#guard dog fic

[sommerregenjuniluft]

Need to know what fix ur talking abt in the tags of that corruption post… for a friend ofc

ok so i sent so many voice messages back and forth with elio and i’m listening to them rn and trying to summerize. it’s not a fic yet, more of a vague idea but basically i need you to think full on devotion & loyalty. like no bounds, no limits, just All fucking In.

evan is the leader/heir of a syndicate (mafia/yakuza/crime family whatever) and barty is his feral right hand man aka the guard dog. i’m quoting myself now from the voicenotes: to me barty—even though he shouldn’t or probably actually doesn’t like being controlled (evan will always be the exception)—always carries this devoting/serving energy with himself. in canon he’s like one of the smartest fucking characters we know yet he still chooses to use that to serve riddle. ofc he is getting back at his father like this so there is def some self motivation but it’s mostly For Someone Else. and he’s definitely wreaking the most chaos and having the most fun he can have !BUT it’s always within a line. the line of not being caught, fulfilling his tasks, executing the plan -> serving his master. he’s not stepping a foot outside of it if it means jeopardizing what his devoted is going for, even if he’s dancing on it like a drunken ballerina. and when they first meet barty is lost. he’s feral, he’s fighting tooth and nail to get himself out of the scenarios his big ass can never leave it at good enough mouth is getting him into and he always gets away with it but boy does he get himself roughed up in the process, like he has zero self-preservation. when evan sees him like that he knows he’ll die sooner or later because one day he’ll miscalculate and the injuries he scores won’t be cured by retreating and licking his wounds. he’s in search of a capable, skilled right hand man that has no issues butchering someone to pieces and making them piss scared. someone as clever, amoral and insane like barty and evan knows all it takes is a guiding hand aka an owner. evan to me is a master manipulator: charming, threatening, intimidating, powerful, impossible to see through, (near) unshakable. he’s the heir of a noble family, he’s literally born to rule. he’s a crazy good dueller in canon, doesn’t back down from any challenge. -> insanely capable, incredible leader material. he knows barty will need training and in the fic barty will definitely fuck up to the point where evan will have to discipline him even over points he doesn’t want to reach (because he obv starts developing possessive/protective feelings over barty as well) but he’ll have to actually hurt him because it’s what needs to be done. and he’ll 100% be there in the aftermath to pick up the pieces, no questions asked. taking an example here i told elio that barty disrespects an other syndicate so evan has to give them one of barty’s fingers to keep the peace. elio responded to this with What if evan can’t do it so barty does it himself?? which. yeah holy fuck dude. that level of devotion just- i cant. they make me insane.

[bunnis-monsters]

NSFW

a/n: another kofi request. This time it’s an Anatolian guard dog smut fic! Enjoy ^^

You stood out in the snow, coffee in hand as you waited by the door of the hybrid work agency. It was nice that there was somewhere that specifically hired out hybrids who were in need of work, because it helped everyone.

Lately, your apartment building had been the victim of multiple robberies, and each time the person that got robbed was closer and closer to you. Last week, your neighbor just two doors down had their entire apartment emptied out, leaving only the old food in the fridge and some lint.

So safe to say you were afraid you were going to be next.

Several of your friends suggested getting a security system, but your neighbor had one and it did nothing. No, you needed to go another route.

“Are you (Name)?”

You jumped, neatly slipping on the slick, icy sidewalk when you heard a voice behind you. Before you could fall, a hand grabbed your arm and steadied you.

When you turned, you spotted a tall man, a pair of fluffy, black dog ears. He wore a dark suit, his gloved hand pulling back from your arm once you regained your balance.

“Y-yes, I am. And you are..?”

“The guard dog you hired, my name is Duke.”

That made sense, he even had a lanyard with his name and role on it. “Ah… okay. My apartment is nearby, I already have one of the rooms ready for you. I have a few errands I have to run first though.”

Duke nodded, staying by your side as you walked. “I will accompany you.”

For the next few weeks, you had never felt safer in your life. Everywhere you went, Duke was always nearby, inspecting the area and making sure no one even thought of interrupting your peace.

Just a few days ago you were approached by a handsome looking man who claimed to have picked up something you dropped, but Duke was quick to step in front of you and twist the guy’s arm back.

“He’s got bad intentions, I can just sense it.”

For a moment you were in shock. Of course you knew Duke was big and strong, but the entire time he’d been guarding you he hadn’t shown his true strength. All he had to do was stand around you looking intimidating.

“D-Duke, he’s not-“

A handkerchief fell from the man’s pocket, and before you could pick it up Duke growled. “Don’t touch it!”

You pulled back your hand as if it had been burned, your cheeks growing hot with embarrassment and a bit of… arousal.

“It’s laced. The second you touch it you’ll start feeling dizzy. This guy has probably hurt a ton of girls using this method.”

You sat in Duke’s car as he handed the guy into the police station, still feeling a bit hot and bothered. Honestly, you were super grateful for and… a bit flustered by his protective nature.

From Duke’s pov, he had plans for you the moment h you met him. From your soft figure to your need for a protector, you were perfect.

Duke wanted a mate, and he bonded with you almost instantly. Getting to stand by and keep you safe all day aroused him to no end, and between shifts he spent most of his time fucking his hand, wanting more than anything to be thrusting into you instead.

That’s why when he smelled your arousal upon entering his car, Duke was quick to get you back to your apartment.

A part of him knew that it was unprofessional to be pushing you up against a wall and sniffing at you like a beast before covering your neck in hickeys, but he couldn’t care less.

You smelled too damn good, and he was sick and tired of everyone else looking at you like you didn’t belong to him already. “My little mate… getting all worked up, need to let off some steam, hmm?”

He set you on the bed before pushing you onto your belly, lifting your hips before lightly spanking your cunt. “Naughty thing. I’ve got to keep you safe, can’t have you all wet out there when every hybrid can smell your arousal from ten miles away.”

Duke was nearly twice your size, looming over you as his cock pressed against your tight hole. He did his best to prep you, pumping two fingers, then three in and out of your sopping wet cunt before he couldn’t take it anymore.

He pushed into you, letting out a growl when you whimpered and squirmed. “Easy, you can take it… be a good girl for me, okay? My sweet girl…”

Taking him wasn’t easy at all, in fact it took a minute for you to relax enough for Duke to even move, but once you eased up he began thrusting into you like a wild animal.

It made you see stars, the way he was fucking you stipid. You felt like you were losing yourself in each thrust, your hips moving desperately to meet his.

“G-gonna cum!”

When he knotted you after your fat cunt clenched around him, you truly understood what love was. While he stuffed you full, he caged your body under his, as if trying to shield you from the cruel and nasty world. You were just a sweet thing and he couldn’t stand the thought of anything taking you away from him.

He was so gentle, like a dog tending to the sheep he guarded. Duke groomed you and stayed inside of you for a long time, his curled tail wagging lazily.

“I’m gonna take care of you, okay? Don’t even have to pay me. You’re my mate now, got it?”

————————

NSFW TAGLIST: @avalordream @icommitwarcrimes @bazpire @im-eating-rn @anglingforlevels @kinshenewa @pasteldaze @yoongiigolden @peachesdabunny @murder-hobo @leiselotte @misswonderfrojustice @dij-ology @i8kaeya @lollboogurl @h3110-dar1in9 @keikokashi @aliceattheart @mssmil3y @namjoons-t1ddies @izarosf1833 @healanette @lem-hhn @spufflepuff @honey-crypt @karljra @zyettemoon1800 @exodiam @vexillum-moeru @imperfectlyperfectprincess1 @enchantedsylveon @mysticranger575 @readeryn68 @danielle143 @kittenlover614 @filthybunny420 @annavittoria-mm @makimamybelovedwife @blubearxy @omglovelylaila @toocollectionchaos-universe-blog @fruk-you-usuk-fans @wil10wthetree @hammerhead96-blog @slightlyusedfloormat @bubblez-blop @sunshineangel-reads @heroneki-neko @soapybabyboop @anonymouskiwi

[tragedy-machine]

You know what would be fun, Edwin using a little bit of physical violence to defend Crystal or Niko, like "accidentally" dropping something heavy on the bad guy's foot while he's yapping aggressively and coming closer to the girls or tripping him over with a quick pull on the rug the dude is standing on, Edwin turning and "accidentally" hitting him on the head with something Edwin's holding etc

And obviously, the bad guy gets mad and goes to attack Edwin, but Charles swiftly swoops in between them

So bad guy is like "Oh so you started shit, knowing your little boyfriend will come and defend you, you coward?!"

And Edwin just smiles at them as Charles throws the dude out and says, "Yes, I did."

Brought to by a scene from gig officially gigged

[choccy-milky]

part 3 to my modern AU 💞🍺 (part 1 / part 2)

[decojellyfish]

OH MY GOD I just fell in love with the blog and not if you are taking requests but if so I would like to suggest a guard dog!Ghost and Abandoned kitten!reader where price maybe adopt the reader and ghost take care of her??

I am so sorry this took so long! But thank you SO much for being my first request/ask! This idea is really cute, I'm sorry it's a bit short, but I hope you like it! Also, I hope this makes up for the angst fic about Dragon! Price lol

------

Bonbon

Hybrid AU! TF141 (Retired) Guard dog! Ghost x Kitten! Reader x Owner! Price !!No Romance For Obvious Purposes!!

SFW ~ Fluff

Warnings: None!

───♡───────────── Beginning

10:30 AM. That was the time John Price would go grocery shopping every day. Today’s list was a few ingredients for tonight’s dinner, more rawhide for his rescue dog, Ghost, and paper towels. What he didn’t expect to be suddenly added to the list, after he had just bought and paid for his groceries, was a kitten. Today, Price had to take a different route to the grocery store. The usual trail he would take was under heavy construction, much to his dismay. But he still managed to get to the store. About 4 minutes after leaving the store, he passed by a short alleyway. Now, no one ever really pays any mind to alleys. Until a noise comes from said hypothetical alleyway. And that’s just what happened. A little grunt, followed by a small cry, and then the sound of a takeout box crashing onto the ground. It made the retired captain stop in his tracks and turn his head to look into the dark alley. He could only hear tiny little munches now, and he could only make out the tiniest little figure in the void. Price made sure to be careful with his steps, he could tell that this little thing could be easily startled. Then he finally realized what he had come across.

It was a you! A little kitten and a very hungry one at that. You were munching on someone’s thrown-out, moldy, spaghetti, your tiny little fangs doing the best they could at tearing the pasta apart. It didn’t seem like you’d been there for that long, considering how young you looked. You remained in a little cardboard box, that appeared to be your makeshift home. It was filthy and withering away, like the blanket you had too. And your clothes. And you in general. You were a very dirty kitten. It didn’t help that your being hungry all the time caused you to be a messy eater.

