway. i hope you enjoy, i think this is an interesting one? not sure. i fear my intentions for it may have gotten lost in the writing so please let me know if it doesn't make any sense. okay have a superb day ily!!!

Spencer is spinning and he won’t stop and it’s hypnotic.

There’s a little squeak coming from the chair with each turn that sends goosebumps down your legs, filling the otherwise silent bullpen with noise.

You imagine it must be a little sickening, or at least uncomfortable, spinning in a chair for such a long amount of time. You're honestly a little concerned. His legs are crossed like a child’s.

The look on his face—one that you can't quite make out right now due to his motions—has been the same for the better part of the afternoon. That was concerning. It’s so contemplative and stoic. Like an old Greek statue, Odysseus? you think, carved from marble, weathered to the point of near crumbling.

But this case, this case, the one you got back from exactly four hours and twenty two minutes ago, wasn’t anything too bad, was it?

You blink at that thought, taken aback with yourself, the empathy hitting you like a wave. Of course it was bad. They’re all bad. People are dead. All those families are broken in ways that won’t ever heal.

Your second month as an intern under Agent Jareau, working to become a liaison just like her, proved to be almost everything that one grouchy ex-FBI-Agent-turned-guidance-counselor at your university said it would be. 

Harsh. Sad. Cold. It will strip you of your sensitivity. Your gentleness.

But this case. It had a sharper edge to it than the rest, slicing the littlest bit deeper into your skin. A lingering heaviness weighed on your chest. Were you the only one who felt it? Clearly not, if this guy spinning in his chair was any indication. 

Most of the bullpen had cleared out, leaving only the mess of the team’s half-finished mugs behind in the sink. You had stayed though, needing to shake this weight off before you brought it home with you. The last file of the day is spread out on your desk, but you’re far from it, standing across the room by the coffee machine. Hiding. 

You pour two cups, unable to stop the methodical replay of the case in your mind. Not just the brutal MO, but the bigger picture. The circumstances. The diagnosis. The history.

Agent Jareau had made it your responsibility to take care of all the family-related files.

Male, aged 30, diagnosed with acute schizophrenia at age 22. Stabbed 6 women in the throat.

Family history of disorder? (Check one) : Y ☐ N ☐

The unsub, his father, his aunt, and his grandfather. They all had the same last name, bump on their nose, gap between their teeth, and identical diagnoses of schizophrenia. A twisted family tree. The branches, the unsub’s fate.

You turn toward the spinning blur of the chair, unsure if Spencer even knows you're there.

… 

Ceramic scrapes against wood. Still warm, it leaves a condensation trail in its path. “I added a bunch of sugar,” you offer quietly, unsure if he’ll even acknowledge it. 

Spencer slows. He doesn't reach for the mug like you’d hoped, but he stops spinning. Small victories.

He stares down at the file in front of him, and for a second you wonder if your interruption made things worse. That little groove between his eyebrows- today, there more often than not- shows up, a problem trying to become untangled in his mind. 

You really should go. Leave him alone, Spencer clearly has his own things to sort out. But your legs are tethered to the ground. Maybe it's due to the fact that he just got a new haircut, and it’s nice. Really nice. Or maybe it’s because you, too, feel like getting lost in your own head right now. 

You swallow. “You okay?” you ask, before you can help yourself, and you regret it instantly. It sounds too personal, too sudden, too much, like teeth clashing during a kiss. You're intruding on something that Spencer isn’t prepared to share, something unfinished.

His eyes finally land on you for a split second, and he gives you a nod, shallow and unconvincing. You know better than to push for the truth.

You lean on the edge of his desk, keeping your distance but not leaving. You stare into the swirls of your coffee, fingers drumming on the side of your mug. This moment is fragile, you know, and yet you’re unable to stop yourself from talking. A chronic weakness, on your part. “I don’t think this case was…” you pause, searching for the right words. “It wasn’t like the others, was it?” 

Spencer looks at you again, for a beat longer than you expect. The tension in his face softens, just a little. You see it too.

“No,” he says finally, voice low. “It wasn’t.” 

There's something in the way he looks at you that makes your heart pound. There’s a sense of openness to it. He’s not exactly confiding in you, not yet. But he’s also not completely shutting you out, either.

Strange. The total opposite of what you’d expect. You keep talking.

"Everything he did was just a clear demonstration of his schizophrenia, which is genetic and so prevalent in his family. I just keep feeling like… like it wasn’t his fault. Like it was predetermined. And he died for it,” you ramble quietly. “Morgan shot him.” Your voice breaks.

He stills, not saying anything for a beat.

“He wasn’t given much of a fighting chance, was he?” Spencer asks quietly, almost to himself. Like the question was a familiar one. His eyes drift over the file, the unsub’s family members listed front and center. There's something sad in his gaze. Resigned. Like he’s thought about this before.

You shake your head.

“I think,” Spencer starts softly, staring at a point on the floor, voice barely above a whisper. “You're the only one here who sees it. The way we villainize them.” The words sting in a way you didn’t expect.

Silence rings between you two. It’s thick, and nothing but sad. The weight of the case, of the pain, of the impossibility of it all hangs in the air like a dark cloud.

You dip your head, a sudden tear slipping down your cheek and falling into the fabric of your brand new dress pants. Your hands hold the edge of the table behind you and you inhale shakily. 

“I don’t know if I’m cut out for this job,” you whisper after a long while, the words delicate.

Silence hangs between you two again. Then, his voice, thoughtful and deliberate and caring, breaks it up. 

“I don’t think it’s about being cut out for it. It’s not about being tough. It’s about being able to hold that much emotion without letting it break you, because you recognize the alternative of not doing the job would be worse. And it’s hard. It’s so… hard. But you’re doing that. You're doing really well.”

You blink, surprised by the calmness in Spencer’s words. The logic is almost comforting in and of itself, in a way.

“Not everyone can hold that much empathy,” Spencer continues, his voice low. “We need more of that, the team does.”

Your throat tightens. 

“I'm sorry,” you say, your voice small. “I didn't mean to put this all on you.” Spencer shakes his head, not minding. 

“You should go home and get some sleep. Maybe it’ll be a little better in the morning. It usually is.” 

You nod, but you don’t move right away. You feel like the moment you leave, you’ll slip from this edge you’ve been teetering on.

