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my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction · 10 months ago

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What You Like

Marc Spector x F!Reader x Steven Grant • Rating: 18+ pals Masterlist• ao3• want to be tagged? | request info • MK Bingo 2024 Masterlist • ko-fi •

Summary: Marc gets in his head about being with you, Steven talks him through it.

🌛For @moonknight-events MK Bingo Spring 2024 Event🌜

A/N: There was a post about Marc talking Steven through his first time with reader, which I adored and couldn't stop thinking about. And then my brain went... but what if... the other way around? (I'm so sure I reblogged the post, or maybe it's in my queue, but I cannot for the life of me find it. Please if you know the one I'm talking about, let me know! I really would like to link it here. Also I'm so sorry I forgot who wrote it as well.)

Warnings: oral, fingering, so much swearing, some self loathing from Marc, I have used 'mate' far too much, as well as 'yeah?', kind of Marc being sort of into Steven talking to him, typos, railroad sentences, please let me know if I've missed a warning!

Word Count: 2213

“She doesn’t like it so much like that, if you tilt your head to the side a little and-”

Marc snaps his eyes open and glares at Steven in the far-off mirror. “Fuck off.” He thinks hard, and Steven doesn’t have to hear him to read his expression.

“I’m just trying to help, mate.” He holds up his hands like all he had done is hold the door open for him or something.

Marc glares harder, about to flip him off when you pull back from the kiss.

“You okay?”

Marc swallows, “Sorry, I, erm…” He hadn’t realised you’d noticed his distraction.

You smile at him and stroke his cheek. "You know, we don’t have to do anything,” you shift a little on the bed, giving him a fraction more space.

“No, no, that wasn’t…” he gives you a small smile in return and leans forward again to kiss you. “Steven, I need you to be quiet now, okay?”

“I was just-”

“Steven.”

He tuts. “Okay, okay, I promise.”

Marc inches a little closer, recovering the space you’d previously offered up. His thigh nudges against yours and you let out a little moan into his mouth as he swipes his tongue over your bottom lip.

He didn’t know why he felt so nervous, anxiety like eels swimming in his belly, you were Steven’s girlfriend (and technically, his now? Or was that too forward?) you’d been in this bed, with this body before. And strictly speaking, Marc had looked in on you and Steven a few times in more… intimate moments. Accidentally, of course.

This should be fine. Practically second nature.

He tries to clear his head, to be more in the moment, and runs his hands down your back as he presses closer, leaning into you slightly to urge you to lay back onto the mattress.

You move with him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and pulling him against you. Parting your legs slightly so that he can situate himself between them.

He nips lightly at your lip, licking softly but confidently into your mouth as he just grinds his hardening cock against your core. Oh, and your barely muffled moan is delicious, the way you dig your fingers into his shoulders makes his head spin, if-

“Oh, that’s a good move. She definitely likes that.”

“Steven! For fuck’s sake! I trusted you to be quiet!”

“Sorry!”

Marc tries not to let the interruption show, but he jumps a little when Steven speaks and it’s impossible for you to have missed it. A small thorn of anxiety settles in his chest, piercing between his ribs.

“Kiss her neck, she really likes that.”

“Steven-”

“I’m just giving helpful tips!” He can feel more than see Steven shrug his shoulders. “You’re the one without any game.”

“Without any game? I’ve got more game than you.”

Steven sorts. “Unlikely. When’s the last time you got laid? God only knows. I, however, had sex this morning.”

“Steven.”

“Just saying.”

“Yeah, well, I'm gonna be having sex in a minute, so shut up.”

There was a moment of blissful silence and Marc let out a breath of relief.

You hooked your legs over his hips, urging him closer and bucking up so that you could grind against him. The heavy drag of his jeans sending sparks of pleasure along your spine.

He slips his left hand down, sneaking the tips of his warm fingers under your top and stroking at the soft skin of your side.

“She’s ticklish there.”

“Steven-”

You can’t help but giggle a little, squirming away from his touch and breaking the kiss. “Sorry,” you bite your lip, “I’m sorry, it’s just-”

“You’re ticklish.” Marc finishes and you nod smiling.

“Sorry.” You mouth again.

Marc shakes his head and smiles as he leans back down. “It’s fine, don’t worry.” He moves his hand away from your side.

He’s barely pressed his lips against you for a second before Steven speaks again. “Told you.”

Marc inwardly grunts, rolling his eyes as he kisses along your jaw to your neck. He nips lightly at your skin, before sucking gently.

“Bit lower mate, that’s the spot.”

Marc scowled but followed the instruction, hatching onto the spot Steven suggested and you moan loudly, arching your back off the mattress.

“See, she really likes that. Now if you just move your hand down and-”

Marc clenches his jaw instinctively, letting his frustration bubble over. Unfortunately, your neck is still between his teeth when they snap shut.

You let out a little gasp of pain and Marc nearly blacks out from panic, instinctively moving to jerk backwards and away from you. But your arms tighten on his shoulders, your thighs clenching around his hips.

You whimper and buck against him instantly. “Marc, fuck, please do that again.”

He relaxes, tension easing out of his limbs as he growls faintly and does as you ask.

“It’s okay mate, really. She’s not made of glass.”

“Steven. I’m fucking gonna-”

“Hey,” Steven protested, “look, I don’t mind when you’re watching us go at it all the time, yeah?”

Marc flushed. “I do not.”

“Yes, you do. And don’t think you’re being sneaky about it either. I can tell.”

“I don’t mean to, it’s just…”

“Just what mate?”

“It just… happens.”

“Yeah, right.”

Marc stays quiet, knowing that whatever he says won’t make him look good. He tries to ignore Steven, to just focus on you. To grind against you just right. But he could feel Steven hovering just in the background.

You run your hands through Marc’s hair, pulling highly as you writhe under him and he can’t help but risk a sneaky look up at you, at how your eyebrows are pinched together, eyes closed in pleasure and…

Was it real? Or was it just for show? Did you always look like that when Steven…? He thinks back trying to recall the memories of watching in as much detail as possible.

“Marc.” Steven’s voice is soft.

But he doesn’t answer.

“Stop getting in your head about it, yeah? She’s here with you. She likes you. She wouldn’t pretend to be into something she doesn’t, ‘kay?”

Marc swallows, trying to take Steven’s words on board and calm his quickly spiralling thoughts.

But it doesn’t feel right. Nothing feels right, it’s all stiff and unsettled. Like his joints are just a fraction out of place.

You can tell. He’s so sure that you can tell. Even if you are moaning and writhing against him, you must know. Must sense it. How out of alignment he is. How much of a failure.

“Steven?"

There’s a fraction of a pause before he answers. “Hmm?”

“What does she like?”

He can feel Steven’s frown.

“What does she like? What should I do? You were full of tips a second ago, don’t lea-”

“Move your hand down,” his voice is a little softer than before. Compassionate. And Marc knows his emotions have bled through. “Slower.”

Marc slowly runs his hand down your body, careful not to tickle your side, stopping just short of the top button of your trousers.

“Kiss lower on her neck, just above her collarbone... that’s it.”

Marc feels a little warm at the praise, giddy even.

“And just start to undo her trousers, yeah?”

He flicks the top button open and you whine, bucking up against him. You urge his face up with your hands so you can kiss his lips and slide your tongue into his mouth. A deep shiver runs along Marc’s spine, forcing his hips to buck mindlessly.

You pull back for a second, just to lift your top up and over your head before dropping it to the side and his breath catches in his throat.

“Trousers.”

Marc all but jumps despite the soft tone of Steven’s voice and he quickly snaps his eyes away from your skin to focus on undoing your pants.

You grin at his eagerness and help him by wiggling out of your trousers and kicking them off your feet. You kiss Marc’s neck, your hands moving desperately to his jeans.

“Touch her.”

Marc lets out a little moan as you suck on his pulse point. “Wha-”

Marc’s left hand moves under Steven’s control, slipping his fingers under the elastic of your panties and pressing two thick fingers inside of your heat.

You gasp in surprise, your thighs twitching at the sudden intrusion, shifting wider to allow him easier access.

Steven strokes two fingers languidly against your walls for a second, enjoying the little tremors and flutters before placing his thumb on your clit. “Can you feel that?”

Marc nods inwardly, “fuck.”

“See how wet she is?”

“So fucking wet.”

Steven smiles, continuing the long, slow strokes for a second before retreating back and leaving their hand once more completely under Marc’s control. He falters for half a second before he quickly resumes the tortuous pace set up by Steven.

You gasp and whine, flinging your head back against the pillow as you arch up your hips towards him, trying to buck and urge him to move faster.

“Go nice and slow… yeah… like that…” Steven whispers in his ear and there’s something strangely comforting about it, something exciting at having him there, right with him.

Marc bites his bottom lips between his teeth, watching your face with rapt attention.

“Nice slow circles and nice slow strokes.”

“Slow circles.” He mutters under his breath, almost inaudible. He glides his fingers back and forth, barely leaving you before pushing back in, revelling in the sound of your wetness.

You buck and whine, grabbing hold of his forearm like you were hanging onto a lifesaver. “Marc- ah, please!” Your words are cut off by desperate half choked sobs.

He continues to circle your clit gently, barely allowing any pressure so that you can only just feel the slightly calloused glide of his thumb. Your thighs started to shake, your movements becoming sloppy.

“Take her panties off completely, yeah? She’s gonna cum in a second, you’re gonna want to see.”

Marc obeyed without thinking, using his free hand to pull them down and groaning softly when you lifted your hips as best you could to help him.

Fuck you looked so pretty laid out all before him- before them.

You moaned particularly needily, already looking fucked out of your head and Marc hissed, unable to stop himself as he hurriedly leant down and flicked his tongue along your clit.

Your little high-pitched cry made him go light-headed.

“Fuck, god yeah, give it to her.” Steven’s arousal bled into his own, making him dizzyingly high. “God, make her cum, make her cum in our mouth Marc, please.”

“Marc, oh god, please!” You whine at almost the same moment, your and Steven’s voice blending together in a harmony that made Marc’s dick throb.

He sucked your clit into his mouth for a moment before running board, flat licks over it, continuing his fingers slow pump as he brought you maddeningly close to the edge.

Steven moaned loudly, “fuck Marc, please, please, need to taste her cum. Then we can fuck her together, yeah? She feels so good, she makes the best little noises,” he groaned again, “she tastes so sweet doesn’t she?”

“So sweet,” Marc mumbled against your pussy as he kept moving, kept sucking and licking and practically humping the mattress with his eyes pinched tight in pleasure.

“Marc,” you whimper and pull on his hair with your free hand, urging him on, “you’re so good at this, so good, ‘m gonna cum-”

“Fuck, Marc, yes.”

He couldn’t help himself, simply couldn’t. Found himself opening his mouth and letting the words spill out before he had even registered them. “Steven’s here too.”

“Oh shit!” You gasp, your voice raising in pitch as your orgasm crashes into you, seizing your limbs in pleasure and whiting out your vision, before leaving you boneless and breathless.

Marc stops moving slowly, trying to prolong your bliss for as long as possible. He bites his lip nervously as he sits up, your release and his spit covering the lower half of his face. Fuck, why had he said that, why had he gone and fucked this all up-

You smile up at him, still trailing your fingers through his thick curls. “Steven’s here too?”

He nods as heat rises to his face. He stares down at your knee.

“Look at her, mate.”

He doesn’t move until you gently tilt his chin up with your hand.

Your soft smile makes his heart ache.

“I’m sorry…” he whispers. “Is that… okay? That he’s here?”

You nod, your grin widening as you sit up and kiss him. It’s messy and deep, and Marc just melts into it. He whines against your lips as you wrap your arms around him, stroking your tongue with his own as you lick into his mouth.

“Now, how about,” you say between kisses, your fingers tugging at the bottom of his t-shirt. “I get you out of these clothes and suck both of your dick.” You pause and pull a silly face at the odd-sounding, but technically correct singular use.

Marc giggles and nuzzles into your neck.

“Say yes mate!”

“Yes please.” He mumbles as he sucks a love bite into your skin.

____________________________________

Thank you for reading!

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anonziesssz · 12 days ago

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Exclusive Scoop: Love on the Grid

✦- Authors Note: isaw this in my drafts and decided to post it, might also be my last fanfic on tumblr cuz i js dont rlly like tumblr anymore idk but i'll still be posting blue lock fanfics on ao3 ig...

✦- pairings: Carlos Sainx jr x Journalist!reader.