By the time you had realized a big thing had snuck up behind you, your face was already coated in marinara. You snapped your head to look at the big creature and quickly folded your ears back and fluffed your little tail up. You hissed with all your might, knowing that you were probably the scariest thing this large figure, well over five times your size, had ever seen. Price only looked at you, taking in your starving appearance. Eating tossed food was unhealthy for a young thing like you. Surely, he had to have something on him that would make you trust him. He set his bags of groceries down and searched his pockets. He was relieved when he found one of those strawberry bonbons in his back pocket. You know, the ones that only grandmas seem to have. He unwrapped it and set it down in front of your hissing form. He would then grab his bags and slowly back away, watching for any kind of movement that came from you. After what felt like ten minutes, you would sneak up to the bonbon. Cautiously, you would reach your little hand out to it and snatch it right into your mouth. Price was almost terrified, thinking you would choke on it with how disparate you were for this little piece of candy. But thankfully, you didn’t. You would sit there and just let the hard candy melt in your mouth. This tasted so much better than moldy pasta. You looked up at the guy who gave you this candy, reaching up and making grabby hands for more. Price was relieved at your reaction, taking it as an okay that you wanted to be picked up. So he scooped you up into his arms and began the journey home.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Ghost could already smell his owner through the door, peeved that he was a little later than arriving home on his usual time. But something was off about Price’s smell. There was an additional scent, something he’d never smelled before. It was a rancid smell, especially overwhelming due to his strong nose. Whatever Price was bringing home, it needed to either be cleaned or immediately disposed of. The door opened, and Price would quickly set his bags of groceries down before going into the bathroom. Ghost would pause, processing that he’d just seen his owner with what looked like a tiny human. Had he been seeing a mistress of some sort??? Ghost would’ve known, he would’ve smelled some perfume on his owner by now. He continued to think about it while he took the groceries and began to put them away in the kitchen.

Price had drawn a bath, ensuring the water was warm but not scalding. You were sitting on the bath rug, looking around the bathroom you were in. The large dog man sitting in the doorway wasn’t that subtle, so you looked at him too. You looked at him for a long time, mostly because he’d been staring at you for a while. It was like a staring contest between the two of you. “That should be good.” Price said to himself, turning around to you. He watched the silent stares between you and Ghost, causing him to chuckle before he picked you up and gingerly set you down in the warm, bubbly water. You mewed and squealed in protest like any other cat would. Price would quietly shush you as he began to mush shampoo into your hair and tail.

After your little bath, during which you spent a good chunk of it verbally disapproving until you realized it wasn’t doing anything. Now, you were content. You’d been swaddled up in a large towel, your hair air-drying as you rested on the couch. Price could tell you were happy because you sounded like an active car engine. You were purring, and you were purring loud. You hadn’t felt this warm and cozy since… well, you’ve never been warm or cozy once in your life. You were always cold, hungry, and never comfortable. Now, you had this random guy clean all the dust, dirt, and grime off of you and now he was preparing food for you. And yeah, this big dog who’s constantly trying to figure out why you suddenly appeared in his home. But you were willing to put up with him. Eventually, Price came back with a small plate filled with soft foods. He would spoon-feed you a bit of squishy rice to which you happily ate it up, you were starving. You would loudly purr through your little munches, causing Price to chuckle. “This must be a lot better than the rubbish you were stuck with earlier, yeah?” You wouldn’t respond, but still purred and opened your mouth for another bite, to which Price readily spoon-fed you some more.

Ring ring! The sound surprised all three of you, Price was getting a phone call. “Agh, work…” He grumbled when he checked the caller ID. “Ghost, why don’t you feed the wee one for a bit, hm?” He handed the plate and small spoon to his big scary dog, to which, he begrudgingly agreed as it looked like he had no choice. Ghost looked down at you as Price stepped away to take the call. You looked up at him, both of you resuming your staring contest. Until you meowed, impatiently. Ghost rolled his eyes, hastily feeding you a spoonful of pudding. The sweetness of the dessert surprised you, you’d never had a dessert that was fresh, cold, and not coated in mold or garbage juices. You immediately meowed again, demanding more. This big monster of a dog couldn’t believe he was being bossed around by this little kitten! But alas, he fed you another spoonful of pudding, then rice, until the whole plate was empty.

About 10 minutes later, Price returned to the living room. He was pleasantly surprised by the scene that beheld him. You were curled up on the couch, sleeping soundly while Ghost was curled around you and loudly snoring. Price could only chuckle to himself, shaking his head before he grabbed a blanket. He placed it over you and Ghost and relaxed on the couch as well.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Ghost woke up, immediately alert when he couldn’t smell you. He could hear Price in the kitchen, cooking up dinner for that night. The dog-hybrid got up and began his search for you, faintly being able to smell you from down the hall. Peering into Price’s bedroom, he could see that the television was on. It was set to a children’s cartoon channel, and then he saw you. You were swimming in one of Price’s shirts, making biscuits out of his fluffy blankets as you happily watched cartoons. He would walk up to the bed, sitting on the side of it. His weight caused the bed to dip on one side, making you almost roll over if it wasn’t for Ghost panicking and swiftly holding you in place before he moved to the center of the bed, balancing the weight out. It didn’t phase you, you just went back to making biscuits. It made Ghost chuckle, your nonchalant-ness. Price entered the bedroom after about an hour, ready to announce that dinner was ready. He was pleasantly surprised when he saw you and Ghost playing together. He was using one of his old toys that he had held onto since he was a puppy, playing tug of war with you. Obviously, he was going easy on you, his grasp on the toy limp while you were gripping the toy between your teeth like your life depended on winning. But it made him smile when he saw how happy you would get every time you won each round.

But he would definitely make it harder to win when you grew up.

───♡───────────── End

If you have any requests or asks, feel free to submit them! And thank you again, anonymous, for being my first request!

[softaestluv]

Guard Dogs

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x Neighbor!Reader

Pt. 1, Pt. 2 , Pt. 3, Pt. 4, Pt. 5

Tags: Angst, Fluff, & Eventual Smut

Summary: You were a proper good girl. Just like in his fantasies when he was a little boy. Ghost only looked to protect you from the evils of the world just like Riley. Your two personal guard dogs.

But maybe this is where he belonged, on the other side of the glass, staring at you from afar. Even if Riley wanted more.

Ghost, who won’t admit it, gets a dog because when he’s not on assignments he gets lonely. His home feels terribly empty all by himself; the silence deafening, borderline painful. Adopted him from the local shelter, a German shepherd who he names Riley. Tells everyone that he needed a guard dog to protect his belongings when he’s not home, but everyone knows his prized possessions are far and few in between. Could hold all of them in his palms, carries them with him all the time anyways.

He trained Riley rigorously just like he did in the military. Treated him just as he did his trainees. Until he was obedient and well-behaved, listened to his every command. A perfect sidekick for him. Kept him company in his home that felt too large to be alone in. Always at his feet or curled into his side on the couch. A couch he probably shouldn’t let him on or bed sheets he shouldn’t be tangled in, but Ghost had a soft spot for him. Broke the rules for him because he was his dog after all, made the silence and loneliness a little bearable. Made his home a little more warm.

Riley who seemed to take a liking to you— the pretty bird who lived across the street. Made him think that maybe Riley was more like him than he realized; his own eyes had been drawn to you multiple times. He was usually well-behaved, didn’t approach strangers or jump on them for their attention. Ghost had trained him better than that. However, the first time he crossed your path on a walk, he pulled Simon by the leash, pressed his nose against your calf eagerly in interest.

You stopped in your tracks with a soft noise of surprise, “Oh! Well, hi there!” Your focus shifted to Simon, “Is it okay if I pet him?”

Simon hummed nodding his head in response. You gave him a small smile before squatting down eye level to Riley. Pet down his back and scratched behind his ears, Riley wagging his tail swiftly behind him, would probably purr if he was a cat. Dog hair covered your black shirt as he snuggled into your touch, but you didn’t seem to mind too much.

Cooed baby voiced praises to him that had him whining happily, “What’s your name, sweet boy?”

“Riley.”

“Riley,” You repeated softly, caused him to bark loudly in response. Snickered quietly at the noise, “Nice to meet you too, Riley.”

“Sorry, he doesn’t usually bug people like this,” Simon apologized, tugging on his leash lightly to pull him away.

You stood up at that, shaking your head, “Don’t worry. I don’t mind at all he’s a sweetheart.”

“Got dog hair all over ya now.” Gestured to the hair decorated on your clothing.

You exhaled a chuckle, brushing the fur off as best you could, “No worries, I live up the block. On my way home, anyways, just on a run.”

“Think I might live across from you. Moved in a couple months ago, but haven’t really been around.”

“Oh, yes! Wondered who lived there for a while now,” Held your hand out for him to take, “Nice to finally meet you.”

Riley whined when Simon pulled him away, tried to follow after you when you continued your jog. Sat and watched you run away despite Simon’s tugging or lack there of.

After that there wasn’t a day they didn’t run into you. Simon always woke up too early, military sleeping schedule beat into his mind. Didn’t have pleasant enough dreams to keep sleeping most nights anyways. At least that was the excuse he created in his mind to validate his actions.

Maybe Riley was his wingman, pressed his nose against your calf every time he passed you. Caused you to stop and greet them both, gave Riley endless pets and scratches before you turned your attention to Simon with a pretty smile. Drenched in sweat and frizzy hair from running, but each look from you had his mouth drying. Didn’t care that he wore a balaclava, didn’t even ask, chose to focus on his eyes instead.

It became his favorite part of his days, looking forward to the small interaction he would have with you. No matter how insignificant it was, but nothing seemed to be that way with you. Asked how he was, how did his day go yesterday, and how was Riley doing? How was work? Tiring, of course. Maybe you should sleep more instead of waking up so early!

He would if he could, but then he wouldn’t get to see you. His pretty neighbor, too sweet for her own good.

The only other time he got to see you was through your windows in the evening. It’s not like he was watching you, really, he wasn’t a stalker. He just so happened to be by his living room window everytime you came home from work. 6 o’clock on the dot, 5 on Fridays, started your weekends early.

Watched you slip out of your car, different sundress every time, dressed just like a pretty doll. Flowy and ruffled, hid your figure well enough. Didn’t flaunt it, but he knew what was underneath it all. He had seen your silhouette through the dimly lit curtains, shadows of you peeling layers off to shower.