“You go,” you eventually say, quiet. “I’m gonna wash all those mugs people left in the sink.”

[andreas-river]

NIKTO HEADCANONS (but realistic)

TW: sexual themes, acute dissociative disorder mentioned, this man has definitely been through a lot.

A/N: I don't think I need to say this, but these headcanons are strictly from my perspective. Like many other people here, I enjoy writing for this character, and I have a lot of projects for the future. Anyway, y'all enjoy!

→ He loves cup noodles. He gives the vibes of eating them because they are quick to make and saves him a lot of time. But he’s skilled in the kitchen. Dmitry once founded him cooking in the kitchen’s base in the middle of the night. A glance from him was enough for Dmitry to turn around and walk away with another secret to hide.

→ He’s friendly only in private and only with his team, and obviously Sputnik. He feels comfortable around them, and he laughs only with them. He doesn’t hang out though. He doesn’t like public spaces at all.

→ Diagnosed with Acute dissociative disorder which may include symptoms of other dissociative disorders including dissociative identity disorder (source). This means that he experienced episodes where he dissociated, but since it’s acute, he had short but severe episodes (no, he’s not out of his mind). In my opinion, he doesn’t take any meds, or he would be discharged from the service. But he probably has periodic sessions with a therapist.

→ Possessing a hyena pet helped him find some balance in his life. For him, it’s like having a common dog, it doesn’t make any difference for him. He always finds it amusing when he uses him to scare Rodion, making him scream like a teenager. That’s how he discovered that Rodion doesn’t like anything that resembles a dog, even if Sputnik is a hyena. And he obviously uses this knowledge to his advantage.

→ He is neither hyposexual nor hypersexual (no, he’s not a pervert either). He actually has a normal relationship with sex and all the things that comes with. He doesn’t like sex without feelings. But if it needs it, he definitely jerks off at night.

→ He prioritize trust above everything, if he’s interested in someone. It will probably take him months to trust someone. Definitely a lot of trust issues, he’s really careful when he meet someone new.

→ Definitely not a religious person. He went through so much in his life that he’s more of a ‘realist’ person. He doesn’t think that there is a god, at all.

→ With the right person, he can be very protective: he has the ‘scary dog privilege’, and no one would definitely mess around with a masked big guy all dressed in black (most of the times).

→ He’s a reserved person and he appreciate the silence, especially if someone respect his own silence. Conversations with him can lead to a whole bunch of different topics at a deep level, and he loves when someone actually understand what he’s saying. He has a lot of knowledge and he used to read a lot of books, especially when he was a teen, and even more growing up and when he was recovering from his trauma. He still reads, and when he isn’t going to be deployed in a short time, he reads a lot during the night.

→ His trauma led him to a lot of insomnia, and a lot of nightmares when he actually manage to fall asleep. So, he usually goes for a walk, or he goes training, trying to take his mind off things.

→ Panic attacks are an occurrence, but he learned to acknowledge the symptoms even before it happens. He usually walks back to his room, finding the silence the thing that calms him the most. When he can’t go back to his room, the rest of the team usually has his back, and always managing to work something out. Every time they find a different solution, and that’s what helps him.

→ No one knows his past (and maybe it's better this way). Only Kamarov knows that he had to endure some bad shit back when he was a teenager. I can imagine living his years with her babushka before enlisting in the military. He doesn’t care about his parents since he lived in a toxic environment. Definitely doesn’t talk about it at all.

[creative-clawmarks]

So I wanna talk paralytics and paralysis in regards to Alex's venom (bc I like going on random science deep dives) SO- as I understand it- there are a few different types of paralytics which affect different bodily functions via different methods, but when most people think of temporary paralysis, they think of neuromuscular paralysis, which is what doctors use during surgeries, and some species of jellyfish and snake use to be absolutely terrifying.

Neuromuscular agents won't knock a person out or prevent pain, they just prevent movement. The problem here is that the diaphragm is a skeletal muscle and is affected by neuromuscular paralysis, meaning that without a ventilator or another breathing apparatus, suffocation is practically guaranteed. Really this applies to all neuromuscular agents/neurotoxins.

Here's the interesting thing I found however- Tick Paralysis, which doesn't always affect breathing. Usually starts out as acute ataxia (muscle weakness) and can progress to muscular paralysis if the tick isn't removed. While tick paralysis is also caused by a neurotoxin, my guess is that because ticks are so small the venom isn't particularly potent, and they don't produce a ton of it.

For Alex's venom to not outright kill via asphyxiation, the potency would probably have to be low enough to allow for diaphragm movement (though probably still weakened) but high enough to trap prey, which is a hell of a needle to thread. That, or it's a neurotoxin that specifically avoids effecting the diaphragm, which doesn't really exist as far as I know (then again, vampires don't either)

TL:DR - Neurotoxins are scary as hell and it's likely that someone envenomed by Alex would experience weakened breathing, if not outright suffocation.

(there's a 2008 movie called The Burrowers where the monsters use a venom that effectively causes Locked-in syndrome, but the science is kinda iffy. Roanoke Gaming as a video on it)

You've given me the perfect opportunity to go into depth on this.

So there's this trope I see in vampire stories where something about the vampire's bite makes it so their victims don't struggle. Usually this is due to supernatural influence, a charm or compulsion that makes the bite pleasant instead of painful.

But I wanted the bite to be painful, and more than that I wanted just the idea of being bitten to be terrifying. So I though, what is something naturally occurring that makes it so that something can't move but can still feel pain?

Why, paralytic venom of course!

(I then proceeded to do zero research lol.)

With this new information I can confidently say that, yes, Alex's venom is a neuromuscular paralytic. It makes it so that his prey cannot escape but leaves them conscious and able to feel pain. It does not, however, bring a risk of asphyxiation, because if Alex is going to kill someone I want it to be on purpose. I suppose that means his venom doesn't target the respiratory system, which considering we're talking about fictional monsters I'm gonna say we can suspend our disbelief here.

Humans stand basically no chance against something like that, but other monsters could fight if off much faster due to their regenerative abilities. That's how Tim survived Entry 56/57, Alex was banking on his venom to keep Tim down but instead he shook it off and managed to flee. He would've gotten away if it weren't for the Operator.

Ok, that should be everything...

"But wait!" I hear you cry, "If Alex's venom is super scary and not at all pleasant, then why does Jay like getting bitten by him?"