✦- summary: After interviewing him for so long, carlos dcides to take the reader for a date, finally confessing his feeling for the journalist.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

You had always felt that the interview was much more than asking questions; it was a dance of finding a balance between curiosity and rapport. It was your mantra as a motorsport journalist, and it worked quite well. From coverage of Formula 2 to interviews with world champions, you had carved yourself a little nook within the paddock.

Among the many faces you’d come to know in the sport, Carlos Sainz stood out. From your first interaction during his Toro Rosso days to now, as Ferrari’s pride, he’d always been gracious, witty, and effortlessly charming. Over the years, your interviews with him had evolved into something more. Something that felt personal.

But it was still work. That's what you kept telling yourself as you navigated your way toward the Ferrari hospitality area on a steamy Saturday in Singapore.

The paddock was alive with energy, the air alive with the purring of engines and the chatter of fans and teams. You spotted Carlos leaning against the railing, his red Ferrari cap slightly askew as he laughed at something said by an engineer.

"Carlos," you called, stepping closer. He turned, his grin widening as he spotted you.

"Ah, mi periodista favorita!" he exclaimed, pushing off the railing. "Here to ask me why I'm so good around street circuits?"

"Maybe I'm here to ask why you're so insufferable," you shot back, smirking as you adjusted the strap of your bag.

He clutched his chest dramatically. "You wound me. I thought we were friends."

"Pals who pose the tough questions," you shot back, digging for your recorder.

The interview flowed as smoothly as ever, with Carlos giving thoughtful answers to your questions while sprinkling in his usual humor.

He spoke of strategy, his confidence in the car, and the challenges of Singapore's grueling track. But there were the moments his gaze would land on you, his tone softening as if this conversation meant more than just a headline.

You always ask good questions," he said out of the blue, and he caught you by surprise.

"Thanks," you said, blinking at the sincerity in his voice. "I try to keep it interesting."

"You do," he said, his lips curving into a small, almost shy smile.

It was one of those moments that just hung in the air, making you slightly flustered and scrambling to wrap up the interview. As you were about to leave, Carlos seemed to have hesitated.

"Do you have plans tonight?" he asked casually, though looking uncharacteristically nervous.

"Just editing this interview," you said with a tilt of your head. "Why?

Carlos shifted, scratching the back of his neck. "I was wondering if you'd like to have dinner with me. Not just as a journalist," he added hastily. "As you."

Your heart skipped a beat. It wasn't every day that a Formula 1 driver- Carlos Sainz no less-asked you out.

"I'd love to," you said, a smile spreading across your face.

Back in the hotel room, one could not help but have the evening weigh upon their shoulders. Was this dinner? Or was this something entirely else? Carlos was being friendly, always, but this felt very different. A hesitant kind of nervousness in him all that evening betrayed something deeper.

You dismissed the thoughts and began to get ready. You put on an outfit that was just right-balanced between chic and casual enough to feel confident with but not overdone.

Then, when Carlos texted to let you know he was downstairs, you grabbed your bag and began to head toward the lobby.

He stood waiting beside the car, his caramel skin set off by a crisp, white button-down shirt. He grinned when he caught your eye and opened the door with a flourish.

"You look beautiful," he said, his voice husky.

"Thank you," you said, your face warming. "You clean up pretty well yourself."

The restaurant Carlos had selected, La Perla, was tucked away from busy thoroughfares in Singapore-a little jewel of a place. Darkened light and soft live guitar music playing made the setting intimate.

Carlos pulled out a chair for you; his hand brushed against yours as you sat down. "Hope you like Spanish," he said with a grin.

"I'd be worried if you didn't take me to a Spanish restaurant," you teased, drawing a laugh.

The meal was a real culinary masterpiece: plates of jamón ibérico, perfectly cooked seafood, rich paella -all shared between you as conversation flowed effortlessly.

"So," said Carlos, leaning back against the chair, "tell me something about yourself that I don't know."

An eyebrow had arched. "That's a tough one. You've asked me a lot of questions over the years."

"Exactly," he said, eyes shining with play. "Now it's my turn to be the journalist."

You'd considered for a minute before responding with, "Okay. I never actually planned on being a motorsport journalist. I went to school for literature."

"Literature?" Carlos leaned forward, interest piqued. "How did you end up here?

It was a sideline, you continued, "Doing a few local races for this little magazine, and then I was hooked. The energy of it all just drew me in. The rest is history."

Carlos nodded thoughtfully. "You're good at it. Really good."

"Thank you," you said softly, feeling a blush creep up your cheeks.

He leaned across the table, his fingers brushing yours. "I mean it. You're more than just good-you're one of the best."

After dinner, Carlos suggested a walk along the waterfront. The city's lights reflected from the water, making a shimmering backdrop as the two of you strolled side by side.

"Do you always sweet-talk your way through interviews?" You asked, looking up at him.

"Only when the journalist happens to be someone special," he returned, smooth and low, sending your heart fluttering for cover.

You rolled your eyes, though couldn't suppress the smile tugging at your lips. "Is this your way of saying I'm the favourite?"

"Absolutamente," he replied deadpan, though with a naughty glint in his eye.

You laughed, shaking your head. "Careful, Carlos. People might start talking."

"Let them," he said, stopping in his tracks.

You turned to face him, your breath hitching as his gaze locked onto yours. "What is it?" you asked softly.

"I've been thinking about this for a long time," he admitted, his voice steady but quiet. "Every time I saw you in the paddock, I wanted to say something, but I didn't know how. Tonight, I realized I didn't want to wait anymore."

Your heart pounded as he stepped closer, his hands gently cradling your face. "Life's too short not to take a chance," he murmured, before leaning in.

The kiss was soft and tentative at first, but as you responded, it deepened, filled with all the emotions words couldn't express.

When you finally pulled away, Carlos rested his head against yours, the tiniest of smiles on his lips. "This feels right," he whispered.

"It does," you replied, your voice not much above a whisper.

As you sat reviewing your interview notes the next morning, you just couldn't help but smile. The professional line you'd always maintained had blurred, and for the first time in your career, you didn't mind.

It was as if Carlos had changed something inside you-he had reminded you that it wasn't just the stories you told, but those you lived.

And as your phone buzzed with the new message from him, that is when you realized this was only just the very beginning of your own inspiring story.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

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measuredingold · 1 month ago

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everytime

authors note: okay everyone… i need you to stay with me, okay ? 😅 this took a lot longer than i wanted and ended up going in a completely different route than i initially started it as but… good news ! this just means part 4 is coming your way ! and it will officially be the last part in this little series that was never meant to be a series ? 😭 anyways, as always i hope you enjoy. title is everytime by ariana grande :)

pairing: noah sebastian x reader

divider: @saradika-graphics

word count: 4.2K

cross posted on ao3 / part one and two

cw/tw: swearing, complicated feelings, feelings realization ?, Noah Sebastian Is Still Bad At Feelings But He’s Trying, 18+ minors do not interact

Nicholas' eyes snap towards the door every time it opens, leg bouncing with nerves as he waits for your arrival. He doesn't understand why he's the one who's nervous. Maybe it's because he has no part in this? Going behind Noah's back and talking to you, trying to fix what was broken? His stomach twists at the thought.

Yep. Definitely that.

He doesn't want Noah to be upset with him but he couldn't just sit there while his best friend was obviously more affected than he let on. Nicholas knows how stubborn he can be, and knows he's notorious for not being the nicest to himself. Thinking he doesn't deserve good things, ultimately sabotaging each and every good thing that comes his way.

It's harsh, but it's true. Noah knows it. Nicholas knows it. He's watched it happen so many times he can't even count them anymore.

His eyes rise from the table the exact moment you push open the door and you find him instantly, lips stretching into a smile. That eases him and he gives you a tight lipped smile back, lifting a hand to wave.

His eyes drop to the drinks he's already gotten - an iced Americano for himself and an iced matcha latte for you. He hopes you still like that, it really has been a long time since the two of you have hung out together. He doesn't even remember the last time he was in this cafe.

"Hey," You say when you finally reach his table, eyes dropping to the drink. "Whoa. You remembered?"

He nods. "Iced matcha latte?"

"Yeah." Your smile softened as you slid into the chair across from him. "Thank you, you didn't have to."

Nicholas just shrugs in response. He brings his own drink up to his lips to try and hide the grin that forms at your nod in satisfaction.

"Almond milk?"

"Uh, I forgot which you liked so I just kind of guessed."

"I prefer oat milk, but this is still pretty damn good. Thank you."

He smiles. "You're welcome."

"So," You start, sitting your drink down. "How've you been?"

"Good, good." Nicholas nods, arms crossing over his chest as he leans back against the chair. "You?"

"I've been better." You give him a strained smile. "But I'm not what's important here. How was tour?"

He knew you'd avoid it, why you've been better, but he doesn't comment on it. At least, not yet. Instead he dives into a story about the first night of tour and how someone tried to sneak into the venue and backstage just to talk to Jolly, or how Folio played a whole set with food poisoning.

It was easy to get lost in conversation with you, he's never had a problem with it before. You've always been so easy to get along with that it wasn't shocking to Nicholas that Noah cared about you so much, even if he never voiced it. After one last story, both of your guys' laughter eventually dies down, and you watch him curiously across the table.

"What?" He questions, head tilting.

"You didn't want to meet today just to talk about tour, did you?”

Nicholas doesn't say anything at first, tracing random shapes in the condensation on this drink before shrugging.

"I mean, of course I did." He finally looks up at you. "But that's not all I wanted to talk about."

You tilt your head. "What else is there to talk about?"

"You." His eyes drop again to his drink. "Noah."

"What do you mean?"

He says your name gently, "I know."

Your eyes widen for a moment and then you clear your throat, dropping your head to stare at the table. "Oh."

"He told me a while ago." He leaves out that he's known from the beginning, to spare you and Noah, and watches you carefully. "You ended it last night."

"Do you blame me?" Your voice is tight, finally looking up at him with narrowed eyes.

"No. I don't."

Your gaze softens for a moment. "Then what is there to talk about?"

He sighs. "He's being really fucking stubborn but he does care about you. A lot."

"He has a weird way of showing it."

"He wasn't always like that." Nicholas starts, hands cupping his drink. "He's always been more reserved, but not like he is now. He's just," He contemplates his words, rolling his lips, "been through a lot."

Your arms cross over your chest, head tilting. "Elaborate."

Nicholas chews on his bottom lip nervously. He knows it's not his place. He knows he's teetering over the line of trying to help and also outing all of Noah's dirty laundry, but he feels like you need some kind of explanation on why his best friend is the way he is. You deserve that much, at least to Nicholas.

He clears his throat. "He... There used to be someone. She was fine at first, I guess. Noah thought that she was the greatest thing ever. Kissed the ground she walked on. He finally opened himself up to someone that wasn't already in his circle and it..." Nicholas sighs, finally meeting your eyes again. "It got bad. I watched him get hurt time and time again and he just seemed to keep... going back. Had this sort of warped perception of her? She was basically using him for some weird gain, I still don't know what for. He couldn't see it, though."

"Oh." Your face kind of falls, brows furrowing. "Rose-colored glasses type thing?"

"Yeah. Exactly that." Nicholas shrugs. "We all tried talking to him, but he just wouldn't listen. Until it was too late. I've never seen him so..." He sighs. "I've known him for a long time. Seen him at his worst before all of this and when I tell you it was bad, it was fucking bad. He didn't talk to me for a week. Locked himself in his room. By the time he came back around he was... he was still Noah, but different. More quiet. A lot more reserved. Stand-offish with anyone not in our immediate circle."

"What did she do?"

Nicholas left out a lot on purpose, but there was just things he couldn’t talk about. It wasn’t his place - Noah needed to tell you himself. "All I can tell is that it was bad. Fucked up."

"Hm." You hum in response, eyes dropping from Nicholas down to the table. "I guess that explains it then."

"It doesn't excuse his behavior. He knows what he's doing, but it's not really... malicious. It's just..." He shrugs again. "Protecting himself?"

"He'd rather do the hurting than be hurt himself?"

"I think that's it. He has it in his mind that this is better for you and for him. Instead of wasting each other's time," Nicholas gives you a sad smile before he shrugs his shoulders, reaching for his drink again. "But I call bullshit. I've known him since he was 13. He cares about you, more than he'd like to admit to anyone. Especially himself."

You don't say anything to that, you barely even look at him, focused on the drink in front of you. He takes a sip from his own drink watching you carefully.

"I'm not trying to say that what he did wasn't fucked, because it was. You're my friend, too." He sits his drink back down on the table, arms crossing over his chest. "But he's also my brother, and I needed you to know that he wasn't doing this because he's a heartless asshole. He's just scared. Has somewhat valid reasons to be scared, but doesn't... handle it right?"