Simon wasn’t a pervert, he wasn’t desperate for these small glimpses every night. But didn’t you know you should be more careful sweetheart? There were perverts out there, you were lucky he wasn’t one. He only kept looking to protect you from the evils of the world just like Riley. Your two personal guard dogs.

The evils of other men that you never brought home. No boyfriend in sight. Never stayed out late, even on weekends. Stayed snuggled on your couch or cooked for most of your free time. A proper good girl. Just like in his fantasies when he was a little boy.

Cooking he wanted desperately to try, spent hours in your kitchen preparing god knows what. It’s not like Simon would even know what you were making, his countless store bought meals buried in his trash were evident enough. Hoped he might get a taste one day, melt on his tongue because he knew it would be delicious.

But maybe this is where he belonged, on the other side of the glass, staring at you from afar rather than enjoying the warmth of your home and cooking. So he cherished what he could get, the small greetings every morning, and the clockwork of watching you every night. Even if Riley wanted more.

[magicpiano]

I sort of like the idea of Bruce accidentally adopting Damian. Something happened which caused Damian to run away from the league and towards his father, but all he knows is that is father is batman. Before he can ever find him though, he is taken in by Bruce Wayne.

Damian intended to just slip away the first chance he gets, but somehow his escape plans keep getting interrupted. Eventually he begins to like living with the Waynes so much he starts to consider simply not looking for batman. After all, his father never came for him before. And what proof does he have that batman is so great anyways? He might as well stay with the people who actually like having him around.

Damian assigns himself as the Wayne family's protector because these weak foolish people could certainly never defend themselves. After the third foiled kidnapping attempt Damian is sure he could never leave. They would all die without him. Frankly he is amazed the Wayne's behavior hasn't gotten them all killed yet.

[penvisions]

gone to the dogs {chapter nine}

Pairing: Boston QZ! Joel Miller x F! Reader

Summary: Seasons change and silence rings. Everything is slow moving until it isn't. Everything happens all at once and you reach out for the one person who you need more than anything, but will they be able to reach you in time to help?

Word Count: 5.2k

Warnings: canon typical violence, canon typical language,, outbreak fic, darker fic, adult language, reader has no canon name but has a commonly used nickname, reader is mostly blank slate but has hair that can be pulled back, fighting, references to injuries, vital injuries, blood, gore, ambush attack described (the one in on lincoln), pregnancy and pregnancy symptoms, brief descriptions of birth, illusions to birth, birth complications, strained relationship dynamic, reader is keeping secrets, offscreen character death, um i think that's it for this one

*this chapter is very, very different from anything i've written before. please be warned, please read the tags, please proceed with caution if you feel even a little hesitant

A/N: please don't yell at me too much ♡

ao3 || series masterlist || navigation || ko-fi

Sleet rains down and mixes with the hail that builds up in the gutters, on the streets, in every nook and cranny of each building’s window. It dampens the sky, the ground, the air, his mood, and definitely the legs of his pants where they fit over his boots. He looks over his shoulder at a loud crackle of thunder, sure he heard footsteps behind him pick up speed under the sound- but no one is there.

He holds tighter to the bundle in his fist, shoved deep in his pockets of the coat you had fixed up for him time and time again. His chest aches at the thought of you, the sole reason why he’s out in this nasty weather while everyone else in the zone hunkers down to wait out the storm.

He knows it’s late, too late, passed curfew. But as he holds his shoulders tensely, entire body on alert for a threat, a soldier, someone else to keep him from you- he doesn’t notice the tripwire as he ducks into an alley. Bells jingle like merry laughter underneath the rumbling thunder low in the sky and he’s suddenly faced with three large figures separating from the shadows.

His mission of getting to the radio hub some guy set up flies from his mind as he focuses on the movement of them, how they close in on him. But all of his fight seeps from him as he feels the barrel of a gun shoved into the back of his head. His vision splotches black, head throbbing and heart stuttering as he realizes he’s completely surrounded and outnumbered- pulled from his melancholy musings in the worst way, a deadly way.

“Listen here, Miller. We know you took over the bitch’s operation, no one’s seen her in weeks. No one’s been found dead by her hands even though we’ve been scouring every little hidey hole for her. So we’re just gonna have a little chat about how we can all work together on better terms than she decided for everyone, got it?”

It wasn’t soldiers, at least not FEDRA, Joel realizes through glimpses of consciousness. The butt of the gun at his head slams hard again and his legs give out as his vision blurs completely. He knows he shouts out, but the sticky screech of duct tape being unwound from a roll drowns it out before a thick piece is slapped over his mouth. All he can do while fighting the pain in his body is try to track details- what they’re wearing, what they look like, where they drag his limp body through the streets, what the building looks like from the outside- before his hands and legs are tied tightly together and he’s shoved into a room where they cuff him to an old radiator.

He doesn’t know how much time passes, the only thing keeping pace is the throbbing in his head and the way the sky rains down thick sheets of hail that ping and dent anything they land on- a true summer storm for this part of the country. The only thing he knows for sure is that he should’ve stayed in Lincoln with you.

Damp dirt flies up and freckles your face as you try to dig out a neat little hole for the newest protection that Bill deemed important. A sensor would be implanted, allowing for some sort of flame thrower the man put together to spring up and aim at whoever got too close to the fence. It was still warm outside, dangerously so, the ground nearly crumbling but thankfully there was no illusions of water built up around the clean streets and the walkways of the cordoned off section of the town Bill claimed for himself.

You feel the need to keep busy, to work with your hands and to complete tasks with an alarming, almost manic energy. Frankie says you’re nesting, a natural progression of your hormones and body getting ready for the baby that grows stronger and bigger in your belly day by day. It’s been a month, nearly tw, summer finally beginning to wane, though the nights bite at your ankles and nip at your neck as the next season looms near.

Jean, too, is filled to the brim with restless energy. Though she’s more apt to help Bill with the canning and preservation of food, the cooking of meals, the cleaning of the house in a way that makes everything feel a little more normal- like old times before. It’s a far cry from the imitation of life you both experienced in the zone. But then again two women so close in their pregnancies was no walk in the park, sometimes you feel like you’re conducting business dealings just to get her to rest sometimes even when she wavers on her feet or begins to slouch in her seat. She’s a little further than you are, by a month or so. Her month being five and yours four. As best estimated at least.

The days are blurring together, your heart feeling both light and heavy as your mind works overtime, memories of every part of your life beginning to weave through your sleep, through your waking moments. Good times and bad. Fights that have everything to do with surviving and inane conversations that have nothing to do with it but were important all the same. Being human- it’s a wild concept you mull over as you feel like one for the first time in a long time. Joel helped with that, even in the hard times, he gave you reason to surge up and defend yourself, allowing you to keep your wits sharp and your teeth even sharper. To see that every was a threat in their own way, even if they were on your side.

But he’s been more than that for years, or had been. Now he’s…silent. No word from him since the day he disappeared into the thick tree line after safely delivering you and Jean here to Bill and Frankie. It worries you something fierce sometimes, wondering if he truly, genuinely loved you like he confessed to because love shouldn’t feel like heartbreak- like betrayal. Even as you carry a secret just as devastating as his radio silence.

Your hands fly to your middle as you stand from your spot, knees popping and back aching, but tickling sensation as if something is crawling beneath your skin brings alarm bells to life. You feel a cool wash of nerves race down your spine as you realize this is a new feeling, and it startles you. The hand trowel falls from your grip and you reach for the longer shovel to use as a makeshift cane, tingling feet carrying you slowly back to the house as the feeling underneath your skin persists.

Frankie is on the radio when you walk into the hidden basement, struggling to descend the stairs but determined all the same. He’s go the headphones on and microphone close to his moving lips. Tess’s voice is tin-like, canned where it echoes out from the speakers around his ears. There’s an urgency to her voice, the tone off- harsher as she relays her message. You distantly hear Joel’s name and suddenly the crawling sensation spreads over your entire middle, not just errant spots.

Gasping, you hold tight over the feeling, pressure building and waning as you feel heavy prodding through the skin that bumps into your hands. Frankie is suddenly in front of you, the cord to the headphones tugged tight from where they remain plugged into the computer system Bill has immaculately set up.

“Hey, hey, woah, what’s going on, are you feeling pain?” His voice is soothing despite the worry you see swirling in his eyes. One of his larger hands splays over yours and pressure crawls underneath your skin once again. But his worry gives way to a bright shine, his teeth glinting as he smiles widely down at you.

“Honey, that’s…that’s kicking!” He pauses in his excitement, pressing something on the side of the headphones before turning back to the computer screen and radio set up. “Tess, sorry, hold on one second. You said he’s okay? Can we expect you soon or does he need more time to rest up before a trip?”

He’s quiet as he processes her next words, and then he’s shucking off the headphones to place carefully over your head. Confusion colors your features as you hear static echo through the connection before a deep voice that weaves through your dreams caresses like velvet over your senses- the pressure of the baby kicking growing as it settles over you.

“Hey there, darlin’.” Suddenly every worry that’s plagued you flies out the window and you feel immensely relieved to hear that deep drawl.

“J-Joel?”

“Know it’s been a while.” You hear the shuffling of fabric, a muted grunt that sends a spike of pleasure down your spine, and then a deep exhale. All of the hurt and anger and loneliness at his prolonged absence smoothed over by his next words. “Was kinda in the infirmary for a bit, got jumped by some guys who decided to try me.”

“Are you okay? Who was it? I swear if it was Cohen, I’ll march back there myself and end him. He’s been laying low but always tried-“ The need to protect, to defend, to maim- it all flares up far stronger than it has in a long while. Someone’s decision to mess with what’s yours stirring it all up in you. Hackles raising and claws extending, all for the man who seems to be having a bit of trouble taking a full breath over the line as he tries to console you.

“I’m okay, just been shackled to a radiator the past month and then recovering from malnutrition and a pretty bad concussion after that. Everythin’ is under control, we’re keeping everythin’ up just like you would. And Cohen, he’s been hung for his attempts to take out the sole provider of black market goods by FEDRA themselves. Seems they didn’t like him messing with their supplies.”

“It’s been months, Joel. I was-“ The confession nearly drips from your tone as you realize how small it makes your voice sound, it makes you sound. The one where you admit to feeling like runt pup, left to fend for itself in favor of tending to the stronger, more promising pups in the litter. Abandoned, even if it was your idea in the first place to reside here with Jean, to move her to a better environment- yourself into a better environment.