Because Jay is a freak. Next question.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

KO-FI

[itoshiexx]

the garden of your heart

you are now reading... LENA'S 1K MILESTONE EVENT FIC!

↳ isagi yoichi + nepenthe (n.) - something that can make you forget grief or suffering

synopsis: when the weight of loss threatens to crush your bones, isagi yoichi becomes the solace you need.

notes: hi guys. i wasn't planning on posting this so soon, but then again, i wasn't planning on my dog dying and experiencing grief first hand either, so this flowed out of me as a form of comfort. thank you for requesting @popponn, love you dear <3

event masterlist

grief came in a wavelength of darkness; one that covered every seam and corner of your skin until it swallowed you whole. grief carved its way deep into your heart, leaving behind a hole that burned every time your chest expanded to try to breathe. grief had an iron grip on the base of your throat, choking down the words of disbelief and the acute sorrow of your cries that insisted on keep coming out, despite the irritation on the skin of your eyes. 

grief, you thought, was kind of like facing death one on one, shivering upon its wicked smile, watching helplessly as it takes away something you cherish and treasure with all your heart.

“baby, have you eaten yet?”

you can barely register the words coming out of yoichi’s mouth, too engrossed in staring at the white ceiling and reliving the last 24 hours on an endless, torturous loop. you try to blink away the images of your loved one dead, but they keep coming and opening the dam that releases your infinite tears. you’ve lost count on how many of them you have already shed.

(it seems like it could fill the pacific ocean).

“baby?” he tries again, gently poking your body. with great strength, you manage to look at him. 

grief took away the sparkle of life in your orbs, almost as if you were the one who passed — because, in reality, a part of you did die with them. grief made you feel incomplete, sensing an emptiness that was never there before, but that would perpetually be from then on.

yoichi smiles, and it feels like a beam of light on your little dark bubble. 

“there you are. my pretty baby.” he runs his fingers through your hair, trying to soothe the fresh wounds of your soul, even for just a moment. “what would you like to eat? i’ll cook for you.”

you feel the tears once again prickle your lash line, but you fight the quiver of your lips and the cement block lodged in your throat. “i’m… ’m not hungry.”

grief made you lose your appetite. it made you lose a lot of things.

(ironic, considering it all began from loss itself).

your boyfriend frowns, “you know you need to eat, honey. at least a little bit.”

guilt starts gathering in your guts. you don’t want to worry your boyfriend — your sweet, kind boyfriend who is always by your side — because what if you lose him too? what would you do with another hole in your life, in your heart? how could you bear the weight of another loss without letting grief take over you completely?

“hey, hey… don’t cry, pretty. i’m sorry,” yoichi is quick to say, turning until he’s face to face with you. he sits on the edge of the couch and brings your face to his warm chest, drawing circular motions on your back to try and calm you down.

you didn’t even realize when you started crying again, but you let it flow. although everything in the world seems fragile and scary, you know you can always count on isagi to be your safe space. 

because your lover’s heart is like a garden — a place where the birds chirp and the flowers continuously bloom, even when they are faced with drought. a spot where the breeze gently blows your hair and kisses your wounds, no matter how deep they are. a space where you can rest and recharge, allowing yourself to be vulnerable. 

(you don’t have to be strong all the time).

yoichi’s heart is the one slot of the whole universe where you know you can find peace from your worst nightmares. 

“what do you want me to do, pretty? how can i help you feel better?” he asks, voice slightly shaken with concern. it makes your heart swell, and maybe, just maybe, you think you can be alright. 

“just hold me,” you murmur. 

because it’s love that fills the holes and makes you forget grief. even if it’s just for a little while.

© 2024 itoshiexx. do not plagarise, translate, or repost any of my work on here or other sites.

[wannabugi]

the only person who rly recognized li xiangyi w/o any prompting is zhan yunfei.

can we just talk about that.

they met when they were both teenagers, both equally as prideful, as good in their field. so prideful they make a stupid bet where one of them will never be able to tie his hair up again even though he's obsessed over his hair. and zhan yunfei loses, he watches his hair tie flicker in li xiangyi's grasp, and maybe he feels a sting of indignation and fury, but mostly he feels respect.

he grudgingly bows and turns away from li xiangyi's smug smile. he never ties up his hair again.

months later, he hears that li xiangyi dies. he sits alone on a rooftop and watches the moon and drinks and drinks and drinks.

he never ties up his hair again.

years pass. he becomes more steadfast and then older. or maybe it's the other way around--he becomes older, and then more steadfast. either way, he sees a shadow of an arrogant, playful boy with a red ribbon in his hair and a sword that flies like the wind in this girl with dark robes and a haughty look on her face. she's not very good with the sword, but she talks like she's still young and can win against the world, and she challenges him to a duel.

the weight of his sword is familiar in his hand. he accepts.

he loses.

he's not sure how. maybe he was distracted by the look of utter concentration on her face, or the spark in her eyes when she uses her first device and catches him off guard, or the gleeful laughter she lets out when she finally points her sword against his neck. there's still a few inches, and if he really wanted to, he could flick it away and take the upper hand. but he doesn't really want to.

he smiles and bows.

"young master he, my loyalty is yours."

years pass. he stays in the periphery of miss he's life. she finds him, sometimes, on warm afternoons and asks to duel. she never wins again, but she's happy enough sparring against him. she always casts a questioning glance to his tangled mane of hair, but never asks. he thinks he might be a little bit in love.

but the world is cruel and dangerous. he knows, because the world killed the eighteen year old who became the best and lost everything on the way. he's no use to miss he as a husband, so he remains in the periphery of her life, orbiting, steadfast.

he grows old in a way li xiangyi would never.

years pass. li xiangyi has been dead for 10 years. he could have tied his hair up by year 6, really, when he and all of 武林 no longer felt the loss so acutely, but he never ties his hair up again.

years pass. he sees a man dressed in pale robes, hair neatly arranged in a way that suggests he doesn't do much physical activity. he looks like a scholar, long hair floating gently in the wind. the man looks at him for a little longer than propriety calls for. his eyes flick between his and his hair. his first reaction is to steel his gaze, but then he recognizes the teasing amusement in the man's feature.

no.

li xiangyi died 10 years ago.

but there's no mistaking the apologetic smile the man gives him before he is ushered into the main room.