"Definitely doesn't handle it right." You snort, but then your face falls when you look up at him before you speak again. "Why didn't he just tell me?"

All Nicholas does is raise a brow at you.

"Right. Protecting himself."

"Exactly." His words trail off before he mumbles out, "but if you'd reach out to him, maybe he'd tell you."

You sit up in your seat, resting your elbows on the table. "You want me to unblock him?"

"Listen," He says your name gently again, mimicking your movements and leaning his elbows against the table. "I know how you feel about him. And I know how he feels about you. I can't just sit here and watch this really good thing go down in flames because my friends are fucking stubborn." You open your mouth to argue with him but he points a finger at you. "You are fucking stubborn. Don't lie."

"Whatever." You grumble, arms crossing over your chest.

You look off to the side and Nicholas wonders what you're thinking, and if you're even considering his words. He knows what Noah did was wrong, he's not excusing that, but... maybe if you understand his point of view, it'd make it easier to understand the enigma that is Noah Sebastian.

And how can you do that without talking to him?

"Just think about it. Please?"

You don't say anything for a while, probably a whole minute before you're sighing out, "Fine. I'll talk to him."

Nicholas tries to keep his triumphant smile at bay, but he can already feel the corners of his lips curling.

First part of his plan is complete, and he hopes the rest can work itself out naturally.

Can we talk?

Noah's eyes nearly bulged out of his head when your text came through. Was he seeing that right? You unblocked him? Not only that, but you wanted to talk to him? His heart pounded against his chest as he continued to stare down at his phone, re-reading your name on his screen over and over again.

He can't even move, practically paralyzed in his spot. What is there to talk about? He thought you were done. He doesn't blame you. It's what he wanted, even if the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach seemed to disagree. What could have changed in the last few days? There's no way you could've had a change of heart that quick.

"Hey." His head snaps towards his door to find Nicholas peeking in, giving him a small smile. "We're heading out to get some food. Wanna come?"

For a second he thinks he'll just ignore your message, delete it, and pocket his phone to go eat with his friends. Then the tiny voice in the back of his mind starts, and he finds himself shaking his head.

"Um. Nah, I'm good." He clears his throat, eyes darting down to his phone back to Nicholas. "How long will you be gone?"

Nicholas shrugs, leaning his body against the door frame. "Few hours. Why?"

"Just wondering." There's an awkward pause before Noah clears his throat again. "Gonna work on some stuff, try to knock a few things out. Mind bringing me back some food?"

"Sure. I'll text you the menu whenever we decide where to go."

He thanks Nicholas and waits for his friend to leave, shutting the door behind him before he finally reaches for his phone.

Of course. Do you want to meet somewhere?

Your message comes much quicker than he expects.

Can I come over? I’m nearby.

Oh. His heart picks up beneath his chest and his eyes scan his room quickly, making sure it isn’t too messy. Which, it isn’t. Noah’s always been particular about his room. Having things in order, in the right places. Everything’s where it belongs.

Yeah. Let me know when you get here.

All you do is like his message in response. Noah’s phone falls from his hands and into his lap, eyes wide as he stares at the screen in front of him.

He'd thought about over and over again what he'd tell you exactly if he ever got the chance again. About how sorry he was, about how he knew how unfair it was to you and how wished he could take it back. And he does, but the thought of actually saying those things to your face puts a sour taste in his mouth, stomach turning in nerves.

How the fuck is he going to do this?

When he opens the door, he just stares at you. No words exchanged, just wide eyes and tight pressed lips. Seeing you here, in front of him like this had his head spinning, because he made himself believe he’d never see you again. He feels even dizzier than before.

"You gonna let me in?" Your words bring him back to reality and he has to physically shake his head to come back to himself.

"Uh. Yeah, yeah. Sorry."

He's blushing, he knows, and he dips his head when he gets out of your way to let you inside. You've already seen the pink twinge to his cheeks, though, that much he is aware, but you don't comment on it. Instead, you silently slip inside and he shuts the door behind you. For a second he just stands there, watching you carefully before clearing his throat, tipping his head towards the stairs.

"Do you wanna... go upstairs? Everyone's gone but I um, don't know when they'll be back, so..."

You don't exactly answer his question, just give him a stiff nod before making your way upstairs. You don't even bother waiting for him and Noah finds himself quickly following in line, keeping a steady pace behind you as you walk towards his room. He shuts the door behind him quietly, keeping it unlocked and then leans against it, trying to keep some distance between the two of you.

He doesn't know what to do. You've made yourself comfy for the most part, sitting on the edge of his bed with your legs crossed. You look around the room, probably trying to see if anything was different than before and Noah thinks he hasn't changed much.

He’s sure you’re aware of that.

You finally look at him, head tilting to the side. "You just gonna stare at me?"

"Uh," He swallows. "I guess? You're the one who asked if we could talk."

"Oh." This time it's you who's blushing and for some reason Noah can't help but smile to himself. He missed the sight of the pink tinge to your cheeks every time he got you flustered.

Fuck, did he miss it. He missed you. That confirmation alone had his own face heating up again, stomach swirling with unease as he shifted from foot to foot.

"Listen," You sigh out, arms crossing over your chest as you nod towards Noah's computer chair. "Sit?"

He does.

You take another moment before speaking again, "You really fucking suck at talking about your feelings."

"Uh." He blinks. "What?"

"I said you fucking suck at talking about your feelings, Noah."

He blinks again. What the fuck were you on about? Noah knew this. He's very much aware of how terrible he is at expressing himself, but why the hell were you bringing it up now? Shouldn't you be yelling at him? Telling him how much of an awful person he is?

"Okay."

You stare at him for a beat longer than necessary, expression leveled, and Noah can't help but squirm in his seat. You watching him like that, void of any emotion just... makes him feel weird? Uneasy. Like you can see right through him, see him for who he really is, and that's terrifying.

"God. You are making this harder than it needs to be." You finally say, groaning quietly to yourself as you tip your head back.

"...Sorry?" He watches as you stare at the ceiling for a moment before taking another breath.

"I talked to Nicholas." For some reason those words make his heart drop, eyes widening slightly. “He told me... He didn't tell me everything, okay? Left that up to you if you're willing to, but he told me enough for me to kind of understand?"

His mind races. What did Nicholas tell you exactly? His stomach turns, first out of anger, but then fear of what could have been told to you. He doesn't talk about it often, refuses to, and he doesn't expect himself to talk about it now. Except, you say you understand? He doesn't get that.

"You do?"

"Yeah," You shrug. "Again, he didn't tell me everything. He was really vague, but what I do know is that you..." You pause, trying to find the right words. "...went through something with someone who sounds like they weren't exactly nice to you."

He clears his throat. "You could say that."

You stare at him for a moment, eyes searching him for something and he knows what it is. You're trying to figure out what it is, what happened. He wishes he could tell you. Hell, he wishes he could talk about it at all, but the sour taste in the back of his throat lets him know that he's not ready for that yet.

"You don't have to tell me." You murmur, eyes softening, and Noah's grateful. "I didn't come here to try and pry it out of you. Whenever you're ready to talk about it, you can tell me. Or don't. I don't care."

Noah nods, but doesn't say anything.

"This isn't me defending your shitty behavior, because it is shitty regardless of your past experiences. However, I understand you better." You pause again, chewing on your bottom lip. "And I wish you expressed that without having to be a complete asshole."

Noah snorts. "I'm not too keen on communication. Thought you picked up on that already."

"I picked up on it. Don't worry." You deadpan, the corners of your lips are curling into a smile, and Noah thinks this is a good start. "You really need to work on that."

He nods. "I know."

The silence that follows isn't awkward, per say, but it's there. Lingering. Noah knows what he needs to do, what he needs to say to you, but it's still hard to even get it out. He takes a deep breath, leaning back against his chair, eyes trained to his lap.

"I'm sorry." He says it so quietly he doubts you even heard him, but he continues anyway. "You didn't deserve what I put you through. No one does, but especially you. I need you to know it wasn't like, malicious or whatever, it was just-"

"You were protecting yourself." You cut him off and his eyes snap up towards you, brows furrowed.

"Yeah... I was."

"Easier to be the one doing the hurting rather than being hurt?”

He swallows, your words settling into his chest. "I guess you could say that."

You stare at him again and this time he braves holding your gaze, and watches as your eyes soften. His throat tightens and Noah finds himself wanting to tell you everything, down to every last detail that he can remember. He opens his mouth but shuts it, clearing his throat.

"I.." He starts, and then clears his throat again, gaze dropping to his lap. "There's a lot that happened. With this person. They really fucking sucked, but I didn’t notice until it was too late. Uh. I'm still working through it, but one day I'd... I'd really like to tell you about it."

"Yeah?"

He nods and then continues, "I know it fucked with me and the way I percieve things. It's definitely fucked with the way I navigate relationships, and that's not fair to anyone. Especially you. I'm..." Noah pauses and takes a deep breath. "I'm just really fucking sorry I couldn’t say that sooner. I'm not asking for forgiveness, that's the last thing I'd ask of you. I just want to do better - be better. For you. For me. For everyone."

His eyes flick up towards you and watches as your entire expression softens, eyes widening at his confession. It felt weird saying it out loud but the heaviness against his chest felt lighter, like he was more at ease from finally admitting to something that's been eating at him for weeks. The walls were still very much up, enclosing him in, but he could feel himself slowly starting to chip away at the edges. It'll take awhile, he's one hundred percent sure, but... he thinks he could do it.

"You could, you know. Be better. If you tried."

"I want to try." He's quick with his response, eyes locking with yours. "If you'd let me."

"...Will you let yourself try?"

Noah thinks about it for a moment, because that is a valid question. He's usually all talk and never follows through, the same fears always winning in the end. This time, though, it feels... different. It feels like he actually wants to try. This is uncharted territory for him, but it's not bad.

He nods. "I think I will."

"Okay." You nod to yourself, clearing your throat as you look around his room one more time before your eyes land back on him. "Okay. Then I'm willing to try, too."

His heart pounds against his chest, ears ringing. He wasn't expecting you to agree so fast, to even want to try again. Noah still isn't sure what trying will actually entail, but if it ends with having you back in his arms one day, he thinks he's willing to do whatever. He coughs to try and cover up the shock written all over his face, nodding along with you.

"Okay. Cool."

"And thank you for trusting me with that. I know it was hard to even tell me that much."

"...It was, but I told you I'm trying."

You smile, something small and almost barely there. "You are. Thank you."

Silence fills the air after that, an uncertainty lingering around the two of you. He supposes you're not sure what the trying will entail either and expects that the two of you will be navigating whatever the fuck that is soon enough. For right now, he's just happy that you're here, and that you agreed. It wasn't a confirmation on forgiving him, but it was something, and he's not going to take that for granted.

"This went a lot better than I expected." You say honestly, and laughter soon follows your words. "You better thank Nicholas whenever you see him again, he's the whole reason I even agreed to talk to you."

Noah's head tilts. "Really?"

"Mhm." You rest your hands behind you, leaning back on the bed. "When we talked yesterday, he asked if I’d consider talking to you. Really cares about you, implied you sabotage every relationship you encounter. I could tell he was sick of you being mean to yourself."

"Huh." He thinks he should be upset with Nicholas, practically weaseling his way into a situation that didn't include him whatsoever, but he can't find himself to be anything but relieved. If it wasn't for his best friend, he isn't sure you'd be sitting in front of him right now. He isn't sure he would've ever seen you again. "I'll have to thank him whenever he gets back, I guess."

"You should."

You smile at him, a smile Noah hasn't seen in what feels like a thousand fucking years, and it nearly knocks the air out of him. He's always loved your smile, even though he was terrified at the way it made him feel like butterflies were erupting inside of his stomach. Right now, though, he welcomes the feeling, and smiles back.

"Well, I uh. Should probably go."

Noah ignores the way his heart drops and nods silently, knowing that you were right. This was more than enough, and you didn't have to give him any more of your time than you wanted to.

"Let me walk you out."

It's silent as the two of you step out of his room and he follows behind you as you make your way back downstairs and by the door. He feels selfish, not wanting you to leave after he just... got you back? He isn't sure what to call it right now, but the overwhelming urge to pull you into his arms was practically eating at him.

"I'll uh... text you, when I get home?" You sound uncertain when you say it, slowly starting to slip on your shoes. Noah stuffs his hands in the pockets of his sweats.