“I’m okay, I promise.” But it was too much, your emotions bubbling up and the soft hush of his voice over the line. The way the baby kept kicking and kicking the longer you talked to Joel, your heart stirring faster and your body nearly leaning into the radio as you unconsciously moved as close to the source as your could. It was too much, he wasn’t here. He hadn’t been here. It didn’t matter the reason, there were ways for Tess to let you know. She hadn’t, letting it fester into miscommunication and transform into something ugly. Whether intentionally or not, you feel left out. But then again…the conversation of regular communication outside of planning visits and the exchange of goods didn’t exactly happen.

“I’ve got to go- Frankie here.” You remove the headphones just as the man on the other side of the connection calls your name, your real name. But you can’t, emotions swelling up into your lungs as you begin to take in shallow breaths and plop heavily down into the chair in the corner. Through the haze of your spell, you see Frank talk for a few more minutes before the connection is cut off. He’s resetting the radio before coming over to kneel in front of you, hands cradling your face as he urges you to breathe along with him.

“Sweetheart, it’s okay- he’s okay.”

“He-he didn’t- he waited so long, I thought- I thought he was dead!” You shout, every emotion from the past couple of months brimming over and spilling over your hot cheeks and throbbing head in thick tears. Your thoughts weren’t of fights and ambushes, he is strong, Joel is capable and damn near a killing machine when he needed to be. It was of him overdosing, of drowning himself in the swill people claimed as alcohol. But it wasn’t- he was recovering from an attack, one that could’ve been prevented if you stayed behind and handled things as always. It was your fault.

“You can’t control everything and that’s okay. What matters is that you’re both safe and healthy, you are both still very much alive and kicking, okay?”

You can’t fight the tightness in your throat even when you manage to get your breathing under control with the help of Frank. He seems to understand that you can’t find your voice, even as he ushers you up to the main level and helps you to sit on the couch to get off your feet. Within a few moments he’s got a plate of snacks and a glass of water for you set on the coffee table. His hands hold both of yours as you lean into his side, one of his arms wrapped around you to keep you tucked in tight.

“Everything is going to be alright, I promise you, okay?”

“Frankie, I see the way you take so much time to do things that used to be quick and easy for you.”

“It’s a long ways off before it gets bad, we’ve got time. I’ve got to meet that little baby in here before you go confining me to a wheelchair, yeah?” His other hand rests over your middle, the kicking stopped as soon as you removed the headphones and Joel’s voice no longer caressed your ears.

“I don’t know about that, what if they take after Joel?”

“A mini Joel is a mini Bill, and I think we can handle that, honey.”

It’s dark when the attack happens, the thick chill of winter sticking during the night even if it dissipates during the day. Spring is here, the babies are almost to term. The sound of sensors going off just before explosions ring out, you feel the house shake with thunder, all of your senses completely overwhelmed. Frantic movement, pounding steps, shouted curse words, and then your door is flying open and Frank is ushering Jean into your room with a wild expression.

“Bill is already out there, both of you stay in here, please. I’m going to broadcast the code for Tess and Joel, in case things go bad.” And then he’s gone too, closing the door securely behind him.

Jean is breathing deeply, her chest rising rapidly, her hands shaking and you push out of the bed to usher her down on the end of the bed.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay. We’re going to be okay, I promise you, I’ve got you,” You sit beside her and hold her tightly, the trembles of her body jerking her. The harsh rain, the rumbling thunder, the blinding strikes of lightning and the gunfire popping off outside the house triggering her. Her hands are tight over her middle, wrapped around the bump there that’s a little larger than your own.

Just at the front door slams open downstairs, but you couldn’t tell how much time has passed, the air thick with tension and bated breath while you strain your ears for any sign of the trouble getting worse.

Frank is shouting for Bill to heed, to listen and calm as best he can- the older man reaches for him with blood soaked hands and demands his attention in a moment of intense clarity. You rush down the stairs as you hear both of them stumble around on the ground floor. Bill is clutching his middle, a gunshot wound bleed profusely in his gut.

Frank sets him on the dining room table, hands hovering as his mind races. You step close and take a look before grabbing supplies stashed in the drawers up against the wall. You both work to get the bullet out, thankful that it’s whole and not shattered. He grunts at the sting of alcohol poured over it, the panted words of ‘go to Joel’ the last he utters before he goes limp.

As he loses consciousness, all you and Frank can do is stare down at him, emotions running feverishly high as the rain continues to downpour and thunder rumbles lowly in the heavy clouds outside.

Jean is crossing into the dining room to see you and Frank hovering over a stitched up Bill sprawled out on the table, blood splattering you both. Her expression is strained, one of her hands on her middle while the other holds tight to the door jamb. The steady drip of something sounds as she stands there breathing heavily and your eyes narrow as you look over her from the top of her head to the tips of her feet.

Her legs are shiny with something, her socks soaked as she struggles to stand there.

“Cane, I-I I think my wa-water broke!” Her voice cracks as a sob, panic contorting her features into something terrified, her cheeks stained with tears and a little blood- the same that you notice a moment too late on her fingers as well as swirling with the shine on her legs. She’s unable to get any more words out as her chest heaves with a deep breath and her knees buckle. You’re barely across the space in time, ignoring the subtle tension in your own middle as you do so and catch her upper half before it slams into the hardwood. You grunt as you take on her dead weight, slumping down rather clumsily as Frank takes stock of what supplies are already out, mind working out what else might be needed.

The tension, the stimulation, all of it- it’s too much for Frank’s nervous system to handle and just as he’s reaching for the bottle of whiskey to take a deep pull from it, his body begins to jerk. He falls to the floor with a loud thud that vibrates across to where you’re kneeling beside Jean as she writhes and wails. There’s so much blood, splattered and spread over Bill’s frame. Dripping from between Jean’s legs and trailing down them in rivulets. Sprouting from the gash that’s splitting in Frank’s forehead, the edge of a chair cutting into him as he collapsed. Your entire body shakes as you grasp at your middle, pain striking as you feel your very spine contract and compress, the weight of the being inside dropping lower than you’ve ever experienced it.

“No, no, no,” You chant as you see the way Jean’s gone slack, passed out from pain or panic or both and you feel your legs buckle the second you try to stand. So you crawl, you move on trembling limbs as best you can toward the radio that’s been set up in the living room for situations exactly like this. So you or Jean or a worsening Frank didn’t have to descend into the lowest floor of the house to call for help.

Frank never made sent the signal, the sound of Bill shot pulling all of his attention.

The radio crackles to life, static loud over the line as it tries to connect and when it clicks you’re voice broadcasts into a overstuffed room back in the Boston zone. Startling the person manning the radio set up there out of the blank stupor one takes on doing a task as mindless as switching dials to check different channels for communication you know isn’t going to come through. Not when it’s been ages since any have.

“Silas, Silas do you copy?” Despite the trembling of your entire body, the expanding and snapping pain in your middle, your voice is even. It’s not overly commanding but the serious tone prevails strongly over the line. “Silas?”

Static is the only thing you hear in return, no voices travel back to you across the space, rising your simmering panic. You jam your hand to disconnect the call, instead typing into the computer settings and clicking through the tracks listed there. Sledgehammer by Peter Gabriel seems to be the best bet, to convey the way literally everything is crumbling apart in a matter of seconds. Even if the innuendoes are a little too on the nose for a household headed by the couple that it is. A mirthless laugh bubbles up as you jab your finger to broadcast it over the line, hoping that the radio nestled in Joel and Tess’s apartment springs to life in that exact moment.

Laughter wracks your body as vertigo and mania set in, it’s fuckin’ hilarious.

It’s one cruel, cosmic joke that all three people in the house are injured and unconscious in that moment. Any surviving attacks sure to circle back once they gain their bearings, though you desperately hope they’ve all been blown to pieces by either a bullet aimed by Bill or the explosives he’s hidden around the fence line. At most it’ll take Joel and Tess several hours, the least would be four or five to successfully sneak out of the zone and traverse the fifteen or so miles to you.

And that’s only if they’re actually in the apartment to hear your distress call.

What if they were on a run, outside the zone already hunkered down for the night as a supply run turned into a night spent in the ruins of the surrounding city?

Joel is just stepping into the shower when the radio blares to life. It startles him in a way he would never admit, his skin prickling from the back of his neck all the way down to his calves. Vulnerable, exposed, injured still. His ribs are mending, but tender. Even as an entire season has come and gone, pushed to the extreme as he throws himself into hunting down every single person who had anything to do with his capture. Anyone who claims he’s killed you to take over your operations.

It's the only explanation, apparently. Violence raged against you, one too many orders that pushed him over the edge. And he loathes it. The way people think he’s capable of doing the one thing he never could, death for you would be preferable. Not the death of your own scribed to his hands, his conscious.

It registers at that moment: the song is from the eighties.

He doesn’t even shut the water off before he’s pushing from the stall and quickly shoving his limbs into clothing. The fabric sticks to his damp skin as he fastens his belt, holstering a handgun and hastily packs his bag. The door slams behind him as he flies down the hall and through the front door of the building into the storming darkness.

The sun is just coming up when Joel’s even, tempered steps softly sound on the steps that lead up to the front door. It's no longer raining but thunder rumbles in the distance, thick clouds lighting up as the sun begins to rise behind them. The small entry way lights brightens slightly when the door creaks open. Joel’s form moves carefully and stealthily through the small space, his head turning to take in the empty living room and then the dining room. But he stops in his steps, deathly still when his eyes land on the unconscious forms of Bill laid atop the table and Frank on the floor, gauze and medical instruments scattered around them.

They’re patched up and breathing shallowly. That’s a good sign, the only good sign as he takes in the rest of the room.

Joel raises his gun as his eyes follow the trail of dried blood that leads into the kitchen, the house is silent save for the ticking of the clock above the couch in the next room over. He swallows thickly, heart thudding painfully against the inside of his ribs. He continues further into the house, the kitchen door creaking open underneath thick fingers as he pushes through. And he swears his heart stops altogether.

Jean is laid out flat on the tile, blood pooled around her, covering her legs and still swollen middle. Her skin is pale, her eyes closed- her chest isn’t rising and falling with her breathing. The stamp of boots far bigger than your own litter the floor, two different sets. And then he hears it, movement.

He follows the faint sound, passing by the woman who he had sworn to protect. The direction of the boots prints as they disappear to the end of the house. The sound is low voice, your voice, pleading. It lights up his instincts in a wild way, he’s never heard you sound so desperate. And it’s obvious what has your voice dipping so when he opens the door to the sunroom at the back of the house to find you cradling a small figure tucked into a blanket. Two men, two bodies lay far too close to you. They aren’t breathing, the gun by your side looks jammed and a kitchen knife sticks out of one of their foreheads.