"you should tie up your hair again. you look scary like this."

li xiangyi died 10 years ago, but li lianhua is here, 10 years later, absolving zhan yunfei of his guilt and grief. they were never friends back then, but if they had grown old together, maybe they would have been.

[its-ya-boi-kaz]

"Is my tie straight?"

[Kaz Brekker/Inej Ghafa | 1633 words | cross posted on ao3]

Meeting your girl's parents can be a scary ordeal, especially when you're the Bastard of the Barrel.

A follow up of chapter 44 of Crooked Kingdom

"That's the laugh," Kaz murmured. But Inej was already moving, her feet barely touching the ground as she crossed the expanse of the quay to where her parents were, running towards her at the same speed as she was. 

Kaz didn't want to interrupt them, so he simply walked, leaning lightly on his cane and eyes trained on Inej. She was face to face with them now. For a moment, she seemed frozen, not sure of what to do. Her mother had tears streaming down her face. She couldn't wait for another moment, pulling Inej into a hopelessly tight embrace. Kaz was halfway up to them by the time they broke apart. 

She didn't say anything. Her lips parted and she croaked something like, "Papa." Her father put a hand on her shoulder. He was looking down at Inej with a smile that made Kaz feel like an intruder, he didn't deserve to witness something so innocent. 

Only then did Inej turn back. Kaz suddenly felt like a spectacle. Should he have worn something else? Surely it was his clothing choices that made their eyes lock on him so intently. Kaz saw that Inej's mother's eyes were the same as Inej. Mr Ghafa had a sense of weight in his gaze that could only be bought with age. But his wife, well, the woman was possibly what the girls on West Stave had in mind when they whined about wanting to look young forever. She seemed ageless. Her eyes were the same pools of darkness as the girl who stood before him. Like she too had taken every dark thing around her and held them in her gaze until she was surrounded by an aura of light, as Inej had been doing for years. 

"Ma, Papa, this is Kaz." Her father extended his hand with the grace of a saviour, but Kaz did not need salvation, not if it came with a handshake. He was acutely aware of the sea breeze on his naked palms. The same sea had once wrinkled his fingers as they clung to Jordie, more afraid of drowning than whatever was in front of his eyes. 

"He helped me survive this city." Inej's voice was an anchor, keeping him grounded to reality. 

Her eyes were on him. He had held her own hand only moments before. Could he do the same for the man in front of him? If it gave her the same comfort? Could he cross the Barge once again, if he knew she would be standing on the shore? 

I would come for you. His bare hand left the metal crow's head of his cane and made contact with the skin of someone else. The waters rose. 

"Ma, could you make skillet bread for me tonight?" Inej spoke, but her eyes were on him. He shook her father's hand firmly; it was a chore to keep his hand from shaking as he returned it to the head of the cane. When he looked up, her smile was a halo of light around her. He fought not to squint against the sheer luminescence of her joy. 

"Of course I will, jaan, " her mother cooed, using the Suli word for 'lifeline'. Inej had mentioned it to him once, in one of her proverbs. "But first you must tell us, what happened ?"

He could feel the weight of the question, the burden of it hanging over Inej. He could only guess what Suli proverbs must be going on in her head to help her cope with the fear and keep her chin held high. 

"We will tell you everything you wish to know, Mrs Ghafa," Kaz spoke in her stead. How many times had she covered for him? He could repay her a thing or two before she started her journey to the sea. "But first shall we go somewhere more comfortable? I must confess, staying standing for long isn't very good for my leg."

• • •

"Veera told me of the slaver ship that was seen leaving the dock. When we didn't find you, we feared the worst," Inej's father said. 

They had come to Wylan's house and were seated on the dining table on which loaves of the skillet bread that Inej's mother had made cooled. Inej and Kaz on one side, her parents on the other. 

"The worst happened, Papa. And then it happened some more."

Kaz listened as Inej explained her days at the Menagerie. Then her meeting with Kaz. Her time with the dregs. She looked at him a few times, to see if he would like to add to the conversation. He would, but he would not speak. 

There came a time every once in a while when he had to look at all the numbers himself. Despite how accurate the reports of Anika and Pim were, he always found something that had slipped from their brain, that would have been unknown to him if he hadn't looked at the scores himself. You could trust somebody with your numbers, but there were some tallies you had to count on your own. This was her story to tell. He had no right to say anything, not when he knew there were wounds in her only she could recall. 

She had steered clear of any mention of the Ice Court heist. But she could only talk so much about the past. "I have a ship. I managed to do something huge, with the help of the right people. I have the resources too. I'm going to hunt slavers. I won't let anyone suffer what I've endured. But before I do that, I need your forgiveness. Papa, Mama, I need to know where… I need to know what I mean to you, before I go out into the world alone and fulfil my purpose in this world."

There were tears in her mother's eyes that were very different from the way she'd cried at the quay. Her eyes were still, determined, yet searching for something to say. She reminded Kaz of the night on Black Veil when Inej had turned back － He was going to break my legs , Kaz, she had said, eyes searching for answers－ and he breathed out a sigh, knowing there was nothing furious in her mother's gaze. If they were angry at Inej, Kaz doubted any of the Ghafas would like what he planned to do in that scenario. Including Inej. Especially Inej.

"You are still our daughter, Inej. You needn't ask for our forgiveness. You did what you had to do." Her father's voice was steady despite the tears. Her mother silently wiped her own. She suddenly got up and crossed the table to Inej, and coddled her face in her hands. She leaned down to press her lips on her daughter's forehead. 

"You did what the Saints asked of you, my child. If that is what you think your purpose is, then let me not be what stops you. You can…"

Their voices faded into the background as Kaz stepped into the backyard. He lowered himself onto the steps, feeling his leg throb with a twinge of pain. He did not want to intrude in what was supposed to be a memory none of them would forget. He wanted them to only remember each other as they too probably wanted to. 

He sensed her presence behind him. He glanced back and opened his mouth to tell her how she should go back to her family and that Kaz could talk to her later, but the words died on his lips. It wasn't Inej behind him, but her father. He turned his gaze back to the canal. The old man sat beside him, posture erect even when sitting down. 

"I'm aware that you are the reason Inej is safe today," he started. He must have left the mother and daughter to do some more weeping together. 