"I'd like that." He mumbles, giving you a timid grin. "And uh... maybe later this week I could. Um. We could like, I don't know? Hang out. Get something to eat. Whatever you want."

You pause your movements, head turning to stare up at Noah with wide eyes before the shock turns into a teasing grin, eyes glinting.

"Are you asking me on a date, Noah?"

It's his turn to stare at you with wide eyes. "Um. I. Well. I don't know? Maybe? I'm not really sure what you're exactly wanting out of this so if you want it to be a date, then I'm so fucking down but if not. I'm still down. Friends get lunch. That's normal. Right?"

"Right." His face feels warm at the look you're giving him, obviously amused by his sudden embarrassment. "It can be a date, if you want. Or just friends. I'm cool with whatever."

"Oh." Noah stares at you for a moment before taking a deep breath, head nodding. "Then yes, it's a date. If you're okay with that."

The amusement on your face turns into something much softer and your smile grows, and Noah's stomach is doing that butterfly thing again. He smiles.

"I'm definitely okay with that."

#bad omens fanfiction #bad omens fanfic #bad omens fic #noah sebastian fanfiction #noah sebastian fic #noah sebastian fanfic #mine

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superscourge · 16 days ago

Text

Resurrected AU Ch. 1: Alliance

(read on AO3 here!) Warnings (for the fic in general, not necessarily this chapter): Graphic depictions of violence, strong language, general mature themes Chapter Summary: Scourge breaks into one of Eggman's bases in search of a secret weapon to defeat Sonic with, but what he ends up finding is much stranger and much scarier than he was expecting. Though…he finds a way to get some use out of it. Notes: it really took me like a thousand years to get this started huh. lol. well i wanted to at least get the first chapter out before the sonic au collision event fully started, so im happy to present the first chapter of resurrected au's fic!! god i hope yall like it LOLLL, this au means a whole lot to me.. it's become my favorite baby i wont lie. i will also admit that im a Little nervous to finally start posting my actual writing for sonic stuff; i'm pretty self-conscious abt it actually lmao. but hopefully yall end up enjoying how i write these guys. please be niceys idk how long it'll take me to dish out the rest of the chapters, but hopefully i can find the time and energy to get them out steadily!! thanks in advance for reading and thank u so much for ur support and enthusiasm <3

It’s not every day that you get a juicy piece of info that could very well put the odds in your favor. That’s why Scourge was not gonna waste this opportunity.

He’d gotten word thanks to his incredible sleuthing skills [read: eavesdropping on strangers] that Eggman had a new base in the area and had apparently acquired a very powerful “secret weapon” of some sort. That was all he needed to know before deciding it was time to raid a base. After all, if he found that secret weapon? Sonic was toast.

It took a minute to actually find the damn place, but soon enough, Scourge was skidding to a stop at the treeline before what looked to be a large, dome-shaped structure with the patented Eggman symbol on it (or something that looked like it; Scourge figured it was close enough). He smirked, flipping his shades down over his eyes and speeding off towards the entrance.

As expected, badniks littered the area around the main entrance to the base. They looked a little funny, Scourge noted; they seemed a little more…high-tech than he was used to seeing. But, whatever–he figured it wouldn’t be an issue once they were busted to scraps.

… He did have a little trouble with these bots. Just a little. But it was no biggie, since he ended up finding a way inside before he could be overwhelmed. All’s well that ends well, he supposed.

The inside of this place was…confusing. So many twists and turns, rooms that led into other rooms, platforms that moved in weird directions…

“Doesn’t this place have a map?” Scourge grumbled to himself as he ran through the absolute maze of hallways.

After what seemed like forever, he finally came to what was clearly the main, central chamber of the base. There was a very complicated-looking keypad attached to it. Luckily, Scourge was very good at lockpicking.

Stepping back a bit, he hopped up and curled into a spindash before launching himself at the keypad. It took a bit of work, but before long, the whole thing was smashed to bits with sparks flying everywhere. Just as he’d hoped, the door opened once the keypad was destroyed. With a triumphant snicker, he unfurled and landed back on the floor before confidently waltzing into the chamber.

Inside looked pretty much as he expected it to–tubes and gadgets everywhere, lots of high-tech machinery that did Gaia-knows-what, lots of papers littered about several desks that clearly showed the work of an evil mastermind…

Yeah. Deffo an Egg-base.

“Now, where’s that weapon…” Scourge questioned aloud as he strolled through the room. He pulled out some drawers and rummaged around here and there, but he didn’t really find anything interesting so far. Surely this thing wasn’t hidden that well, right?

Just as he was starting to get frustrated, he came across a huge capsule of some kind right in the middle of the room. Pretty obvious, actually. He wasn’t that observant, but whatever. He raised his shades to where they were resting back in their place on his head before he rubbed his hands together with a huge, toothy grin. “That looks promising.”

Making his way to the door of the capsule, he tried to peek inside through the little window on the front of it. He couldn’t make anything out… He decided to just open it to get a look at what was inside, so he searched around for a switch of some kind that would do that for him. It didn’t take long, thankfully, and he quickly pressed the button down that would activate the door.

Smoke spewed out from the door as it opened, making Scourge cough a bit. He waved his hand to clear some of it out of his way as he impatiently waited for it to dissipate enough for him to see what he was in for.

This had to be some sort of cool gun. He knew it was. Some kinda laser shooter or something. Or maybe a bazooka. Oh–a cannon, even! He dearly hoped it was a cannon, actually. The smoke was almost fully cleared, so he leaned in excitedly to see what was inside…!

… It was…a guy. There was a guy in there.

“What the–?” Scourge furrowed his brow once he got a good look at the contents of the capsule. It was obviously a person–a jackal, it looked like? Definitely not a cannon. Who the hell was this? He looked rough, like he’d really been put through the wringer. His drip was cool, Scourge supposed, and the big, gnarly scar on the guy’s chest was pretty intimidating…

Mine’s still cooler, he thought to himself.

Suddenly, alarms sounded throughout the base. Scourge cursed under his breath as he looked over his shoulder. He turned back to the man in the capsule, making a quick decision–he’d snag him and take him with him. He probably had some idea of where the weapon was, so once he woke up, he’d just beat the information out of him if he wouldn’t give it up willingly.

Grabbing the jackal out of the capsule and slinging him over his shoulder, Scourge finally sped out back through the way he came. He was able to dodge any bots that tried to come after him thanks to his speed, and soon enough, he was outside and running through the trees of Mobius once again.

He ran until forest turned to jungle, and before long he was slowing to a stop once again in a small clearing where bits of light showed through the canopy up above. He rested the other man’s body down on a bed of moss near a small pond, figuring that’d be…somewhat comfortable, and he then took a seat on a fallen tree a few feet away.

It was only a matter of seconds before he began to tap his foot. What was he supposed to do now? Just sit there waiting for this guy to wake up? That could take hours… He didn’t have that kind of patience.

Deciding to take the initiative, Scourge stood and started walking over to the jackal, intending to just…lightly kick him until he woke up, or something. However, he didn’t get the chance.

A low, threatening growl could be heard rumbling from the stranger’s throat. Scourge stopped in his tracks once he heard it, then took a few paces back. How long had he been–?

One yellow eye opened to a squint, scanning the area before landing on Scourge. For some reason, the look the man was giving him made his skin crawl… Not that he was going to let him know that, though.

Instead, Scourge popped the collar of his jacket to regain his composure and puffed out his chest. “Took ya long enough,” he teased right off the bat. “I was startin’ to think you were dead.”

The jackal’s gaze lingered on him coldly for a few moments. However, he looked elsewhere when he began to speak. “... I should have been.”

That…wasn’t the response Scourge was expecting. The way he sank a bit betrayed his confusion. “... Wait, what?”

The man sat up, sort of startling Scourge into taking another step back. As he did so, he fully opened both of his eyes so that he could properly take in his surroundings. He was clearly ignoring the hedgehog beside him as he turned his head away, which didn’t really sit right with Scourge.

“Hey!” he barked. “I’m talkin’ to you!”

Giving no indication that he was listening, the man proceeded to rise to his feet, standing at his full height. Scourge sort of…shrank a little once he saw how actually tall this guy was. He knew jackals were generally bigger than hedgehogs, but this guy…

No, no, it was fine. No need to be afraid. He was still in charge here–this guy just didn’t know it!

With an annoyed sneer, Scourge dared to stomp a little closer. “Listen here, pal. If it weren’t for me, you woulda still been stuck in that base. I went outta my way to rescue you, got it? That means you owe me one. So, I’m gonna tell you how this is gonna go down, and you’re gonna–hrk!”

A clawed hand suddenly gripping his neck caused Scourge’s words to get caught in his throat… At least, that was part of it.

The jackal had snapped his head around to glare murderously at him as he grabbed him, which gave Scourge a very clear view of his face. He could see his one piercing yellow eye staring back at him…and he quickly noticed that the other eye had some kind of rock lodged into its socket. It was an eerie sight, and it definitely sent an intense chill up Scourge’s spine.

“You,” spat the jackal, voice deep and commanding, “do not control me.”

Unable to respond, Scourge just kind of…dangled there, hands gripping the other’s wrist as he kicked his legs a little. The expression he wore was enough of a response, though, so he was released after a moment of struggle. Once he was able to breathe and stand on his own again, he gasped for air and rubbed at his throat with an indignant look.

“What the hell?” he managed to say between coughs. “Who do you think you are, grabbin’ me like that?”

Turning away, the taller man didn’t bother to look at him as he replied. “I am Infinite,” he answered simply.

There was a pause as Scourge seemed to wait for him to say something else. When he didn’t, he furrowed his brow a little. “... Like, that’s your name, or…?”

The man–Infinite, apparently–seemed to hesitate, as if he was surprised that Scourge didn’t recognize him. One of his ears flicked.

“... I suppose enough time has passed that my name is no longer common knowledge,” he mused, half to himself. “Pity. I would have liked to think I made a bigger impact than that.”

Scourge watched as Infinite turned to fully face him again, making him subconsciously take a couple steps back. Man, this guy was kinda scary… Not that he couldn’t take him! He was just giving him the creeps, was all… Cyan eyes flicked to Infinite’s hands as he flexed his fingers.

“I will simply have to remind the world what true fear feels like,” he growled lowly, “and I suppose that starts with you.”

The rock embedded in Infinite’s eye began to glow as he summoned its power, and, to Scourge’s bewilderment, he began to lift off the ground and hover there. It was kind of scary, actually. The guy was floating. What the hell?

Then it hit him. The weapon Eggman had been hoarding wasn’t a gun or a cannon or anything like that. It was Infinite. He obviously held some sort of power that Eggman wanted to weaponize, and that must have been why he’d been locked up in that base… Things started clicking.

Despite Scourge expecting him to do… anything, really…Infinite proceeded to seize up in pain and let out an agonized yell. He suddenly collapsed to the ground, falling to his knees as he held himself up with one hand and gripped his head with the other. “W… What…?!”

Infinite’s hand moved from his head to his chest where the large scar marked him. When he felt nothing but the scar, he had a look of both anger and confusion on his face, which told Scourge that what just happened clearly wasn’t the plan.

… Interesting.

Scourge stood a little straighter once he was confident that this guy wasn’t about to explode or something, sticking his thumbs into his jacket pockets. “Aaaalright, Criss Angel. If you’re done with all that , I think it’s time we get down to business.”

While Infinite knelt there still trying to figure out what was going on, Scourge began to pace around him in a circle, smirking as he did so. “Look. Like I said before, I rescued you from that base, so you kinda owe me one. But–and hear me out on this one–I’m willin’ to come to a compromise.”

Infinite snapped out of his pained daze long enough to shoot another glare at Scourge as he came around to his front again. “Compromise?” he hissed.

Scourge nodded. “Yeah. So, listen–I didn’t get to introduce myself earlier.” He held up a thumb and pointed it at his own chest, teeth bared in some kind of nasty grin. “Name’s Scourge. If ya haven’t hearda me by now, then you’ve been livin’ under a rock.”

Infinite somehow doubted that this brat had left enough of a mark on the world that anybody off the street would know his name. Still, he let him continue.

“I wanna take out Sonic. I assume you know him, right? Well, I think you’re just the guy who can help me out with that. He’s gotten lucky so far, but I think with you backin’ me up, I’ll be able to finally give ‘em his just desserts.”

The name Sonic caused a spark of recognition to flash over Infinite’s good eye. His breathing began to steady. “... Sonic,” he repeated. “Yes, I am familiar with Sonic .”

The way Infinite said his name let Scourge know that there was some beef there, at least. This worked in his favor. “Good,” he said with a nod. “So we’re on the same page, then.”