But the baby isn’t breathing either, even as your hands work against its little chest, back propped up on your pulled up knees. The blanket covers most of your form, but what blood you’re covered in is everyone else’s. Your hair is back in a tangle of tresses, blood matting them into thick chunks. It’s smeared on your cheeks, dried tears breaking up the stains. Your hands too, are stained, even as you work harder than he’s seen you work on anything.

Your own breath is pitched high, almost gasping even as you lean down and press your mouth to the open one of baby. The chest rises as you do so, but as you move away it expels unnaturally. The baby isn’t breathing and nothing you do is going to help. He holsters his gun and kneels beside you, body going still as you turn wild eyes to him.

“J-Joel, he…he won’t…I can’t-!” Flashes of his own child struggling to breathe, the same quick staccato that you exhibit now should rattle him, but instead it steels him. His hands are steady as he gently reaches for the baby, wrapping the blanket carefully around the boy’s small body.

“It’s…it’s okay, darlin’,” He croaks, voice sticking in his throat at the exhaustion he can see so clearly in every little movement you make, every line of muscle in your body. The evidence of the ambush around the fence line, the mangled bodies that litter the growing grass, the burn of fire catching in spots, ash in others. The two men in the dining room, obviously harmed but tended to. You’re the only one conscious, the only one capable. But he’s here now.

He thinks he can help you through this, can help put the house back in order until the blanket lifts from your lower half to expose the swell of your own belly.

His mind goes blank, his entire body goes numb. Static filling his head even as the overlay of his argument with Tess, his argument with you over Jean’s situation sounds loud. Everything slots into place, all at once. The reason you were adamant about leaving, the way your touches lingered before you did, the sickness that lingered long after Tess’s…you kept this from him. But betrayal isn’t what he feels now, hope flutters in his chest, a small spark that lightens the darkness that fills him, has deepened since you settled here.

Not just for Jean and Frank, but for you and your baby. His baby.

There’s the shine of liquid puddled around you, soaking into the fabric of your sleep shorts and the hem of your oversized shirt. Your water’s broken, contractions the culprit behind your shallow breathing, not just your attempts at resuscitating the baby he’s holding in his arms.

“Joel, please, h-help me,” You whimper, hands moving to cradle your middle, bending double as you stretch your legs out straight. A contraction convulses your body and you cry out an ugly, guttural sound that snaps him back into motion. He sets the carefully wrapped blanket atop the whicker chair to his right and hurries to your side. Hands cradling your head as he pulls you to him, lips pressing firmly to your temple as your shoulders begin to shake.

“I didn’t know. Cane, I-“ His hands tremble now, with the realization that you ran from him. Because you were afraid of him, of what he would tell you to do in the heat of the moment. But that spark of hope catches, gets the oxygen it needs as he breaths in deep, stoking it to a greater volume. You’re stronger than him and the realization that you would turn from him even the wake of creating a life together in order to protect and defend instills that notion. It gives him some strength too, to know how willing you are to do what you need to, for yourself, no matter what anyone else thought. Pride swells, he knows you’re strong, he knows you can do this. He just needs support you, he needs to be the one to give you the room to be strong, even if it might feel like weakness in this moment.

“I hid it from you,” Your voice is raspy from the force of your grunts and groans, breaking out of your chest and into the air as you scrabble in his hold to tear your soaked shorts off. “You didn’t want it, you wouldn’t h-have wanted me.”

Your words knock into his chest like snapping canines, ripping and tearing up sinew and skin. He lets the pain and hurt fuel him, coalescing with the hope that’s flaming bright right there inside him.

“You’re mine, you hear me. Both of you.” His voice is clear, solid. Promising as he moves to kneel between your propped up legs. His hands are shaking, but he presses a kiss to each kneecap before he grips them and glances down. He swallows down any fear of repetition, his jaw twitching as he focuses on your glassy eyes. He can see fear clearly in every line of your face and it fuels him to be better, to do better. To protect, to prevent. You need him, as much as he needs you. Two snarling dogs fending for themselves, bonded and bred anew.

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@tobethlehem

dividers and banners by the lovely @saradika-graphics and @cafekitsune

[billandtedsgayjourney]

been watching person of interest and it really is rife with 'living weapon sees himself as a stray rabid dog (derogatory) and those who love him see him as their guard dog (affectionate)' metaphors

[maracujatangerine]

93. Firelight

CW: institutional slavery, pet whump, dehumanisation, box boy universe

The snow glittered in the moonlight. It lay undisturbed and soft like a feather down duvet all over the lawn, the trees, and the roofs of the other houses. Brutus looked despondently out the window, then paced across the room and looked out at the same view from a slightly different angle.

Master and Mistress had just left the house in a haze of sparkly red dress, fine, dark grey suit, fragrant perfume and red-bottomed heels clattering against the wooden floors.

”Down, boy! I won’t need you tonight.” Master had told him. ”This is the sort of party that will have their own security.” He’d added, with a smiling glance at Mistress Cecilia, who was adjusting an errant strand of her up-do in the floor-length hall mirror.

And then they were gone…

And Brutus worried. As usual.

The guard dog tried to convince himself that his Master knew what he was doing, but he couldn’t stop himself from restlessly wandering from room to room in the huge apartment.

As he was staring out yet another window, multicoloured lights from the Christmas tree falling over his face, Absalom silent-footedly appeared next to his elbow.

Today, the romantic wore a white shirt, marine trousers and a bow-tie in midnight-blue silk. A sapphire mounted in silver spilled down from his collar, catching the light in undersea reflections.

“Make a fire.” He said.

Brutus started at the unexpected request.

”But… But Master and Mistress just left. Did they really ask for a fire?”

Absalom stared out the window, then slowly turned his head to look at Brutus. Blue eyes meeting dark brown. Smooth, glossy brown hair like a waterfall framing his pale face.

”Make a fire for me.” Absalom clarified. His facial expression neutral, his voice toneless, but there was something in his eyes that hinted of this being a very heartfelt desire indeed.

Brutus was going to refuse. To tell the pet that he could do it himself, if he wanted to risk their owners’ anger. True, they had not forbidden the pets from making a fire, but they had never told them to do so either. It was hardly worth the risk, the room was warm enough already. But that hint of something stopped him.

Instead, Brutus gave a curt nod and turned to kneel in front of the fireplace. It was the guard dog’s task to make sure the firewood rack was filled, and he did it diligently.

The wood was dry, Brutus had already prepared smaller pieces of wood and strips of bitch bark in a basket next to the rack. It was quick work to build a neat staple of pieces of wood, with the kindling and bark in the centre. He could not deny a small sense of satisfaction as he lit the match and watched the yellow and orange flames eagerly catch in the firewood. Brutus carefully fed some smaller pieces of wood to the fire, guarding its progress. When he was satisfied the fire was well established, he tidied up the leftover kindling and put the matches back on their designated place.

Just as the guard dog got to his feet, Absalom came in through the door. He carried a silver tray, his back as straight and his movements as elegant as if he was serving their owners. On the tray was two thick glass cups filled with steaming wine that gleamed a deep ruby red in the firelight. There was also a plate with gingerbread cookies decorated with white icing in shapes of hearts and snowflakes.

With a flourish, Absalom held out the tray to Brutus. The large man just stared at him quizzically.

”Don’t worry, darling.” Absalom said. ”There are lots of leftovers from their get-together on Wednesday. They will never know.”

Brutus still hesitated. Their eyes met. Absalom smiled, just a little. Brutus nervously pulled a hand through his black hair, but finally took the proffered cup.

The romantic gracefully sank down in front of the fireplace, placing the silver tray with the cookies on the floor. He took a drink and cradled the warm glass cup in both hands. Brutus sat down next to him and sipped his drink cautiously.

The mulled wine was warm, and sweet, and strong. The taste and scent of it filling his senses. It was rare that Brutus tasted anything like it, and for a moment, he was completely absorbed.

When he glanced over at Absalom, the other pet was looking into the flames. The orange firelight reflecting in his eyes. His face was impassive, his breathing calm, but silent tears were streaming down his cheeks.

Brutus watched him with astonishment. He’d never seen Absalom show emotion in any way like this before. The guard dog wanted to speak, but he didn’t know what to say. Absalom’s quick wit could scratch like cat’s claws, if he was displeased.

He couldn’t just ignore it, either.

Slowly, Brutus reached out and laid his muscular hand on the pet’s thin shoulder. Absalom stiffened. For a second, Brutus thought the romantic might whip around to hit him.

Then, Absalom raised his own hand, thin and pale in comparison, and put it on top of Brutus’ hand on his shoulder. For a moment, they sat together and just watched the fire.

*

Fun Facts:

To drink warm, spiced wine has a long history, even the ancient Romans and Greeks did it. There are different versions of mulled wine across the world. In the Nordic countries, we drink glögg. It is a quite sweet version of mulled wine that most often is served with almonds and raisins.

Tag List Part 1:

@cupcakes-and-pain @whump-em @whumpzone @wh-wh-whu @neuro-whump @carnagecardinal @cowboy-anon @whump-me-all-night-long @redwingedwhump @myst-in-the-mirror @haro-whumps @eatyourdamnpears @bloodsweatandpotato @pinkraindropsfell @whumptywhumpdump @theydy-cringeworthy @whump-in-progress @whumpsy-daisy @nicolepascaline @whumpcreations @briars7 @shiningstarofwinter @whumppsychology @alex-ember @miss-kitty-whumptastic @whumpy-writings @in-patient-princess @youtube-fandoms-bands @goblinchildindabog @mazeish @distinctlywhumpthing @inpainandsuffering @canniboylism @icannotweave @incoherent-introspection @kim-poce @broken-typewriter @the-monarch-whumperfly @whumpers-inc @grizzlie70 @lil-whumper @writingbackwards-blog @sunflower1000 @wingedwhump @thecitythatdoesntsleep @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @onlybadendings @rabass @wolfeyedwitch @melancholy-in-the-morning

[joyouslee]

Variations on a Theme:  There Was Only One Bed

For @thawrecka

From this post. 

(I couldn’t help myself.)

The three of them stood looking down at The Bed.  An awkward silence descended.  The night was quiet, just the rustle of the cool night wind blowing through dry autumn leaves.  Su Xiaoyong was presumably all tucked in and sleeping soundly in the bed downstairs.  

Two pillows and a neatly folded blanket were stacked on the bed.  Li Lianhua had built his guest room with the idea of renting it out for extra money, so the bed was large enough for two, but – he glanced at Fang Duobing’s shoulders and Di Feisheng’s, well, everything – it’d be a squeeze for three.