"There's no safe in Ketterdam, Mr Ghafa. I didn't give her safety, it doesn't exist in this city. She fended for herself."

"I suspect you have a hand behind that too."

Kaz stayed silent, feeling the temperature of his face rise as if he was a child that had been caught doing something he wasn't supposed to. But Mr Ghafa wasn't blaming, he was simply acknowledging facts. 

"I don't have much to say to you, just know that I thank you deeply for what you have done for her." 

He didn't know what to say to that. It was awfully quiet in these parts of the city. He could hear the water of the large canal lapping up against the shore. 

After a while, Inej's father stood up and dusted off his trousers. Only then did he sense Inej, the real Inej's presence behind him. So he'd known his daughter had come and left them alone. Kaz supposed he should be honoured, but he could only feel a pang of jealousy that he hadn't been able to sense Inej before her father. 

She sat beside him now, slipping into a comfortable silence. Neither of them wanted to speak. Every few moments, she would wipe her eyes. 

What had her parents said about him after he'd gone? What had she said about him? What would they say if they came here right now? 

Quietly, she reached for his now gloved hand. Kaz took a deep breath. There was her hand on his. A slight weight on his shoulder where she had leaned her head against it. Sunlight glistened on the murky waters of the canal. His mind was reeling. A jumble of thoughts, but none of them profound enough to be worth being spoken.

"They like you. Both of them."

He could have never known such simple words would be what eased the thumping in his chest. 

[juju-or-anya]

Season one from Eloise’ perspective must have been so scary. Imagine one day all of your sisters are children (the concept of teenagers being separate from children comes in the 20th century) and the next your older sister is in the marriage mart. The marriage mart was never a tangible thing to you before because your brothers do not have the same pressure to marry. But now your sister will soon have a different name. She will move away. She may marry someone awful who uses her as a baby machine until she dies. And all you can think about is your mother almost dying in childbirth. Then your brother arranges her marriage with some old creep. And when that is finally over a prince starts courting her and he might take her to another country entirely. I just don’t get people who say she was being a brat. As if they wouldn’t be scared and emotional.

Additionally, it is crucial to remember that young women like Eloise and Daphne were kept completely in the dark about fundamental aspects of adult life, such as marriage and sexuality. This lack of information and preparation not only exacerbates their fears and sense of vulnerability, but also leaves them defenseless against the challenges the future holds. Education on these topics was practically nonexistent, and open dialogue was virtually unheard of. These young women were thrust into an unknown world without the necessary tools to face it with confidence and security.

For all these reasons, it is completely unjust and simplistic to label Eloise as spoiled. Her behavior is deeply influenced by fear, concern for her sisters' well-being, and a lack of control over her own future. It is a human and understandable reaction to an overwhelming situation filled with uncertainties. Eloise not only faces fear for her sisters' well-being, but also the existential terror of an imposed and unknown future.

Moreover, Eloise is acutely aware that marriage, in many cases, means sacrificing everything she loves and everything she is for her husband. This often means giving up her freedom, her thoughts, her desires, ambitions, and passions to become the perfect wife and mother, a submissive figure to her husband. This is a daunting and suffocating prospect for a young woman with her own aspirations and dreams. The imposition of these expectations is an immense and unfair burden that obliterates any possibility of self-determination for women like Eloise.

It is truly appalling that society expects her to stop being herself to "mature" and to willingly accept a fate she sees as a gilded cage. The social pressure to conform to a role she does not want is immense, and her refusal to marry, seen as foolishness and selfishness, is actually a form of resistance against an expectation that nullifies her individuality. To dismiss her struggle and fear as a mere childish tantrum is a profound misunderstanding and lack of empathy towards her situation. It is utterly despicable to expect her to sacrifice her essence and her dreams to fit into a mold imposed by a society that does not value her true self.

For those who criticize Eloise, it is essential to remember that she lives in a society that forces her to fit into a rigid and oppressive mold. Criticizing her behavior is to ignore the immense pressures and unjust restrictions she faces. It is easy to judge from a position of privilege and freedom, but for Eloise, reality is a constant battle to maintain her identity and desires in an environment that systematically denies them. Every moment of resistance on her part is not a display of immaturity, but of incredible bravery and determination.

Furthermore, we cannot ignore that the lack of preparation and education about adult life is a deliberate strategy to keep women in a state of submission and dependency. Criticizing Eloise for reacting with fear and resistance is, in essence, supporting a system that perpetuates ignorance and oppression. It is an act of extreme cruelty to expect a young woman to meekly accept a fate that dehumanizes her and reduces her to a mere object within a marital contract.

People who dare to judge Eloise should first attempt to understand the magnitude of her struggle. It is easy to call her spoiled from the comfort of a modern context where women have more rights and freedoms. But in her time, resisting marriage and the destiny imposed by others is a sign of exceptional strength. The real foolishness and selfishness lie in those who cannot see beyond their own prejudices and understand the validity of her fears and resistances. Eloise's struggle is not just personal; it is an act of defiance against an oppressive social structure that seeks to extinguish her spirit and aspirations.

In summary, any criticism of Eloise must be reevaluated in light of a deep understanding of her context and the terrible pressures she is under. Her apparent rebelliousness is nothing more than a natural and justified response to a system that tries to strip her of her humanity and her future. Let us defend Eloise not only for what she represents but also as a symbol of all women who fight for their right to be themselves in a world that often denies them this.

[silent-stories]

The best babysitter

(Eddie Munson x F!reader)

That day, you were supposed to babysit your four-year-old cousin, Alice, but you'd completely forgotten that Max had asked you to help with a school project.

So, before you went to see Max, you left the kid with Eddie, saying you'd be back soon.

Eddie had been nervous all morning: he didn't have much experience with children and, knowing that many people thought he was scary, he was afraid she would get scared or started crying when she saw him.

"Alice, this is Eddie. He's a friend of mine. Eddie, this is Alice, my cousin." You introduced them leaving the kid in Eddie's arms, right out of his trailer.

He tried to hide the sigh of relief he let out when, holding her in his arms, she simply grabbed the pick attached to his necklace, played with it, turned it over in her little hands and looked at him curiously.

"Will you guys be okay?" You asked.

"Yeah, sure. Don't worry." He said as the little girl tugged at a strand of Eddie's curly hair, causing him to chuckle.