He turned on his heel before stopping his walk, facing Infinite to speak to him directly. “Like I said, I want you to help me take him down. Easy, right? In exchange, though… I’ll help you out with whatever you want, too. I dunno if you knew this, but I’m basically just as strong and just as fast as that blue bastard. I could give anybody a run for their money if I felt like it.”

Narrowing his eye skeptically, Infinite mulled this over. He seemed to be recovering from the shock from before, and he stood back up onto his feet. It was evident from how long he took to respond that his mind was…elsewhere.

“... I see.” His tail swished behind him as he thought about his next words. “You are offering to aid me in whatever task I ask of you?”

“Cross my heart.”

Infinite gave a huff before crossing his arms. “... Fine. If you intend to uphold your end of this bargain, then I will do the same.”

Scourge smiled widely, his sharklike teeth almost glistening in what little sunlight was managing to poke through the canopy above them. This idiot. He had no idea that he had every intention of double-crossing him the first chance he got.

He held out his hand for a shake to seal the deal. “Glad to have ya aboard, Infinite.”

Infinite glanced down at the other’s hand before reaching forward and taking it, giving it a single shake. His grip was tight. “Let us make the most out of this partnership, shall we?”

… Infinite was not stupid. He instantly knew that Scourge was going to betray him. That overconfident fool was so transparent it almost made him sick.

But…he could also tell that he had some bite to his bark, even if it was just a little. He was seasoned enough as a soldier that he could see that. That meant he could get some use out of him before he pulled his own betrayal.

He no longer had the Phantom Ruby in his chest, and he was alive, and he had no idea why. If this green idiot could help him figure that out…then he’d play along for as long as he had to.

Either way, he was going to get answers. And once that was done? He was going to rip out Sonic’s miserable little throat.

☆

#resurrected au #sonic au #sonic au collision #sonic au collision 2024 #sonic fanfic #fanfic #sth fanfic #this is so scaryyyyyyyyyyy but i said id do it so fuck it we ball

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hannahbisssssss · 19 days ago

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Dinner and Diatribes (Nandor the Relentless x fem!Reader)

Author's Note: When asked to write this piece, I wanted to make it special for those waiting so long for its arrival. This will be split into two parts. I currently have part one (the majority of the work) done. However, chapter two is strictly NSFW and I'm separating both parts in case that doesn't interest you. I should be done with part two by tonight, so keep an eye out for it.

Warnings: Overprotective brother Guillermo, horny Nandor (duh), and an innocent reader. Take that as you will. Blood and violence (also duh)

Word count: 11,000+

Requested by @binks1004

This will also be posted on AO3 by tonight!

I sigh softly as I finish putting the last touches on my homework. Another assignment done. I look at the clock that resides next to my desk. 12:30 in the morning: shit… I should have been out of the dorms ages ago. I promised Guillermo that I would go to sleep earlier tonight because I wanted to make my way over to his house in the morning. Well, it’s not like I haven’t gotten less sleep before and still survived.

Suddenly, my phone rings, and I jump in surprise. I check the caller ID… Guillermo. Shit. I hesitantly pick up the phone after letting it ring a couple times.

“Hello?” My tentative voice rings out.

“You should be asleep.” Guillermo’s voice sounds disappointed but not surprised. I almost hear the eye roll in his voice.

“Why would you call me if you didn’t know I was asleep or not? Who knows, maybe you just woke me up.” There’s a hint of snarkiness in my voice. As Guillermo’s younger sister, I felt occasionally obligated to annoy him.

“You were last active on Instagram 15 minutes ago.” Guillermo’s ‘I gotcha’ voice is laid on thick.

“…Whoops?” He laughs on the other line.

“Whoops is right. You need to go to bed, Y/N.” I feel the exasperation start to rise within me.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. I had homework to get done before winter break. Is that so wrong of me to want to spend my full time and attention with you when I’m there at your house?” I decide to guilt trip him. I hear Guillermo sigh before I hear heavy footsteps on the line.

“Guillermo? Who are you speaking to?” The voice is distant, but I can swear I hear the essence of a Middle Eastern accent. The phone is clearly covered by one of Guillermo’s sweaters, as I can’t hear much of the conversation after that. I think I pick up the words ‘master,’ ‘sister,’ and ‘visiting.’ By the time Guillermo uncovers the phone, he responds almost sheepishly.

“Sorry. My roommate.” I am hit with the remembrance that Guillermo has four other housemates that he lives with.

“Oh, right… who was that?” My curiosity is piqued now.

“Nandor.” Guillermo says curtly.

“Nandor.” I repeat, testing the name on my tongue. “Is he nice?” Guillermo sighs.

“Sometimes.” I laugh.

“I’m sure we’ll get along just fine, then.” I try to assure him.

“Sure. Y/N, please go to sleep before you end up driving over here like an exhausted zombie.”

“Alright, alright. I’ll go to sleep, but don’t be shocked when you see I’m active on Instagram for the next 15 minutes: I have a routine, you know?” I hear Guillermo stifle a chuckle.

“Yeah, okay.”

“You know you love me.” I tease.

“Of course I do. That doesn’t mean you can’t be insufferable.” He teases back.

“That’s the fun of having a sibling, I think.” Guillermo doesn’t hide his laughter this time.

“Goodnight, Y/N.” I can hear the chiding in his voice.

“Goodnight, Guillermo.” I hang up the phone and make my way over to my bed. I’m a lot more tired than I previously thought, as I plug in my phone within five minutes of my nightly doom scroll routine.

The drive over to Guillermo’s house is nothing special. It’s cold, with some snow falling, but nothing I can’t handle. As I made my way over the Verrazzano-Narrows Bridge, I feel myself getting a little nervous. What if Guillermo’s roommates don’t like me? What if I end up biting off more than I can chew with this trip? I mean, I’m staying for an entire month. Certainly his roommates would get annoyed with me after staying with them for so long.

Before I can panic myself any longer, I realize that I’m already at his doorstep. I raise my hand to knock on the door, but Guillermo is already there.

“Y/N.” He says fondly. I smile and let my hand drop.

“Hi, Guillermo.” We smile and hug and get all the niceties out of the way.

“Did you end up sleeping well?”

“After scrolling on Instagram for approximately five minutes, yeah.”

“I noticed you weren’t active super long. I was hoping that meant you were asleep and not on that one website I don’t know about.”

“Character.AI?” I say with a laugh. He laughs too.

“Yeah, that one. Who’s your current fictional character of choice?”

“I’m embarrassed to say…” I fidget with my hands for a moment.

“Now you have to tell me.”

“I most certainly do not.”

As I walk in the house, I am met with an ornately-decorated foyer. The chandelier hanging from the ceiling looks quite beautiful, and I can’t help but stare in awe.

“Like it?” Guillermo looks at me taking in the scenery.

“Holy crap, you must spend a fortune living here.” He laughs at this response.

“If only you knew…” I give him an odd look but decide to drop it.

“Well, it’s 9:30 in the morning… What would you like to do?” I ask him with a pleasant smile.

“Did you eat breakfast?” I shake my head.

“Let’s do that first, that way you’ll be prepared for any activities I have set up for you today.” Guillermo says with a smile.

“Ooh, what kind of activities are we talking?”

“I’ll show you around Staten Island, and that’ll give me time to debrief you on each of my roommates.”

“Yeah, where are they? You’d think they’d be up by now.” Guillermo suddenly starts to fidget with his hands.

“They’re kind of nocturnal.” I look bewildered at this statement. “They work at the railroad, so they have weird hours.”

“But I thought… I thought you also worked at the railroad.” Guillermo looks stunned and a little frightened by my statement. “I-I do…” Guillermo looks down at his hands.

“Guillermo. I’ve known you long enough to know when you’re telling a lie. Did you get fired or something?” He perks up at my statement.

“Fired, yup! I’m just trying to look for new work, so I’ve been keeping busy with the upkeep of this house. Please, don’t tell mom.” I nod in solidarity.

“Of course I won’t. Your secret’s safe with me.” Guillermo smiles and visibly relaxes. Suddenly, another figure walks in the room. He’s bald, wearing a vest, and carrying a cup of coffee in his hand.

“Who’s this?” I perk up as he makes his way out of the kitchen. Guillermo shoots him a warning look. For what reason, I can’t be too sure.

“That’s Colin Robinson.” Colin raises his cup as a friendly gesture.

“Hello… You must be Y/N. Guillermo told us you were coming. You’re in for a lot of fun.” I smile at Colin, as he seems friendly enough.

“Yes! I’m Y/N, nice to meet you. I sure hope I don’t become a nuisance too quickly.” He smirks at my statement.

“Oh, I don’t think that will be a problem.” Guillermo shoots Colin another warning glare and for a moment, I could swear that Colin’s eyes brightened. Guillermo quickly takes my hand and leads me out of the house.

“We’ll be back later, Colin.” I look at Guillermo, confused.

“What about breakfast?” He tugs at my arm again.

“I’ll buy you breakfast, okay?” Guillermo closes and locks the door behind him, rolling his eyes at the thought of Colin.

“He seemed nice.” I try to give him a reassuring smile.

“Yeah, well ‘seeming’ isn’t everything. Colin Robinson is one of the most annoying creatures on this planet.” I laugh a little at this statement.

“Alright, I’ll keep that in mind. Breakfast?” Guillermo smiles back at me.

“Breakfast.”

The two of us take Guillermo’s car throughout Staten Island. A diner, a mall, a work building, everything that sees me throughout the day sees a smile on my face. The minutes turned to hours and I suddenly feel the sisterly urge to connect with Guillermo.

“I’ve missed seeing you.” I break the silence with my voice, knowing the words would ring true. Guillermo nearly trips in the shoe store we’re currently walking through.

“I’ve missed you, too.” Is his simple reply.

“I just don’t think you’d be able to understand the depth of my statement. I really fucked things up.” Guillermo stops this time, looking at me as I speak, as if seeing me for the first time in his life.

I don’t come from a functional family. I grew up Catholic, fatherless, and forced to grow up fast. The weight I bear is not something easily shaken. My mother loved me dearly, but was always worried about Guillermo. He was 7 years older than me. He didn’t have many friends growing up on account of his rather odd hobbies. By association, when I finally reached the age he was when he first started getting bullied, I was left friendless and alone.

Life as an emotionally-mature person in an emotionally-immature body often led to grief beyond the imaginable. I knew as I grew up that there were things I would never experience. Teenage romance, of course, was the least-established of my facilities. The days boys would hit on me were over… Nobody wanted to be friends with the girl whose brother believed in vampires. What if it runs in the family?

“I really messed up. I should have been reaching out more. College fucked me up and I think I was still holding a–” The words spill forth before I can even think. I only recently got in touch with Guillermo a few months back.

“You were never supposed to be taking care of me. I was supposed to be doing that for you. I should have listened to your feelings; spoken about your hurt.” Guillermo’s words nearly tear at my heart. There are moments like these with one’s family members that help one realize just how connected blood really makes us. Seconds turn to minutes turn to us sitting on the floor and crying together while a Shoe Carnival employee checks in on us.

The day passes a lot more calmly than earlier. I’m not sure exactly how many times I am warned about each of his roommates.

“It really sounds like you don’t enjoy living with them.” Guillermo grimaces at my words as if struck.

“I do enjoy living with them, but they are a particular bunch. I know you can be, too. I just don’t want anyone butting heads with you; they’d do that even if I were to specifically ask.” My face softens at my brother’s words.

“It’s only one month. It’ll be alright.”

When we make our way back to Guillermo’s house, the lights are on and I can see shadow figures moving around inside, albeit with some paper in the way.

“Guillermo?” I ask quietly.

“Yes?” He follows my gaze before going silent.

“What’s the paper for?”

“They’re very private people. Who would I be to judge?” Guillermo nearly chokes on his answer.

“Do you think it was a good idea to invite me to spend my winter break with you?” I feel Guillermo’s warm hands clasp around my freezing left one.

“I would do anything to ensure your comfortability here. They’ll behave, I promise.” He shuts the car off and makes his way out of the vehicle, motioning for me to do the same. We make our way to the porch and Guillermo takes the jingling keys out of his pocket. As he opens the door, I peek into the foyer. Nothing. Nobody.

“Where did they go?” My voice asks softly. Guillermo gives me a smile that could be perceived as tentative.

“Probably the fancy room. The curtain is shut.” I immediately shrink into myself at his words.

“They know I’m here. I should leave–” I begin frantically.

“No, Y/N, please stay. We can go and introduce you.”