Li Lianhua only owned two blankets: the one he was holding and the one Su Xiaoyong was using.  The tastefully luxurious one on the bed was one Fang Duobing brought from home.  (Other things Li Lianhua had found tucked in previously empty drawers: silver, lots of it; random gadgets and tiny tools; medicines and spices; old (expensive) ginseng; clothes and jewelry.)

After that very first night when Di Feisheng and Fang Duobing nearly tore the tower down around them, Li Lianhua had drawn a firm line and forced the two of them to get along and share or sleep in the woods.  They ended up sharing the bed, though not without muttered complaints from Fang Duobing about giants with ridiculous arms and legs taking up too much room.  A-Fei was easier-going than Di Feisheng and hadn’t objected to continuing the sleeping arrangements.  

A-Fei kicked off his boots, shrugged out of his outer robe, and was laying down on his usual pillow before either of them could say anything.  Clearly the awkward silence was only on Li Lianhua and Fang Duobing’s part.  A-Fei did not believe in awkwardness.

Variation 1 - a bossy shepherd herds an indulgent wolf and bewildered fox into bed

Li Lianhua looked around the room and started moving towards the bench against the far railing.  “You two take the bed, I’ll sleep over here.”  

Fang Duobing tsked audibly and said, “Li Lianhua you can’t sleep over there.  It’s too cold, there’s nothing to block the wind and it’ll go right to your bones.  You’re so skinny - you’re going to freeze to death.”  

Taking the blanket and pillow from Li Lianhua, he continued, “A-Fei, turn over, you’re taking up too much room, and take out your guan you’re going to stab Li Lianhua in the eye.”  

A-Fei huffed but did as he was told, to Li Lianhua’s astonishment.

“Take off your robe and hairpin, Li Lianhua,” Fang Duobing urged as he put Li Lianhua’s pillow down on the bed.  He then shook out the large blanket over A-Fei, laying it across the bed. “Quickly, it’s cold.  You should know better - the cold isn’t good for your heart.”  He then put Li Lianhua’s blanket around his shoulders, nudging him to sit on the bed.  

“Shoes off,” he tutted, before reaching over as though he were going to help Li Lianhua take them off.  Li Lianhua held him off with a quickly raised hand as he toed off his boots.  

“If you want any sleep tonight, just let him,” A-Fei said. “Otherwise he will go on forever.”  Li Lianhua was surprised to detect the slightest hint of indulgent amusement in his tone.  

“What are you talking about, A-Fei?  I’m just making sure Li Lianhua sleeps well and doesn’t catch a cold.  You know his health is poor.”  Fang Duobing said distractedly as he pushed Li Lianhua into bed against A-Fei’s back, straightening both blankets over him.

“You need us to block the wind for you,” he continued as he blew out the lamps and readied himself for sleep.  He carefully lifted only the top blanket and slid in gently, keeping the night air from touching Li Lianhua, and tucked in with his back to Li Lianhua.  

“Goodnight,” Fang Duobing said with a cheerful wiggle, getting comfortable, then within a few breaths he was asleep.

With both of them laying on their sides, Li Lianhua didn’t feel crowded in the middle, just … protected.

Li Lianhua blinked in bewilderment at how easily he – and Di Fucking Fei Sheng! – had been herded into bed together.  But as he lay there, fond amusement settled in.  He hadn’t a clue where the precious only son of Minister Fang and Sect Leader He of the famed Tianji Manor would have had the opportunity to learn how to take care of someone.  But his concern warmed Li Lianhua’s heart as much as the two furnaces he lay between warmed his old bones.  He closed his eyes and let himself rest.

Variation 2 - shutting up a yappy pup

Fang Duobing’s mouth dropped open in outrage.  

Li Lianhua braced for noise.

“A-Fei how can you take the bed like that?  You know Li Lianhua’s sick.  He can’t sleep on the floor.”  He stomped over and started pushing at A-Fei’s shoulder, presumably to get him to move onto the floor.  A-Fei tolerated three pushes before grabbing his arm and uncurling in a flash.  With a startled squeak Fang Duobing rolled over him and landed on the other side of the bed.  A-Fei rolled on top of him smoothly and covered his mouth with one hand.  

“Sleep,” he said firmly.  

Fang Duobing flailed at him with his free hand but A-Fei had him fully controlled.  Fang Duobing’s protests were muffled but it was clear what he was yelling about with the way he kept looking over at Li Lianhua emphatically.

A-Fei looked at Li Lianhua and jerked his chin at the open space.

Li Lianhua rolled his eyes and put his pillow on the bed.  

Alt chord progression 1: A-Fei puts his other hand over Fang Duobing’s eyes and he falls asleep - I’ve seen that trick work on puppies before and expect it would work just as well here.

Alt chord progression 2: A-Fei and Li Lianhua find other ways of keeping Fang Duobing quiet and sharing the bed.  i.e., lots of sex.  

When Li Lianhua wakes up, Di Feisheng is curled around him, and Fang Duobing is tucked up against his back, a little spoon trying to be a big spoon even though his forehead only hits A-Fei’s nape.  Fang Duobing’s arm is around Di Feisheng with his fingers curled into Li Lianhua’s robe, leg thrown over both of them.  Untangling is going to be a process but - Li Lianhua cups his hand around Fang Duobing’s, tilting his cheek against Di Feisheng’s nose- something to deal with later.  He closes his eyes and falls asleep again.  

Variation 3 (minor chord progression to theme in G major) - puppy pile 

“No.   My house, my rules.  No dogs in my bed.”  He swept the thick blanket into Fang Duobing’s arms and pushed him towards the clear space on the other end of the room, ignoring his indignant “Who are you calling a dog?!”.  

He pointed at Di Feisheng.  “Off,” he said imperiously.  “You two can keep each other warm over there.  Don’t think I don’t know what you two have done up here.”  

Fang Duobing choked and turned red.

“But you better keep in mind I’m right here, and downstairs is the granddaughter of the biggest gossip in the jianghu.  If you don’t want your liaison published in the next bulletin, keep your paws off each other.”

A-Fei shrugged and grabbed a sputtering Fang Duobing by the arm, pulling him down and rolling them in the large blanket like a spring roll.  “Go to sleep,” he said calmly.  

Fang Duobing managed to choke out a muffled “Goodnight.”

Li Lianhua blew out the candle and only heard a few rustles and a rather loudly whispered “A-Fei!” before all was quiet.  He curled up, rubbing his socked feet together.  He’d known about them pretty much since they started… whatever it is.  Fang Duobing wasn’t able to keep his emotions off his face; he blushed to the tips of his ears every time Di Feisheng came near him and occasionally tripped over nothing while pretending not to look at him.  He’s glad for them - the jianghu can be vicious, so taking comfort where you can is a gift.  He doesn’t want what they have, but it still feels ….  He shakes his head, no point in being maudlin about something he doesn’t even care to have.

The night wind swept through the room, and Li Lianhua shivered.  It really was a lot colder up on the second floor, and he couldn’t expend any neili to warm himself.  He was so tired.  His joints ached and he worried he might have a bicha attack that he wouldn’t be able to hide. He pulled the blanket over his head to keep the heat in and squinched his eyes shut, hoping to reach unconsciousness before his teeth started chattering. 

“Li LIanhua?  Are you okay?”

He ignored him, deciding that pretending to be dead was a viable route to sleep.  

“Li Lianhua?” 

A long pause.  He clutched the blanket closer, wondering if Fang Duobing gave up.

“Don’t be an idiot,” he heard as warmth settled over and around him, two warm bodies bracketing him, legs tangling and arms curling around him.  

“Don’t call him an idiot,” he felt more than heard Fang Duobing mutter.  The heat of them settled into his bones, and he fell asleep before he could tell them to get out of his bed.  

***

He woke up warmed through, muscles relaxed for once instead of tight from pain and cold.  He blinked his eyes open, shockingly well rested.  Fang Duobing was still asleep, clutching him like a favored toy, soft breaths hot against his neck.  He could tell by Di Feisheng’s breathing that he was already awake, but he still kept his arm over Li Lianhua’s chest, hand curled at Fang Duobing’s nape.  A warm wiggly weight settled over his feet, and he glanced down.

Hulijing had once again snuck into bed.

Li Lianhua sighed.  How did he end up with three unruly dogs in his home?

Note: ok, so like, not so much variation because I’m constitutionally unable to leave Li Lianhua sad and cold and alone in bed.  Or any of them, really.  So.  Puppy pile!

[romana-after-dark]

Guard Dog

Riader!Joel Miler x Dark!fem!reader

Masterlist : Taglist

Summary: Joel attempts to raid the wrong house, and having the Joel Miller on his knees before awakens something in you... and in him.

Content and Warnings: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT Dub con on Joel (Is it non con? idk. Idk how im supossed to tag this but it's no where near the violence of tww someone help), references to non con from Joel to other women, gun sucking, fem domme, dark!reader but Joel is also dark soooooo, subby Joel, dead bodies, Nick reference (if you read TWW you know lol), multiple orgasms, overstim, dumbification?

AN 1: This essentially came of two thoughts, me thinking hmmmm how to write raider!Joel in a new way? 2. I want to avenge Little One. Joel did her so dirty and is still doing her so dirty in the dark timeline addition, lowkey wanted someone to get revenge for her. Plus, subby Joel is always a win for Fen and Maura lol

AN 2: Shout outs to @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin and @toxicanonymity for talking me through this idea, esp Toxi for letting me use the gun blowjob bit lololol if you like that concept, I encourage everyone to check out toxi's raider joel Or maybe Jake's part in the chasing series

***********************

Whoever it was, they had chosen to raid the wrong fucking house.

Yes, you were a single woman. Yes you lived alone. But no, you were not helpless, far from it, actually. Whoever it was is lucky they had made it past the set of boobytraps thus far. Actually, it sounded like a few of them had been taken out as it was.

*

Joel watched in relief as the arrow went through Nick’s skull. Relief it wasn’t him. He never liked Nick that much anyway, real creepy guy. In fact, he didn’t like any of the men that this house had gotten either. It was exhausting, trying to lead a group of dumbasses and whatever the fuck was in here it wasn’t worth it, so Joel attempted to make his exit. Thing was, leaving was proving just as hard as entering was. Whoever lived here didn’t want anyone living to tell the tail. Stepping over the dead bodies of a few of his men, Joel had narrowly dodged more arrows, spikes, darts; the whole lot, until some secret fucking door opened up like a goddamn scooby-doo house and there you were, gun to his forhead.