You thanked one last time and headed into the trailer in front of Eddie's to meet Max. Her project took longer than expected and after several hours, you went back to Eddie's trailer door, hoping everything went well.

You knocked hearing voices coming from inside but nobody opened the door. You lowered the handle, discovering that the door was not locked and you entered, to find yourself in front of one of the most wholesome scenes you'd ever witnessed.

Eddie and Alice were sitting on the floor, some books, pencils and markers scattered around them.

He was reading from a book a conversation between two characters, for the first he emitted a deep, low voice and for the second one more acute and high, making the little girl burst out laughing every time.

You closed the door behind you, without announcing your presence yet and you leaned against the wall observing the scene with a smile on your lips.

You noticed that there were two messy pigtails on the little girl's head. They weren't there when you brought her to Eddie so the only option was that he made them.

You giggled at the image that popped into your head. The tattoos on Eddie's arms had been colored in, probably with the markers on the floor, and there was pink nail polish on his nails. You wondered why the hell Eddie owned pink nail polish.

"Y/N!" The kid suddenly exclaimed, pointing at you.

Eddie turned to you. "Hey, you're just in time! We need the princess."

You joined them, sitting next to Eddie who offered you an amused smile. "I am already the ogre, the witch and the knight. Please be the princess."

You chuckled. "Okay."

"Finally the princess has graced us mere mortals with her presence!" He exclaimed theatrically, making Alice burst out laughing again.

"This is the moment when the knight declares his undying love to the princess, swearing allegiance to her until the end of his days!"

That was also the moment you realized you didn't just have a crush on your best friend; you were completely in love with him, but you didn't say anything yet.

There was a kingdom to save for the moment.

[raayllum]

the grudge

He sits with her sometimes in the dungeon, cross-legged like a little kid on other side of the bars than like the king he is and young man he's becoming. Ezran is fifteen and wise, and maybe that's why he's not afraid of her—her, a chained up witch, little better than a cornered animal when the guards would first come to bring her food, sneering if they weren't fearful.

She thinks she prefers being scary. She thinks she prefers being loved.

But there's no one left to love her, now. Terry took his pardon and never looked back, once he'd found out Aaravos had convinced her to come crawling back to him on the beaches only to use him.

Her father...

They exchange jelly tarts, persimmon passing easily from hand to hand. His red royal sleeves brush the white stained fabric of her prison garb. They tell bad jokes. Sometimes they even talk about the old days, when she'd read him stories, when he'd brought her flowers, wanting so badly to be like his older brother.

"He's getting married," Ezran shares one day when they're lying on the floor, only the bars between them. Claudia has a view with the barred window in her ceiling, faint light streaming in; Ezran has only dark blue-hued bricks to look at. "Him and Rayla. They're having a wedding in Katolis."

There's a strain in his voice like Ezran knows he should be happier than he is. It's how she feels when she wakes up day after day, mercifully alive... but she's not quite living, either. How can she, after everything? How could she ever?

"That'll be fun," she says, and she won't be invited. Callum had wanted her to be executed. "And you like throwing parties."

"Yeah." A beat. She wonders if he's counting the bricks above him. The crevices or seams in the stone. "Rayla's parents will be coming here for it. All of them."

Ah.

The elf, Runaan, had also been pardoned, though that had been difficult for Ezran in ways Callum hadn't even seemed to consider—or if he had, not ones he'd felt with the same acute awareness, the same chasm of loss. He'd been told to never come back.

But it's his daughter's wedding, Claudia supposes. It's probably a show of good will that he even wants to come to Katolis.

It doesn't make it any easier to bear.

"You could just kill him," she tosses out, because she's reformed but still despicable.

Ezran almost laughs, but it's too dark for that. There's no humour in it. "Can't do that."

"It's your kingdom. If he's within your borders, he's within your jurisdiction.

"It's my duty as king to break those cycles; I won't sink to it." That, and Rayla—Callum—would never forgive him for it.

Because forgiveness is 'everything', and so ungodly difficult.

She'd asked once, how he bore it, curious when she'd been so unable to even fathom doing the same. Ezran hadn't answered. She still isn't sure if it's because he felt that he hadn't needed to, or if it was because he hadn't known the answer. He just did it anyway.

Something hot and sharp curdles at the thought of Rayla getting married—her father's killer, twirling, beaming, arm in arm with her parents, with her fathers. It's a blessing she's in the dungeons, really. She doesn't have to see it; she doesn't have to smile through it.

Claudia glances over at Ezran, his right hand gripping the material of his tunic in a tight fist over his heart. His jaw is tight.

But more than being a king, Ezran is a brother, to Callum and to Rayla. So he'll grin and bear it.

"I wish sometimes they didn't care," he confesses thickly. "I wish sometimes I could just kill him. But I can't. I won't."

Claudia knows the feeling; if there's anyone who can understand holding onto a grudge, it's her. "And why not?"

Ezran hisses out a breath through his teeth. His hand loosens over his heart. "Sometimes," he admits, "I don't know."

[boof-chamber]

toxic masculinity

that shit’s exhausting and infuriating and scary and there is no end in sight - seems like we gotta be fit and agile street fighters, have expert marksmanship, highly developed senses and 6th senses and 7th senses and also an acute sense of awareness of our surroundings and self-awareness and also an acute sense of perception of other people’s intentions and moods and feelings and we should also be armed with information about people’s backgrounds and patterns of behavior and also use sound judgement at all times so that we can take appropriate action to prevent harm from coming to us because it’s nobody else’s responsibility to look out for us, how entitled one would be to expect anyone to intervene who isn’t even legally obligated to, and as it turns out, no one is.

we could have all of this going for us and still end up dealing with the consequences of some toxic dude’s massive sense of entitlement or overinflated ego or feelings of inadequacy or power/control issues or the absolutely crushing and inescapable aloneness that overwhelms him as a man conditioned to destroy his own humanness and anything that resembles it.

and what do we expect of him? we expect him to “get therapy.” suddenly therapists fix people. suddenly therapy is easy to get. suddenly therapy is something other than what we know it to be. all they have to do is get therapy and toxic masculinity will be solved and we won’t have to do anything differently. we won’t have to learn anything or unlearn anything or grow or develop or transform ourselves or our communities or society - when the therapists fix them, everything will change and we won’t have to do anything differently

[nightfallgame]

(NSFW) SHORT — 712 (02)

Originally Written: 04-14-21

Prompt: aww 712 is so cute!! 712’s alpha s/o taking care of him during his heat and making sure he has plenty of orgasms on s/o’s cock please :))

Your fingers are inside of him. Just two for now, but even that is different than what 712's used to. Back at Blight, when he went into a Heat, handlers used him how they pleased. There weren't fingers. Just cocks shoved into him until the people using his body were satisfied. 