“Memo, please. I know you’ve lived with them longer than since we lost contact with one another. I don’t want them to think to ask you why we stopped speaking.” There’s a rustling heard behind the curtain as it’s pulled aside. Standing on the other side of the curtain is a black-haired woman with green highlights. She is dressed in Victorian garb and looks superb.

“I take it you are Y/N.” She says in her Greecian lilt. I give her a bright smile; years of acting makes switching from emotions a thing to do with ease.

“Yes, I am. Hi! Are you Nadja?” She smiles at me and I immediately take notice of her sharp canine teeth. Odd.

“The one and only. Come, come, you must meet the others since Gizmo won’t be introducing you himself.” Guillermo rolls his eyes and makes his way to the fancy room with a huff. Inside the room are two men. One sits on the couch with a pipe in his mouth, occasionally blowing out puffs of smoke. He shoots me a suave smile and I recognize his sharpened canines as well. I mentally take note of that as I look at him.

“My darling, who did you bring for us to meet?” His voice is strained and clearly fake. He knows exactly who I am. “This is Y/N, Gizmo’s beautiful sister who he never speaks of.” My face flushes a deep red and I feel Guillermo preen behind me. There is a throat clearing heard from the corner of the room. Out steps a figure that dwarfs the others. He is tall and imposing and every bit of the name I know him to have: Nandor.

“Be nice to Guillermo, Nadja. You do not want to scare off his sister.” He steps closer and I feel his steps, both graceful and lumbering, get closer and closer. He is wearing a furred cape with some other cultural garb that does not seem from the United States in the slightest. He makes his way over to me with his broad chest leading the rest of his body. I almost pass out as I look up at him, feeling the air in my throat constrict.

“Nandor.” He says in his baritone, holding a hand out for me. “Nandor the Relentless.” My mouth opens and closes like a fish before I spit out my own name.

“Relentless? Why’s that.” He doesn’t need to answer, as I’m sure I’d believe any answer he gives me.

“Y/N. You have a very lovely name, as well as a lovely curiosity about you.” He replies.

“Thank you, that’s quite kind of you.” I recognize now that I still haven’t taken his hand and I do, trying to shake it frantically before realizing how immovable he is. His steady hand lifts my hand to his lips as he keeps eye-contact with me. Normally, I’d explode from the attention, but I immediately clock his fangs.

“Is something wrong?” Guillermo’s voice chimes in and I realize I must have been staring. I blink a couple of times and come back to reality, noticing Nandor’s lips are still on my hand. Guillermo takes notice as well and swats at my arm. I pull it back in surprise and Nandor’s deep voice chuckles behind me.

“Careful with this one. She’s fragile.” Nandor’s voice is both teasing and deadly serious, as if sending a warning to his roommates. Guillermo tugs my arm and leads me out of the room. I wave at Nandor and he gives me a smirk I can only describe as fond yet… hungry. After Guillermo drags me out of the room, I immediately round on him.

“You live with a bunch of cosplayers?” Guillermo shrinks from my anger.

“They’re quite eccentric people when they’re not working at the railroad.”

“Speaking of, why the fuck are they here playing dress-up when they should be at work?”

“It’s a Saturday evening.” I deflate with Guillermo’s response. He’s right, of course.

“Okay. I’m off to bed.” Guillermo gives me an apologetic smile and as I turn away, I realize I have absolutely no idea where I’m going.

“Upstairs to the right.”

“Thank you.” I respond curtly before making my way up the stairs. When I make it to the top of the stairs and take the first right, I close the door behind me and take a deep breath. After my brain runs silent for a few moments, I decide to use the bathroom and brush my teeth. Of course, that meant exiting my bedroom, and I did not want to do that just yet. I wanted to take everything in. I look at my bed frame, an ornate metal one with a stained glass lamp on the nightstand next to it. Jesus, they took this whole cosplaying thing very seriously.

Guillermo’s POV

“Are you fucking kidding me? I asked you guys to do one thing: act normal! How hard is that? You were humans once, too!” Guillermo’s whisper shouting is quieted by Nandor, who places his hand on Guillermo’s shoulder.

“Laszlo, Nadja, leave us.” Nandor waves a dismissive hand at them.

“Fuck off.” Nadja’s voice is the first to pipe in. Laszlo is quick to recover as he stands and grabs his wife’s shoulders.

“Nadja, how about you and I go to our room and… discuss this new development in the house.” Both Guillermo and Nandor bristle at his statement for the very same reason. Laszlo drags Nadja out of the room before either of them could chide the married couple. When they finally leave, Nandor looks down at Guillermo.

“I would like to court her.” He says blatantly. Guillermo feels as if he had just been electrocuted.

“Fuck no.” Guillermo is quick to recover from his immediate shock.

“Guillermo, she is a beautiful, unwed woman of childbearing age. Would you enjoy watching your sister turn into a spinster?”

“Not any more than I’d enjoy watching her turn into your concubine.” Nandor looks as if he could snap his bodyguard’s neck. “You will not be courting my sister, and I’m so fucking serious. She’s a Van Helsing as well – she could kill you without a second thought.” Nandor perks up at this statement.

“I do enjoy a challenge.” Nandor’s voice is smug and steady. Guillermo storms out of the room, making his way to his room under the stairs.

Y/N's POV

The house is cold and quiet. The fire in the living room does not create enough heat to reach where I am. Guillermo set up the room nicely, with a few extra blankets that will not go unused. I smile to myself as I make my way out of the room to head to the bathroom. Unfortunately, I smack into the chest of the person waiting outside my door. Nandor. He gives me a smirk, one of the fangs popping out of his lip.

“Hello, little Y/N.” I nearly shiver at his voice, but maintain my composure.

“Hi Nandor. Sorry, I should have been paying more attention.” He gives me a friendly smile.

“You are quite alright. Do not feel bad. I was standing right outside your door, so I should be the one apologizing.” Nandor’s hands are clasped behind his back, making him look quite serious and almost otherworldly.

“Yes. What were you doing outside my door anyway?” I look skeptical of him.

“I wanted to apologize for causing any strife between your brother and you.” Now that was an answer I was not expecting. I swallow and try my best to not look phased.

“I don’t know what you mean.” Nandor chuckles at my words, a deep and smooth sound.

“Guillermo clearly cares deeply for you. I wouldn’t want to make a bad first impression.” Nandor’s voice is genuine, without a hint of any of the confident bravado he carried earlier.

“I know he cares for me. Sorry, I’m incredibly tired and have to get ready for bed.” I gently scoot him out of the way and make it to the bathroom without looking back. I lock the door behind me, standing before the mirror in front of me. It is a humbling sight: I look as though the exhaustion I’ve felt since I was 12 was surfacing all at once. Realizing my face was getting red with that discovery, I covered my face to cry.

What I could not see beyond the door was a stunned Nandor, able to hear my soft cries. He did nothing, and yet here I am, angrier than ever. I stayed in the bathroom for a long while, knowing I could not go out and face him again.

Nandor’s POV

As he stares at the bathroom door, all he can feel is completely helpless about the situation. Had he said something wrong? What did he do? All he said was that your brother cared about you. Was that so wrong? Nandor awkwardly shuffles to his bedroom, closing the door to drown out your cries. He could hear them slow and eventually stop, listening to your feet shuffle back to the room across his. He wants to try again, to reach out and tap your door; to ask you what’s wrong. He doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t. He tries to ignore the feelings your emotions stirred within him as he listens to your breathing even out as you fall asleep.

Next Morning - Y/N’s POV

I wake up the next morning feeling completely out of it. As I opened my eyes, I felt all the emotions slam into me as they did last night. Fuck. Had I really gotten that emotional around Nandor? I knew that my emotions had gotten the better of me, and I wanted to apologize to him. He couldn’t have known that my and Guillermo’s relationship was a sore spot. Of course he wouldn’t have known that: Guillermo has always liked to keep his shame hidden. I sit up in my bed and groan, trying to catch my bearings. His door is right across from mine… Maybe I could sneak over and speak with him.

Why I felt so drawn to Nandor, I couldn’t explain. Maybe it’s because he’s incredibly handsome, or maybe it’s due to the fact that he has no clue about me. A clean slate. That’s certainly what I felt I deserved at this moment.

I stand and make my way over to my door, opening it and running into someone for the second time in under 12 hours. I’m surprised to see that it’s Guillermo.

“I’m so sorry,” are the first words that leave his mouth. I look at him skeptically. “Nandor told me you were upset last night. I should have known.” My face heats up in embarrassment.

“It’s no big deal, really. I was just upset–”

“Stop. Please stop lying on my behalf. I’m your older brother, and I fucked up. I haven’t told you the whole truth.” That stops me dead in my tracks.

“What are you talking about?” Guillermo takes my hand and looks at me with an emotion on his face I can’t quite read.

“I know I’ve been obsessed with vampires since I was a kid, and I hoped above hope that they were real. So real that I went looking to find them. I found a job application when I was 19 that seemed suspicious enough, so I showed up here: to this house,” I shake my head in confusion as Guillermo continues. “I was met by Nandor at the front door, who took me in for an interview. The job detailed the upkeep of the house and what being a servant–a familiar would be like.”

“A familiar? What the hell are you talking about?” Guillermo takes my hand and continues.

“I haven’t been working at the railroad for all of these years… I’ve been working for Nandor, Nadja, Laszlo, and Colin Robinson. I’m a familiar. They’re vampires.” My face turns blank for the first few seconds after he said the words I desperately did not want to hear.

“Are you serious?” I can see Guillermo’s face fall. “After all these years, you still don’t care about how your actions affect other people. Do you know what it was like? Taking care of mom when all she wanted to do was see her son. Getting bullied at school for being your sister?” I wrench my hand from Guillermo’s grasp. “I get that us getting back on speaking terms is new and exciting because I’ve missed you, but don’t fuck with me about this,” Guillermo quickly grabs my hand again and drags me to Nandor’s room.

“I can prove it. Look,” Guillermo opens the door to Nandor’s room and there, laying in the middle of the room, is a large coffin made from some of the finest wood I’d ever seen.

“What the actual hell,” my voice is quiet but certainly not calm. “What is this?”

“This is where Nandor sleeps. He sleeps during the day because he’s a vampire, not because he works night shifts. If he touches the sunlight, it hurts him. And if he steps fully into the sun, it will kill him. That’s why the windows are boarded up; that’s why this house looks so haunted: because it is. It’s haunted by the vampires who have lived in it for over 100 years,” I cover my face again and pull my hand from Guillermo’s grasp.

“You’ve actually been galavanting around with vampires for over a decade?” I am dangerously calm.

“I don’t know if ‘galavanting’ is the right word, but–”

“Well, what would you call it? Leaving your family behind to live with vampires. Some fantastical fucking dream you got to have,” I turn away from Nandor’s coffin, feeling scorned.

“Y/N, I’m so sorry. I can’t take back those years that I left you and mamá, but I want to make up for it.”

“You left us! For years, you left us! And what am I supposed to do? Be fine that you were gone for so long, only to be living your dream,” I sit against the wall, sliding to the floor. “While I was stuck taking care of mamá, who wanted nothing more than to have her son back. Do you know what that’s like?” Guillermo takes a step closer to me, slowly sitting next to me.

“No. I don’t. But I want to. It’s not fair that I was gone, but I want to have you back in my life–”

“Did you tell mamá?” Guillermo looks ashamed and it’s all the answer I need. “Why would you ever trust me with this secret?”

“Because I can’t try to satisfy you with lies. I’ve done that for long enough,” Guillermo looks at me with such sincerity it almost hurts. I sigh, feeling a headache coming on.

“Is there anything else I should know?” I look at him from between my fingers.

“...We are descendants of the Van Helsing family,” I immediately groan and put my head back in my hands.

“What does that entail?” Guillermo takes a breath as he prepares to explain.

“It means that you’re probably unnaturally good at spotting vampires. I noticed you noticing their teeth last night,” I look up at Guillermo again.

“You did?” Guillermo laughs at my question.

“Maybe it’s why I was so good and seeking vampires out in the first place,” a small smile appears on my face at his statement.

“Guillermo De La Cruz: always alone, traversing between two worlds,” I give him a smile as I take my hands off my face.

“Not alone anymore,” he replies with an openness I had not yet seen from him.

“Not anymore, no,” Guillermo wraps an arm around my shoulders, pulling me close to him.

“Yes, yes, that’s nice. Now Guillermo, please flee from my room with your sister so I may slumber,” comes a voice from the coffin. I almost forgot we were in Nandor’s room. I laugh at his words.