“Joel fucking Miller, I’ll be damned.”

Joel narrowed his eyes. He didn’t recognize you, but you knew him. That wasn’t surprising, he’d gained a bit of a reputation from raiders, fireflies and regular people. “Who the hell are you?”

You tell him your name, first name at least, and make quick work of taking out the gun in his hand. “Armed with anything else, Miller?” He said he wasn’t, but you knew that was a lie. “Don’t believe that for a second.”

“Then why the hell did you ask?” His texan drawl was prominent, especially when he was worked up.

“More fun to mess with you.” Keeping the gun pressed up to his temple, you press your body against his in turn as you pat him down for more weapons. It didn’t hurt that he was handsome.

“JESUS!” Joel jumped as you grabbed at his ass. “Watch your fucking hands.”

You can’t help but giggle; he thinks he's in charge. “You could be hiding weapons anywhere-” He tenses as you slip your hand between his buttcheeks as much as his jeans allow. “-Can’t be too careful.”

Joel was a brutal man, you heard stories of his rage and carelessness for human life, including women. There’d been many such stories of him forcing himself on women, kidnapping and trafficking… maybe he needed a taste of his own medicine? You take your time on his top half, feeling up every muscle, every bit of pudge, every dip on his broad body. Then, onto the lower. Without hindrance, you grope at his crotch and are very impressed by the size of him; and amused by the way he’s already semi-hard. Men are so easy, it’s funny sometimes. 

“This make you excited, Miller? Or does it scare you to be at a woman’s mercy for once? Maybe a little bit of both?” 

Joel didn’t look at you, lips pursed in a hard line.

You continue, moving the gun to his pants as you kneel before him to check lower. “I bet this is more your speed isn’t it? Having a pretty woman on her knees?”

The scoff above you doesn’t go unnoticed. “Mighty full of ourselves, aren’t we?”

After taking a knife and a gun that were strapped to his ankle, you stand up, satisfied with your work and the ever-growing bulge in his pants. “I own a mirror, Miller. I know what I got going on.” Degrading won’t work on you. With a nudge, you press him towards your room. 

“Yuh gonna kill me?” There was no fear in his voice when he asked. This was a man prepared for death whenever it came.

“We’ll see. Gonna have a little fun with you first.”

*

Having Joel Miller on his knees for you was a goddamn treat. He looked so good like this, so submissive even if his bratty little face wanted to put on a show. 

“It’s natural, you know.” With a glance down, you let him know that you are referencing his half-hard cock. “The adrenaline.” You squat in front of him. “How many girl came when you forced yourself on them? How many felt their bodies betray them? Did you laugh at them for getting wet?”

“I didn’t-”

“It’s humiliating, isn’t it?” Your gun was still out, knowing physically he could probably overpower you still. You weren’t weak by any means, but you also were aware he had far more upper body strength, muscles bulging through the seem of his shirt sleeves. The cool end of the gun prodded at his face as he tried to keep calm; the bob of his adam's apple and subtle rise of his chest was giving away his nerves. It was exhilarating, having a man that many feared, the cause of death of so many men, someone of damn-near legendary status and his knees for you… You couldn’t help the reaction the thrill had in pooling in your stomach. It was natural, wasn’t it? That’s what you told Joel. 

Using the gun, you move his face around a bit to really take in his features. Strong nose, curly salt and pepper hair, soft brown eyes and lips you just really wanted to make whimper.

“Your quite handsome, you know that?”

An ironic chuckle. “I have a mirror too, sweetheart.”

You can’t help smiling at him as you straighten back up. “Take off your shirt.”

He rolled his eyes but did as he was told.

“Obedient thing, aren’t you? Bet I could train you, bet that’s what you need, isn’t it?” You slip your hand in your pants, feeling up your own wet cunt as the thrill of power elevates things. “Tired of having to decide, having to lead…” Maybe the adrenaline was getting to you, but you suddenly wish you had a dick to make him suck. You don’t, so you settle for the next best thing. You tap his lips witht he barrel of the gun. “Open.”

Joel hesitates, a slight spark of fear in his pretty eyes as he keeps his lips tightly closed, and that just won't do. You slap his cheek with the gun, and as grunts in pain the seal of his lips pops open.

“Ah-mph” His cry of pain was quickly muffled by the gun being shoved in his mouth. 

“Suck on it, cowboy. Act like you fucking enjoy it.”

You don’t think he needs to act. Joel sucks on your gun like he would a dick and you furiously finger yourself to his rhythm. As he closes his eyes, you can hear a low groan emitting from his throat and his hands twitching at his side. 

“Touch yourself, go ahead.”

He didn’t need to be told twice, his right hand flying to the seam of his pants and palming at his full erection.

 “Good boy, good fucking boy” You praise. “Just an obedient little dog pretending to be a lone wolf. Is that it? You just want someone to tell you what to do, huh?” You release the gun from his mouth and can’t help but grin as his lips chase it.

“Y-yes.” Joel admits, face strained in tension as he kept touching himself. Must hurt, being constrained like that.

“Take it out. Eyes on me.” You guide his face to look up at you with the tip of your gun. “Look in my eyes as you do it.”

As he released himself, Joel did indeed look up at you; he looked up at you as if you made the stars in the sky. 

Once his cock was out, all 9 or so inches, you take off your sleep shorts and straddle over him but not yet putting it in. “I don’t think I need this gun anymore… but I think you like it.” When you sink down on him, gun pressed to his ribs as a firm reminder of who was in charge, you hold your breath in order to hear the simple whimpers and guttural groans that Joel tried so hard to hide.

“This is where you belong, isn’t it?” You goad him, eliciting a quiet ‘yes’ from his lips. “Under me, belong to me.”

You are speared on him, his dick spreading you open and stretching you unlike anything you had felt before and you loved it. Every chance you had, you felt his muscles, reveling in the fact such a physically strong man was so mental weak for you and only you.

“Can I cum? Please?” Joel begged for you, pleaded ever, lips quivering even as you kissed him.

“Almost there, baby, almost- mmmm- almost there. You can cum after me, okay?”

Joel nodded quick, tiny nods and hesitantly moved a hand to your hips. He looked up at you bouncing on his cock for permission, and when you nod back he goes to thumb at your clit. 

“OH GOD!” You shout, breathless, slick all over your thighs and his pants, his touch sending you over the edge. You cum hard, walls pulsing all around him and he doesn’t ask again before spilling his seed inside you, filling you to the brim.

Your body relaxes, but then Joel throws you to the ground causing you to drop your gun and for a moment you thought he bested you, got you distracted; until he dove right into your cunt with no regard for the lost gun. He didn’t care about beating you, he cared about tasting you. As he desperately licked his cum out of your dripping hole, you tugging at his curls, Joel humped the floor as if he hadn’t just gotten released. You pull him close, riding out another orgasm on his face. When you cum a third time, you have to push him back, the overstimulation from the desperate man’s tongue, lips and beard being too much. When you do, he looks up at you with wide eyes as if he had done something wrong, but you pull up and into a kiss before laying him down on the floor to kiss him some more.

“Not sure if I wanna let go of you, cowboy…” You tease, playing with his hair but keeping him firmly pressed to the ground. “Might have to keep you around, but my little guard dog, how about that?”

Joel’s eyes were glossy, his face so fucked out you weren’t sure he was fully cognizant. “Baby boy too tired to speak? That’s okay, I’ll take care of you too. You be the arms; I’ll be the brains. You won’t have to have a single thought outside me again, okay?”

***********

Part 2 here

LOWKEY NERVOUS BC THIS IS SUCH A DIFFERENT JOEL AND HE DOESNT DO A LOT OF TALKING?!?!?!?!?!??! UNSURE HOW I FEEL

Anyway I do hope to write more maybe? so if you wanna be tagged comment below! I liek the idea of having a joel I can kinda just write stuff about whenever instead of a story and an arch and characters to balance. This is just more casual. and i dont gotta go nuts keepingup with posting like my other stories. Im think a v joel tess kinda vibe where she's clearly leading him

I was supossed to be working on the next part to my Javi P x reader x Santi AU buuuutttttttttttt I couldnt get this idea out of my head. So. here you all go! I'll try and work on that, the dark! TF boys, TWW, and the Will Miller story lol its kinda a lot rn

Please consider reblogging and commenting to support your fav writers <3

@fandxmslxt69 @moriartyyouwhore @hereforthepedrofanfic @alwaysmicado @noisynightmarepoetry @morallyinept @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin @the-fox-den @not-a-unique-snowflake-blog @k-ra

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[buddiesmutslut]

Finishing up my fem buddie for today's kinktober prompt & wondering exactly how many times I said "my wife" in Buck's POV during this fic, bc it felt like a lot when I was typing it; but also, it feels very in-character for that possessive & insane character, especially when it comes to Eddie Diaz lol.

[independent-fics]

Okay but listen now I’m thinking about Moreau’s “Is this one of your retrieval jobs Eliot? Tell me. Who’s snoopy lunch box do I have” comment. Because this totally implies that even though Eliot worked under Moreau it gives the vibe of him being “allowed” to take side jobs leave Moreau and come back. Moreau trusted him to come back and seemed like it was cute to go take other “trivial” jobs.

[shih-coulda-had-it]

stormverine | rolo week! day three | trust

wc: ~1800

a/n: expanded from an earlier wip post. technically gen, but definitely setting up the ship (and what i will probably have to tag as Power Dynamics, because i enjoy writing guard dogs what else is new)

//

Logan’s sanity has been in question for a good decade. Optimistically speaking, it’s a work-in-progress. When he was Weapon X for the Canadian government, Heather and Mac made an effort to keep him on an even keel.

More human than weapon. More reason than instinct.

He’d sensed he was hitting some kind of block by the time Xavier came to fetch him. Something that couldn’t be overcome by medicine or therapy prescribed by a bunch of doctors who pretended to understand what the hell was happening to him. 

And don’t get him wrong. Xavier pretends to understand too, but the professor’s got telepathy, and that at least gets him a better view of the struggle. It gets Logan the surety of a safety rope; painless, so he wouldn’t flinch and retaliate, and inexorable, so he couldn’t resist. The fact that the X-Men also gets him a front-row ticket to some of the worst mind-bending trips of Logan’s life is, well… 

Pessimistically speaking, Logan is losing the war to keep his goddamned mind. He’s lashing out on reflex and instinct, seeing enemies in his peripheral. His reasoning, his memory, it’s all going to pot.

It was bad under Scott’s leadership. It is worse now, but he won’t blame it on Ororo. 