But you said that you're going to go slow, and that apparently means sticking one finger at a time into 712's loose, soaked cunt and stretching him at a tormenting pace. 

It feels good. That's the part that makes him nervous. 

Previously, sex was just sitting still and letting the handlers take what they wanted. With you, he's supposed to enjoy it. That's scary. Just one of your fingers had him clenching and squirming against his will. Squirming is bad. He's supposed to stay still when someone wants to use his hole, not wriggle around and make a nuisance of himself. 

712's body wants things that he doesn't understand. The handlers' cocks always did something to soothe the restless fire of his Heats, but it's not like he paid much attention to it. Like this, he has no choice but to feel every second of what you do to him. 

And become acutely aware of how desperate his body is. 

He whimpers when you spread those two fingers. Every little movement in and out draws awful, wet, squelching sounds from his hole. Embarrassing, if he could feel things like that. 

"How are you, baby? Is this okay?" you question. 

"It doesn't hurt," 712 replies. He doesn't know how to put things like okay into words, so he says what you want to hear. You don't like it when he hurts. And he doesn't. This is just torture in an entirely different way. 

You hum and work a third finger inside, apparently deeming him loose enough for it. 712 chokes on a squeaking moan. His hips buck against his will. When you trace the fingers of your other hand lightly down the underside of his achingly hard cock, it's too much. 712's thighs squeeze together around your hand against his will as he comes. 

By the time he's back to himself, his fingers are digging into the sheets. He's breathing hard. You crook the fingers inside of him again and he can't hold back the keen. 

"You're so pretty when you come," you croon and spread those fingers wide. 

712 can feel himself stretch. He whines. His hole feels loose and ready in a way he doesn't know how to process. When it was the handlers, they'd shove inside using nothing more than his slick as prep and not bothering to stretch him. A tight fuck is better, they always said. Even though you're visibly hard, though, you're loosening him up like you have all the time in the world. It... makes 712's chest feel tight and strange. 

Eventually, you deem him ready to be fucked. When your fingers pull out of his hole, it clenches needily at the loss. 712 shakes at the feeling. He's empty. His body doesn't like it. You sit up against the headboard, pillows behind you, and get your cock out and ready. He's shaky at the sight. You're actually going to put it inside of him. 

Of course, the next thing you do is help 712 situate himself over your lap. You spread his thighs and hold him up while he angles himself over your dick. He's shaking so badly it'd be impossible to hold his own weight. 

And slowly, 712 lowers himself down. 

The first breach of your cock makes him moan again. His eyes roll as the head pops inside. He's loose enough that there's not a trace of pain, and that alone is weird. Everything is slick and easy and frictionless, and the feeling of being penetrated with nothing more than a slow glide and a pleasant stretch is something that 712 struggles to process. 

He comes again when he bottoms out, hips against yours. The fire-hot shocks of orgasm leave his little body shaking and limp against your chest. His toes curl. 

And you do the work. You bounce him on your cock carefully with short, sharp thrusts and hands around his waist to manhandle his helpless body how you please. 712 can do nothing but moan like a whore and lie his head against your shoulder while he drools from pleasure. 

Everything between his legs is wet. His cock has spurted out come twice now, covering his belly with slimy white, and his slick is soaking both of your laps. 

712's eyes roll a bit when he hits his next orgasm. You fuck him through it slow and easy, and he whines pathetically as the aftershocks tear his shaking body apart. His skin is starting to feel oversensitive and much too tender, and when you rub his back, 712 almost sobs. This is nothing, nothing like when the handlers used him. 

"Come for me again, Omega," you purr right in his ear. "I want to see you feel good. Go on. I won't be upset. You can have as much as you want."

But 712 is so, so sensitive, and coming again sounds like far too much. Even so, he wants it. He snuggles up closer to you and squeezes around your cock. His Heat is taking control and possessing him with the need for more. 

You get a hand around his cock and start to stroke. 

712 shrieks at the feeling of your palm around his tip. It's not fair. With his thighs quaking and helpless moans pouring out of his throat, he can't hold on. His fourth orgasm crashes into him with the burning feeling of being stabbed— but every bit of pain is searing pleasure instead. He's so sensitive it hurts by now, but his body still, still isn't done. 

You're going to take care of him, he tells himself. Even though he's broken and wrong, you'll look after him. He'll get as much as he needs because you love him, and you'll hold him through all of this. Until he's back to normal again. 

[irrevocableloves]

violent delights

twilight rewrite! edward cullen x fem!witch!reader

chapter six: an old scary story

previous chapter ౨ৎ masterlist ౨ৎ chapter seven

summary: with edward still in her thoughts, will her trip to la push answer all of her unsolved questions?

warnings: blood, gore

words: 1.4k (unedited)

I tossed and turned in my bed, attempting a nap after today’s events, all that should’ve drained me completely. From nearly passing out in Biology, those images, the blood. I shivered at the thought. Then, Edward. No. I should be thinking about what I’d seen, how the world around me had gone completely silent as the nightmare of images had flared through my mind. But, no. All I could think about was Edward’s last words to me: Maybe another time. Just the two of us. It was all too much to take in at once.

Once I settled myself down on my desk chair with my computer lighting up my dark room, racking my brain for something to search. An answer to what I’d seen. The dreams I could ignore and blame my acute sense of imagination. But to be completely pulled out of my reality, to be shown gruesome images in the middle of Biology was something different entirely. I couldn’t even blame my trauma on that episode.

All that I could think to search was: ‘images flashing in my mind,’ which had brought me to the term hypnagogic: relating to the state immediately before falling asleep. I wasn’t asleep. Faint, yes. But no, it didn’t feel right.

The more I searched upon the hypnagogic state, it related more to hallucinations; things that couldn’t possibly be as clear as what I’d seen at all.

I’d given up by the time I decided to search up on visions, seeing images throughout the day, being pulled out of my conscious thought, but all signs had pointed towards severe mental issues and that I should get help immediately.