“Shit, sorry Nandor,” Guillermo says as he stands, pulling me to my feet.

“Yeah, we’ll go,” I say as I start to leave the room. Guillermo closes the door behind him and looks at me a moment before we both start laughing.

“Whoops,” Guillermo says first.

“I guess I didn’t think vampires could be light sleepers,” I reply.

“They most certainly can. Breakfast?” Guillermo asks.

“Yeah, just give me a few minutes to do my morning routine. I need to brush the heart-to-heart out of my teeth,” Guillermo laughs and makes his way down the stairs.

“See you in a few!”

After taking the time to do my morning routine, I make my way down the staircase to the kitchen. Before I can get there, I’m intercepted by Colin Robinson, who is, once again, holding a cup of coffee and wearing another vest. I shuffle nervously on my feet, now come to the realization that I am surrounded by vampires.

“What makes you so different?” I blurt before I can stop myself. Colin looks bewildered. “Good morning to you, too,” he mutters.

“I’m sorry. Good morning. What I meant was, if you’re a vampire like everyone else, why can you be awake in the daytime?” Colin takes a sip of his coffee.

“Your first assumption was incorrect: I am not like everyone else. I’m an energy vampire: a daywalker,” I nod at his explanation, though I’m still confused. “I feed off of people’s negative energy. Energy vampires are the most common of vampires, and I’m sure you’ve met some before meeting me.”

“Are you draining me right now?” I ask cautiously. Colin seems to find this amusing.

“No, no. I do it when you least expect it.” His words hang in the air for a moment before Guillermo peaks out of the kitchen.

“Leave her alone, Colin,” Colin’s eyes glow blue at Guillermo’s words. So his eyes were glowing yesterday.

“Go and enjoy breakfast. I sure have enjoyed mine,” Colin smirks before walking away. I make my way to the kitchen and prepare for the rest of the day.

The rest of the day is rather mundane. Guillermo told me I should start getting used to taking naps in the daytime if I wanted to spend time with the vampires. When asking him if he was going to take a nap, he merely laughed.

“The job of a vampire’s bodyguard is never-ending,” he responded.

“I thought you were a familiar,” I eye him.

“I was, until the vampires got attacked by other vampires,” Guillermo responds as if it’s the most normal thing in the world. I guess, for him, it has been his normal.

“Should I be worried?”

“Not with that Van Helsing blood in you,” Guillermo nudged me. “Now get some rest.” So I did. The day was spent in a mostly-dreamless slumber as I tried to preserve my energy for the nighttime. Being a college student, changing my sleep schedule was certainly not hard. I woke up to my alarm and checked the time, seven o’clock. I rub my eyes and sit up, seeing the sun had already set below the sky. Being wintertime, it gets dark a lot earlier than I’d like. Maybe vampires enjoyed the winter more for that same reason.

While pondering existential questions about vampirism, I peek out my door to make sure I won’t run into anyone else. As I look across the hallway, I see Nandor’s door is already open. I make my way over to his room, trying to be as quiet as possible, as if sneaking into somewhere I shouldn’t be.

I look inside his door and see his coffin opened. As I survey the rest of the room, I do not find him anywhere.

“It is rude to try and sneak up on a vampire such as myself,” I jump in surprise and turn around. Nandor stares at me, a smirk playing at his lips.

“I wasn’t–I didn’t–” He chuckles in that same deep baritone.

“You’re not too sneaky for a Van Helsing,” I stand a little taller and cross my arms.

“Van Helsing or not, I’m still a De La Cruz,” Nandor raises an eyebrow at me.

“I can see the resemblance between your brother and you. Come, would you like to sit?” Nandor gestures to a couple of chairs in his room. “The others are probably out hunting for the night,” I feel my blood go cold at his words. Nandor chuckles again before speaking, “Don’t worry �� I ate yesterday in preparation for your arrival,” I feel his eyes on me as I sit in the chair. He moves to sit next to me.

“Do you… kill people?”

“Yes,” his response is quick and almost cold.

“Do you enjoy it?” Nandor sighs.

“Only sometimes. Those are boring questions. I hear them too often. Let’s talk about something more interesting,” Nandor feigns a yawn which elicits a smile from me.

“How old are you?” Nandor peers down at me from the corner of his eye, smiling.

“I am over seven hundred years old. How old are you?” I suddenly feel much more shy and self-conscious. “Oh, come now, don’t tell me you don’t want to answer any of my questions.”

“I’m 23,” I respond quickly, as if challenging his words.

“But a sprout amongst the trees,” Nandor’s words flow from him. “Y/N, I like your name.”

“Thank you… It’s a family name. Where does ‘Nandor’ originate?” Nandor smiles proudly.

“From Hungary. It’s a version of ‘Ferdinand,’” Nandor says the name with a hint of distaste.

“You’re Hungarian?” Nandor immediately shakes his head.

“No. I’m from Al Quolnidar. It used to be part of the Ottoman Empire, but now would be southern Iran.”

“I feel like I’m getting a history lesson,” I say with a laugh.

“Do you enjoy learning?” Nandor asks, blinking slowly at me. I pause for a moment, wondering how to respond.

“Yes, I think I do,” Nandor’s chest seems to puff up proudly, like a bird showing off his feathers.

“Then I shall give you history lessons whenever you please.”

And he does. Days pass in the house and I always await Nandor’s rising in the night. I spend some of my time getting to know everyone in the house, but Nandor, of course, steals my attention most of the time. We spend long evenings and nights getting to know one another. Yet, it feels as though my life is not as exciting as his. No matter how many times I state this fear, Nandor is quick to respond.

“Just because I’m ancient doesn’t mean I’m more interesting.” We agree to disagree on this front. During the nights we are not speaking to one another, Guillermo catches us stealing glances at one another in the kitchen or the library. He, of course, knows we both have feelings for one another, but tries to inform me of how stupid and dangerous that is. I hush him up every time, telling him to let me have my fun, as there’s no possible way Nandor feels the same way about me. Guillermo shuts up every time, going back to whatever he’s doing. During one of our nightly talks, Nandor begins to open up a bit more about his love life.

“I had 37 husbands and wives,” I nearly spit out my drink at the number.

“Shit, I realize this is probably insensitive, but how did you keep up with all of them?” Nandor laughs and waves off my question.

“I loved 35 of them, so it was relatively easy. The other two were political marriages: women meant to bear my children to carry on my name,” I try not to blush at the thought.

“That must have been nice–having so many partners to spend time with,” I try to spin the situation.

“Oh no, I spent most of my time with my concubines when I was on the battlefield,” I, once again, try not to choke on my drink.

“Did you ever think it was enough?” The words fall from my lips before I can reign them in. Nandor looks at me, surprised by my question.

“No… I suppose I didn’t,” I frown at his response.

“Do you ever think about settling down?” The dam has opened.

“I’m a vampire. All I ever think about is settling down for eternity. I lived enough lives by being a conqueror as a human,” Nandor looks at his glass, half-empty with AB+ blood.

“Seven hundred years is a long time to be alive. I feel like I’ve lived through enough as a 23-year-old,” Nandor gives me a look.

“You’re still young,” he says as a matter-of-fact statement. “Let the world open up to you.”

“I think I have had enough of the world opening up to me,” I begin to swirl the wine in my glass.

“What do you mean?” Nandor’s curiosity is piqued.

“Helping out a single mom since you were 12 is not exactly a job for sheltered individuals,” I say with a sigh. “My mom needed someone to help out around the house after Guillermo left. I was that someone. It wasn’t all that bad, but it was hard.”

Nandor is suddenly hit with the crushing realization that he inadvertently did this to you. He took away Guillermo, he made it nearly impossible for Guillermo to reach out and speak to his family. Nandor takes a sip from his glass. If his face could blush, it would certainly be burning from his shame right now.

“I’m sorry,” is his only reply. I give him a smile, one that he recognizes as a friendly but tired look.

“Don’t be. It shaped me into who I am. I like me,” I say simply.

“I hope you don’t mind if I were to ask you about your father?” Nandor immediately wishes he could take back his words once he watches my face fall.

“I don’t remember much. He was a piece of crap who bullied our mother for a living. When he finally decided to get lost, I couldn’t help but feel abandoned. My mom loved me as best as she could, but that doesn’t mean it was what I needed,” I say before taking another sip of my wine. “Blood is thick, though. I am forever appreciative that I got this opportunity to reunite with Guillermo, even if that means having my worldview shattered,” I say with a laugh.

“How do you do it?” Nandor asks as he studies my face.

“How do I do what?”

“How do you speak about such things with a smile on your face? You should be crying.”

“I weep when I’m alone,” I tell him as I look into my glass again. “It’s not very becoming of me to cry in front of people I don’t know that well, now is it?” Nandor also looks into his glass before looking back up at me.

“I would like to know you,” Nandor says those words simply, as if it wasn’t a declaration.

“I don’t think you would. I’m broken–” I start.

“I don’t know why you’ve convinced yourself you’re not worth knowing. You’re allowed to be angry with me, you know? I took your brother away for years, causing you to have to raise yourself. I would understand completely if you chose to hate me,” Nandor’s words spill forth like a waterfall.

“I don’t hate you,” my face is burning.

“Why?” Nandor’s question is exasperated.

“I’m not sure, but I don’t. You’ve given me every chance in the world to speak freely, but I don’t feel like hating you. It does not change the past, nor does it heal the future. I think just being in your presence now is a comfort. One I should not take for granted,” Nandor is stunned into silence.

“Can I kiss you?” I am stunned by this question. I stand abruptly before getting ready to leave.

“I should get going,” I close the door before he has the chance to respond.

Nandor’s POV

By the end of the night, Nandor’s room looks as if a tornado blew through it. Once he heard you leave the house, he began to destroy everything within it. He threw his glass of blood at the wall, watching it shatter with a cruel satisfaction. Of course you would not reciprocate. You’re too full of life, too wonderful, too good for him. Nandor roars in anger at each of these thoughts, destroying some of the furniture in his room. All that remains untouched are his coffin and the paintings of himself on the wall: all a cruel reminder of the warlord he was. The violent, cruel, evil dictator who took lives without care. Of course you felt the need to run away for the night. He made you uncomfortable, and he couldn’t blame you for feeling that way.

At some point in the night, there is a knock at his door. Nandor rounds on Guillermo, hissing as he stares at his bodyguard.

“Leave me,” Nandor’s words are cold and angry. But Guillermo does not leave.

“What happened?” His question brings forth a thousand more thoughts in Nandor’s head, who clutches it as if it is going to explode.

“She left. I scared her away,” Nandor’s voice cracks from emotion, and he curses himself for it, finding a book on his nightstand and ripping it apart.

“What? How?” Nandor storms over to Guillermo, towering above him intimidatingly.

“Leave. Me.”

“This is my sister we’re talking about. My sister, who is alone in the streets of Staten Island because of you. Now, tell me what happened,” Guillermo’s temper almost matches Nandor’s. Nandor lets out a frustrated huff before explaining what happened.

“She was never angry with me. Never angry at me, the monster who kept her brother away from her for 14 years. She held no bitterness towards me about it,” Nandor turns around to hide his shame. “None, until of course, when I ruined it by asking to kiss her,” Guillermo falls silent with these words.

“We have to go find her. She couldn’t have gotten far–” Guillermo begins, trying to ignore the feelings stirring within him.

“We don’t have to do anything. You will go and find her. I have done enough for tonight,” Nandor hisses, throwing a glare at Guillermo over his shoulder. There’s a pause between them before Guillermo glares back at Nandor.

“Fine. Next time, stay away from my sister,” the door slams behind him and Nandor jumps, quickly returning to destroying his room.

Guillermo’s POV

She couldn’t have gotten far. That’s the only thing he can think as he goes out to look for you. You couldn’t have gone too far. Guillermo, met with constant lefts and rights, decides to follow a path he had taken you on during one of your many daily adventures through Staten Island. Left, left, right, straight for a few miles… You couldn’t have gone far. He tries to think of all the possible places you could have gone.

You took your car, of course. You left in your car to do whatever you wanted, and he had no chance to stop it. Suddenly, he remembers the pang of disappointment he felt in his stomach when you said you enjoyed going to bars. He took you to a bar a couple days ago. It had food, greasy food, but it also had drinks. That’s probably where you went. He tries to stuff down the thought of you drunk driving. You wouldn’t.

Guillermo feels an immense sense of relief when he sees your car outside the bar. He opens the doors, a sense of peace washing over him. That is, until he realizes you aren’t there. Guillermo’s panic rises within him again as he looks around. He asks the bartender if he saw you – he hadn’t. You were sending him on a wild goose chase. Guillermo clutches his head in frustration, trying to think of where else you could be. That is, of course, until he hears you scream.