The slide’s been building momentum. Too many slips without a save. Xavier can’t be there all the time, so Logan tries to keep rational on his own, tries to keep the bloodlust down now that there’s an actual kid at the mansion. Kurt seems to get it; he offers out of genuine sincerity to let Logan blow off steam with their games in the woods, and more than once, Logan is sure that Kurt’s had something to do with making sure Logan bumps into Ororo once a day. 

Which, on principle, Logan resents. 

Logan is a grown-ass mutant who doesn’t need minding. Never mind the evidence that Ororo helps, just by offering a word, a joke, or a mug of coffee. If Kurt indulges Logan’s bestial instincts, Ororo settles them. They aren’t pressed down like they are when Xavier intervenes. They aren’t even redirected to productive, if equally destructive, purposes, which was a favorite tactic of Scott’s. 

It’s not good. He shouldn’t be thinking of Ororo like a touchstone.

Yet when he breaks free from Doom’s cage, disoriented and half-mad, it’s Ororo he thinks of first. The team is scattered and the micro-transceivers aren’t working; the world outside the castle is clearly out of sorts with a wind howling as loud as the animal inside him. Logan doesn’t bother wasting time weighing his priorities—Ororo comes first.

He thinks in a different world, he throws in the towel and removes himself from the trappings of civilization altogether. It chafes to be restricted by things like orders, morals, ethics. He hadn’t liked it under the Canadian government, he hasn’t enjoyed the lectures from Cyclops and Xavier, and—the itch to act out and test the boundaries that Storm sets…

It’s still there. It’s nipping at his heels. Something’s going to give.

Before that, though, Logan can’t help but tie his fate to Ororo’s. When he and Kurt force Doom to revert the organic steel transformation and Storm emerges not just free but furious, Logan admittedly thinks twice about trying to restrain her.

Her rage is valid, isn’t it? Who has the right to leash a goddess?

So it’s not Logan who pulls Storm back, since he definitely lacks Colossus’s steady faith and firm trust in the human spirit. And in the chaotic rush to prevent Storm from going rogue, Logan’s thin and desperate plea to a higher being will be forgotten.

His thoughts are muddled throughout the aftermath, save for the instinctual training of his senses on where and what Storm does to negotiate their exit.

She uses the Wolverine’s name like a naked blade catching the light, and Logan isn’t even bothered. Let him be the threat. He’d relish the reputation if it got Doom’s slippery manners and hollow, courteous gestures to stop. 

When they agree to a truce, to a clean slate, Logan chews on the implications all the way home. He’s perversely glad that he can focus enough to puzzle over that last exchange.

Human enough to be jealous. Wonderful.

It’s something like a week after they return to the mansion, after Angel abruptly cuts from the team for greener (saner) pastures, that Logan remembers he’s human enough for the less pleasant sides of humanity too.

The nightmares have come back with a fucking vengeance.

Logan never remembers them, doesn’t have to, because what they do to his heart rate and sweat glands and sensory system says it all: he’s fucking terrified. Of what? The mansion creaks like it always does, old and reliable and drafty with all the recent repair work done to its walls and windows. The various scents are homely: blends of the incense sticks he burns, the remnants of meals, the smells of his teammates.

He should feel safe here. 

A memory snarls, a phantom sound. Logan wrenches himself out of bed and just barely restrains the claws from extending. His clothes do a lot to wick the sweat away, but it chills the back of his neck and raises the hairs, and he—

Logan lurches for the door. Ghosts. Spirits. He can’t trust his senses. He’s been put into too many situations where his heightened senses worked against him.

If the Professor isn’t reaching out to help him, isn’t beaming his deafening reprimand to calm down and be rational, then—! Logan doesn’t let himself finish that thought. If Xavier thought Logan was too far gone, he’d try and cage him in MacTaggert’s facility. No, maybe it’s more likely that Logan’s mutation has finally adapted to the invasive nature of Xavier’s mind-touches. Maybe Xavier needs to exert a little more conscious effort to catch when Logan’s about to let loose. 

Maybe Logan’s head is masking its own damn disintegration.

He slips into the hallway, barefoot. He eases the door shut behind him. He has to trust something. There is something in his head that is standing firm, steadfast, someone who smells like ozone and greenery, dust after rain.

The stairs up to Ororo’s attic-loft have never seemed farther, but Logan’s pushed himself through hell before. He steps silently, nimbly, until he’s ascending and at the door to Ororo’s personal haven.

Before he can stop himself, he’s—

“Ororo,” he calls out quietly.

The door swings open. “Logan?” she says, blinking. There are no curtains in her loft, and the moonlight washes her hair and the outline of her body in blue. The tension in his shoulders and spine vanishes. Logan digs his nails into his palms, clawing for clarity.

“‘Roro, I don’t—I don’t rightly know what the hell’s happenin’ to me right now. My head…”

“My friend, come in,” she says.

She’s worried. Obviously. It’s not every day that the Wolverine admits to a bit of headache and a spiraling feral temperament.

The door clicks shut, but she doesn’t switch the light on. Instead, Ororo draws him to the windows. Her eyes are steady on his, and when she reaches to touch his face to check for fever, Logan lets her. Her hands are a little chilled, wind-chapped too. “Is this something I can help you with? Shall I ask for the Professor?”

“If he had an idea, he’d have said it. Done it already.”

Ororo is silent. Belatedly, Logan realizes that he’s let his eyes shut, his vocal cords free. He’s goddamn purring like a rusty engine, and leaning into her hands to boot. He locks up and in like a good soldier. 

“Logan—”

“Sorry,” he croaks, and tries to pull away. “My control’s slippin’. I know it. The team knows it. I’m becomin’ as much a danger to the X-Men as to the creeps we fight.”

She holds him still. “Would you not say the same of me? I have never lost myself to my powers before. I hurt my team in an effort to stay as I was.”

“That’s different. You were—trapped—” Logan struggles to make the difference in their situations clear. Her brief foray into primal rage was born of a unique hell preying on her past, her fears, her innate desire to dance along the winds. He’s just like this. He’s always been like this. 

Her thumbs brush over his cheekbones; she is bold enough to card her fingers through his hair, and the long nails scratch Logan’s scalp like he’s some pet.

Fuck, maybe he is. Logan goes boneless, goes to his knees and tips his head to her, breathes out and in like meditation. His eyes close in anticipation of judgment.

“I do not accept your resignation from the X-Men,” Ororo says. “I will not accept any question of your leaving, unless there is some dire need of your presence elsewhere.”

“... Nice caveat.”

“I would not be who I was without some measure of freedom,” she responds wryly. “But I believe I am beginning to understand what might keep you here, beyond promises and vows.” The air shifts. He knows, without a doubt, that Ororo is kneeling too. “The Professor doubts your ability to reason in moments of crisis. I cannot seem to get it through his head that you, my friend, help me keep this team together.”

The affectionate nickname leaves his mouth without permission. “Darlin’,” he says, before snapping his teeth together with a click.

Ororo tugs his hair in reprimand, and Logan’s spine goes a little liquid. He cracks open his eyes, registers the slight smile, hears the quickened heartbeat. Her blue eyes are bright despite the dim illumination that pours through the skylights.

“Sorry,” he offers, guiltily. “I can be a professional about this.”

“If you were capable of being wholly professional, you would not be in this situation,” Ororo says. “Can you tell me what you need, Logan? Or shall I guide you in ignorance, as my predecessors did before me?”

Logan considers the request. Slowly, he says, “I ain’t askin’ for perfection. I don’t go lookin’ for it, either. I don’t care about the mistakes you’ve made, because the good you do outweighs all of that. Past, present, and future.”

She waits. He gives in first.

“Balance,” he says. “Don’t ask me to choose one or the other. Human or animal. Duty or freedom. The mission or—your life. I know what hard sacrifices are, and I’ll make them when I have to. I can’t promise to be your completely obedient servant—” Ororo interrupts him with a snort of derisive humor, and Logan flashes a quicksilver grin back, “—but I don’t mind deferrin’ to you. You’re team leader.”

“I am not as experienced as Scott was.”

“What’s that matter? There are dozens of ‘experienced’ team leaders that do worse with better people.” Logan hesitates, but finally catches Ororo’s wrists and takes her hands down, holds them in his, runs his thumbs over the fine knuckles and brown skin tinted blue. Then he lifts them and presses his lips to the slender digits, eyes cast down. Quietly, he murmurs, “Lead me, wind-rider.”

[mx-myth]

I was talking with @kingsandbastardz the other day and happened to get enough inspiration to smash this out. Kind of ooc for dfs? But also it's exactly him because he is that possessive.

The harsh noise of the waterfall has become the background to his meditation by now. His senses easily wash over his surroundings, aware of every stone and tree and blade of grass. Di Feisheng feels one corner of his mouth quirk up, infinitesimally, at a change in the air.

“Mengzhu,” Wuyan says, materializing by his side. He brings the scent of pine with him, as he always does. Di Feisheng breathes it in. “I come to report there are no threats in the area.”

“As expected,” he says. It was Wuyan after all who had found this waterfall for his meditation, and it was him who worked hard to make it safe for him. “Always diligent.”

“Mengzhu,” Wuyan says. It comes out like he’s saying thank you. He leans in and pulls him closer by the back of his robes. “You flatter this one,” he says.

Di Feisheng rumbles as he presses his nose against the warm, vulnerable skin of Wuyan’s neck. It had taken a long time to get him to stop saying this lowly one or this unworthy one. He disagrees with those forms of address because Wuyan is the most capable person he’s ever met. “It is merely a fact,” he says before he turns his head to kiss him.

Wuyan reciprocates. He kisses him like they have all the time in the world, his hands sliding carefully over his ornate robes. Di Feisheng, amused despite how familiar this all is now, lets him take the lead. They end up sideways in the grass, trading breath between their soft open mouths. He considers this too a kind of meditation.

“Mengzhu,” Wuyan says finally, some indeterminable time later. It’s in his apologetic tone that means they probably should stop indulging themselves and resume their normal roles and responsibilities. He huffs and accepts it, sitting up. Wuyan does the same, shaking the grass from his ponytail. He feels something akin to jealousy, looking at his plainer clothes and simpler hairstyle.

“Go first,” he orders. Wuyan gets up and bows, disappearing in front of his eyes. His pine scent, a byproduct of his qi-concealing technique, lingers even as his qinggong carries him away. Di Feisheng breathes it in one last time.

A-Yan, he thinks possessively. It’s too dangerous a thought to have. It’s a double-edged sword, the kind that can kill him or Wuyan or both of them. He breathes it out and leaves it to be carried away by the water as he goes, following.