Maybe it was the shock. Maybe the blood had caused some sort of unusual hallucination from that night, maybe things that had completely blocked out my mind had risen up. But the boat? The dock? There were people… with red beading eyes. All of that was new.

I sighed, defeated, plopping down on my bed.

After a couple of minutes, I read the clock on my nightstand: 7:00 PM. I got up, deciding to go downstairs to start dinner.

I decided to reheat Harry Clearwater’s fish fry, frying it back in the oven and boiling a pot of rice along with a frozen pack of broccoli in the microwave. When I was nearly done, I heard my dad coming through the front door.

“Hey, Y/N/N,” he said, setting the mail on the table.

“Hey,” I started.

He started taking out plates and silverware out of the cabinets.

“Hey, Dad?” I asked. “Do you know a place called Goat Rock or something like that?”

“Yeah, why?”

I shrugged. “Some kids were talking about camping there.”

His eyebrows furrowed. “It’s not a very good place for camping. Too many bears. Most people go there during the hunting season.”

“Oh,” I mumbled. “Nevermind, probably got the name wrong.”

He only nodded, serving himself a plate of everything. I did the same. Then we both ate in our usual comfortable silence.

The beach trip had gone as usual, except it was Mike driving Tyler’s van because of my dad’s success in suspending his license. The rest of the group attempted to surf in the icy waters while Angela and I sat in the back of Tyler’s now dented van with the comfort of our sweaters and blankets. After an hour, we decided to set down blankets close to the water so Angela could take photographs.

Once they came back to shore, we all settled down in the sand.

I closed my eyes, letting the sound of the waves soothe my ears, tuning out the conversations about the dance (one that I probably shouldn’t go to since I’m without a date).

Before I drifted off, I heard a new group’s voice coming closer, opening my eyes, I saw a familiar face amidst the crowd. “Jake?” I called.

“Y/N!” He smiled, attempting to jog towards us.

“Guys, this is Jacob. You all remember Jacob right?” I greeted. Jacob had been there for all of my birthdays and had sometimes joined us on our beach trips, but he mostly kept to himself, only bothering to conversate with Angela, who was the least intense of the group so I didn’t blame him.

They all nodded, exchanging ‘hi’s’ and smiles.

Jacob plopped down next to me, asking about my car, which turned into an entire conversation about his growing obsession with cars ever since his dad let him work on mine over the summer.

Lauren walked by, an obvious hint of jealousy in her eyes. “Y/N,” she called out. “I was just saying to Tyler that it was too bad none of the Cullens could come out today. Didn’t anyone think to invite them?” Her tone was almost mocking.

I didn’t say anything. A boy had spoken up, he looked quite older than the rest. “That doctor’s family?” Lauren nodded. “The Cullen’s don’t come here.” A look of disgust plastered on his face.

I stayed silent. From the looks of the school, I knew the Cullen’s had a hard time fitting in, but they didn’t seem to care about social cues or how others perceived them. Even my father heard the gossip of the town surrounding the Cullens, but even he knew that they were good people, and that was a judgment that I was willing to trust more than gossip. Plus, I knew Edward. At least I think I do.

Once Jacob and I separated ourselves from the group, I sprang up a question: “Was that Sam? Thought he said he was too old to hang out with us.”

“Yeah.” He chuckled.

 “What did he mean by ‘the Cullens don’t come here’?”

“Oops. Caught that, huh?” He laughed it off. “I’m not really supposed to say anything.”

“I won’t tell anyone. I’m just a little curious.”

“It's really just an old scary story.” He laughed. “Do you know any of our old stories, about where we came from – the Quileutes, I mean?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Well, there’s one legend that claims that we descended from wolves – and that the wolves are our brothers still. It’s against tribal law to kill them.” Wolves? He continued on, “Then there are the stories about the cold ones…”

“The cold ones?” I asked, feeling a shiver down my spine.

“Yeah. The legend with the Cullens is that they supposedly descended from this, like… ‘enemy clan’... According to the legend, my own great-grandfather knew some of them. He was the one who made the treaty that kept them off our land.”

I nodded, letting him know to continue on.

“The cold ones are the natural enemies of the wolf–well, not the wolf, really, but the wolves that turn into men, like our ancestors. You would call them werewolves."

My eyebrows furrowed.​​ “Enemies how?”

“The wolves served to protect, while the cold ones… feasted.” I was getting impatient from his sugar-coating.

"So you see," Jacob continued, “the cold ones are traditionally our enemies, but this pack was different. They didn't hunt the way others of their kind did – they weren't supposed to be dangerous to the tribe. So my great-grandfather made a truce with them. If they would promise to stay off our lands, we wouldn’t expose them to the pale-faces.”

“What do you mean by ‘hunt’?”

“They claimed that they didn’t hunt humans. They supposedly preyed on animals instead.” Oh. I couldn’t believe I was actually considering this story.

“So, how does this fit in with the Cullens?” I breathed out, knowing the answer. “Are they like the cold ones that your great-grandfather met?”

"No." He paused dramatically. “They’re the same ones." I tried hard to keep my expressions flat, but failed as I saw the look on Jacob’s face. He smiled, looking almost pleased with himself.

“So… what are they? The cold ones?”

“Blood drinkers,” he replied, his tone darkening. “Your people call them vampires.”

Vampires. I didn’t realize how big of a breath I’d taken, releasing it slowly before speaking up. “Wow.” I laughed. “You’re a really good storyteller.”

A bit of a silence rose between the two of us. Vampires? Werewolves? I was dying to know if there was more. An answer to all of my questions.

“What about witches?” I forced out.

“What about them?” He seemed surprised by my question.

“I mean like… witches? Maybe even sirens? Seers? You think they exist?”

“They’re just stories, Y/N.” He laughed it off.

“Yeah. Right.” 

“Pretty crazy, though, isn’t it? No wonder my dad doesn’t let us tell anyone about it.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll keep your secret.”

“Yeah,” he chuckled, “Please don’t say anything to your dad. He was pretty pissed when he heard some of us weren’t going to the hospital since Dr. Cullen started working there.”

“I won’t. I promise.”

next chapter

a/n: this chapter is superrr short and booooo no edward </3 but i really loved the book's telling of the legend of the quileutes and the cullens !!

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