Y/N’s POV

I wanted to go to the bar for the shitty food. I knew it would make me feel much better after running away from Nandor. I had been mentally kicking myself the entire night over Nandor’s question. Why did I leave? I cover my face as I sit at the front sidewalk of the bar.

Commitment issues. It was always commitment issues. I felt so embarrassed for leaving Nandor hanging, but I was terrified when he asked to kiss me. I wanted to, of course, but I had never… I mean, what would come next? Marriage? Sex? The last thought sends a shiver through me. He’s a vampire. I’m just a blip in his long existence: an impermanent thing. I cover my face and groan to get myself free of those thoughts. Standing up to go into the bar, I reach the front door before I feel my arm grabbed by some stranger, dragging me away with a hand over my mouth.

I’m dragged into an alley, a knife pressed against my back. Yeah, this would happen to me.

“Don’t scream,” the voice is scarily calm. “I’m just robbing you. This will go as easily as you want it to,” he speaks the words as if they’re molasses stuck in his teeth. As he removes his hand from my mouth, I take a deep breath.

“I don’t have a lot of money on me,” I responded brokenly.

“Well, it seems we have a problem, don’t we?”

“Please. Let me go. I’ll give you the keys to my car,” I am pleading now.

“You think I want some busted car from a college student?” The knife begins to dig into my skin. I gasp and the man shushes me before whispering in my ear.

“I told you this would go as easily as you wanted it to. It seems you don’t care too much,” I shake my head and try to reason with him.

“Please, I won’t tell anyone about this. I’ll go quietly. I’ll give you everything I have, it’s just not much,” the man removes the knife from my back and brings it to my cheek. He slowly drags it down the side of my face, certainly drawing blood. I cry out, beginning to scream for help. After a brief moment, I feel the weight lifted from behind me as the man is dragged off of me.

“Don’t touch her,” I hear a familiar voice hiss behind me. I scoot away from Nandor and the man he is now holding off the ground. His eyes are a deep red; red as blood. With that thought, I raise a hand to my cheek, feeling the warm liquid running down my face. I catch Nandor watching me touch the blood on my cheek. He hisses at the man, and it’s a deep and menacing sound. “Look away,” his voice is deep and commanding.

I tuck my head and cover my face. The moment I do, I hear a disgusting squelching sound, followed by a gasp from the man. I’m sure he would have screamed if he could, but I would guess Nandor went for the throat.

“Y/N, we have to go,” I uncover my face to find Guillermo staring at me, frantically trying to pull me to my feet. In a split-second decision, I turn to look at Nandor, who is crouched on the ground like a predator, face deep into the man’s skin. His eyes are on mine the moment I look upon him, and I can feel his relief as he looks at me. Guillermo drags me out of the alley, holding my hand the entire way.

“Stop looking!” Guillermo commands as he pulls me out of Nandor’s view.

“He’s not going to hurt me–”

“You’re bleeding,” Guillermo interrupts me. “I don’t want to tempt an apex predator, thank you very much.” He opens the passenger door and helps me sit down before going to the driver’s side. Guillermo speeds off in his car, headed back in the direction of the house. When I looked behind the car, all I could see was Nandor standing in the middle of the road, blood covering his face.

We got back home after driving for a few minutes in silence. When Guillermo parks the car, he looks over at me.

“Are you okay?” I cover my face and look away.

“Yes,” I responded curtly.

“No you’re not,” Guillermo puts a hand on my shoulder to comfort me, rubbing it softly. “It’s okay to not feel okay after something like that. I remember the first time I saw a human die at the hands of vampires. It’s scary. You shouldn’t have had to see that,” he speaks so gently.

“I’m okay, really. I mean, yes it was scary… I guess I’m just glad Nandor got there in time.” Guillermo nods.

“Me too. You can thank him when he’s not all bloodlusted,” Guillermo almost reads my mind.

“I’ll just clean up and it’ll be alright–” I begin.

“No. He’s already got the scent of your blood. He’s going to be touchy for the rest of the night. We need to get you patched up and to bed,” Guillermo cuts me off. “That is a talk that can happen another day.” I finally relent, nodding in agreement.

“Okay… Can I go get cleaned up now?” Guillermo turns the car off and walks beside me the entire way, keeping an eye out for Nandor. “I’ll be fine, you know?” He scoffs at my words.

“You’re as stubborn as him – I’ll give you that,” he mutters under his breath. When we make it in the house, Guillermo helps clean me up. Luckily, the other vampires were nowhere to be seen, though Guillermo was sure they could smell my blood. “I’m going to put a cross on your door tonight. Give you a couple stakes…”

“Would that really be necessary?” Guillermo shoots me a look.

“I’m not taking any risks. He’s dangerous and I will not have my sister getting bitten by a vampire,” he continued to dab a washcloth on the wound on my cheek.

“It’s going to be a huge, ugly scar, isn’t it?” There’s a hint of despair in my voice. Guillermo sighs.

“I don’t know… Probably… But not ugly! Let’s… not worry about that right now,” he tries to filter his words, but it’s really no use. He begins to use alcohol prep pads on my skin, causing me to hiss through my teeth.

“Ow, that really hurts,” Guillermo’s face turns sympathetic.

“You’re very strong. I don’t think it needs stitches: it wasn’t that deep. Can I put gauze on your cheek?” I nod.

“Here we go. It’ll be okay. You will be staying in your room tonight,” Guillermo’s words leave no room for argument. I groan at him, rolling my eyes.

“Fine,” Guillermo nods as he finishes disinfecting my face and putting gauze over it.

“You’ll bounce back quickly. Something tells me you always do,” he gives me a wink and helps me stand before pushing me into my room. Guillermo places a stake on my bedside table, then goes to hang a cross on the front of the door.

“Is all of this really necessary?” My question is exasperated. Guillermo shoots me a glare.

“Is keeping you safe from a deadly vampire necessary? Oh geez, let’s think about that,” I roll my eyes again at his words.

“Okay, thank you. Good night, Guillermo,” I sigh and place the hand over my gauze. Guillermo’s eyes soften and he makes his way to sit on my bed next to me.

“You’ll be okay, I promise. I just want to be careful, you know?” I nod along to Guillermo’s words.

“Thanks. I know you’re just looking out for me. I appreciate it,” I say to him sincerely.

“Just rest. The morning will be here before you know it,” he leans over and gives me a tight hug. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

“Me too… Good night,” I say to him. Guillermo smiles and makes his way to my door, closing it behind him.

I wish I could say that I tried falling asleep, but I did not. I stayed awake for what felt like hours, tossing and turning in my bed. All I could think about was Nandor standing in the middle of the road, watching me drive away with Guillermo. There’s a level of guilt that falls on my shoulders as I think about that look he gave me. I hold my cheek, beginning to cry softly at the thought of my face being marred for the rest of my life.

After crying for a long enough time to feel dehydrated afterwards, I hear the loud flapping of wings and a squeak outside my door. There’s a poof sound, followed shortly by a hissing as Nandor approaches my door.

“Fucking guy,” Nandor hissed at the cross on my door. I stand, tiptoeing over to the door before cracking it open. Before me was Nandor, cleaned up and in the same outfit I saw him in earlier. His face immediately softened once he saw me. “Y/N… Are you okay?” He reaches a hand out and I flinch, a little afraid from what I saw earlier.

“I’m alright, I promise. You… shouldn’t be here,” Nandor scoffs at my words.

“What did your brother tell you?” He spits the words.

“He said you would be… touchy. I don’t want to irritate you,” I whisper, trying to make sure Guillermo wouldn’t hear us. Nandor’s face widens into a smirk.

“Oh no, my dear, wrong touchy,” I blush in surprise and he takes this as an opportunity to push past me, closing the door swiftly behind him as he carries me towards my bed.

“Nandor! Please,” I protest as he lays me down on my bed, quickly following to curl up behind me.

“Please what, darling? Use your words,” he nuzzles against my face, nose rubbing against the gauze on my cheek.

“I don’t– I can’t…” The words are lost on my lips and Nandor shushes me.

“I know, darling. I can smell it on you,” he nuzzles against my cheek again, pressing a kiss to the gauze on my face. “A virgin, are we? I smelled it in your blood,” Nandor whispers as he puts an arm around me. I blush deeply in surprise that he was able to guess so easily.

“I grew up very Catholic,” are the only words that leave my mouth. Nandor chuckles darkly.

“I don’t care. It doesn’t matter why, it matters that you are,” he kisses my cheek again. I shake my head again, trying in futility to deny.

“I ran away after you asked to kiss me,” Nandor stops suddenly, his grip loosening.

“I will leave you if you wish it,” he continues to pull away.

“No! I mean… you don’t have to,” I try to cover the desperation in my voice. Nandor chuckles again and leans in against me.

“You smell amazing,” Nandor continues to nuzzle against my cheek.

“I shouldn’t have run away. I’m sorry,” I feel the remorse surge within me.

“Don’t be. I got a free meal of it,” he teases gently before nosing against the pulse point on my neck.

“But I am sorry. I shouldn’t have left you. I should have told you that I’m afraid to get close to people, that it was never your fault–” Nandor nips my neck gently, causing the words to die in my throat.

“Hush, Y/N. Stop apologizing. I don’t want you wasting your breath on something I already understand,” he leans down and kisses my head. I flip to my other side, facing Nandor and getting a good look at him for the first time since the attack. His eyes are still a faint red, pupils blown wide with some primal feeling deep within him. I reach a hand up and push a strand of his hair behind his ear. I hear a low groan rise from his throat.

“What does it feel like?” I ask suddenly. Nandor pulls away to look at me.

“What does what feel like?”

“Drinking blood. Is it… I don’t know… enjoyable?” Nandor smirks as he looks at me.

“I wouldn’t be able to explain it. Drinking blood is like nothing I ever did when I was a human. It feels so powerful, like something out of a movie,” Nandor gets lost in thought, staring out of the paper-covered window.

“What does it feel like for a human?” Nandor looks at me a moment, before answering.

“When I was turned, it was not a pleasant experience. I’m assuming that was due to the violence of the one turning me, but I’ve heard some humans find it to be a pleasant experience. Why?” Nandor asks the question he already knows the answer to.

“I… would you drink from me?” I look up at him shyly. Nandor’s breath hitches as he looks at me.

“You would want that?” I nod, the words dying in my chest.

“Would you remember me?” Nandor looks perplexed by the question.

“I would know you through the rain and the snow, through every storm that appears in the night. Just because your blood calls to me doesn’t mean I will answer in violence,” Nandor leans down and presses a kiss to my undamaged cheek.

“You make it sound so easy,” I whisper to him.

“For some, it really is.”

“Is it for you?” Nandor hesitates.

“No, but I will not forget you,” I lean forward and hug Nandor against me.

“You saved my life once. I owe you, at the very least,” Nandor leans forward and captures my lips in a kiss. It is a deep and passionate kiss that conveys the days of yearning between us. I could imagine myself getting lost in that kind of yearning forever. The kind of yearning that leaves one seeking answers from the beginning of the first interaction.

Nandor’s tongue presses against my lips, licking off any balm I put on there a few hours before. I open my mouth to him, breath getting stolen as he takes a greedy gulp of my air.

“The second you view this as a transactionary agreement,” he starts as he pulls away from my lips, “you’ll forget how much I want to get to know you. I don’t want you to forget that,” he says as he presses a kiss to my nose. He pushes my head to the side gently, sniffing my pulse point and taking a moment to just sit there.

“You’re so sweet,” I whisper to him.

“Sweet. That’s not a word that’s been used to address me before,” He laughs and presses a kiss to my neck. I giggle softly as he continues to press kisses to my neck. “I like those noises. You sound happy. I only want to hear you happy,” Nandor mutters against my neck.

“I hope that not always being happy is not a let-down,” Nandor chuckles again, nipping my neck softly.

“Don’t speak as if you’re some consolation prize. I don’t care. I like you,” he mumbles against my skin.

“Are you going to bite me now?” I ask, trying to deflect some of the attention he was putting towards me. Nandor nuzzles against my neck again, dragging his teeth along my neck.

“The second you say it back, I will. I like you,” Nandor says, pulling away to look me in my eyes. I blush deeply, trying to maintain eye-contact with him.

“I like you, too,” I say as Nandor leans down and captures my lips in another kiss.

“That’s more like it,” he says, bending down and pressing a kiss to my jaw. He leans down and kisses against my neck, growling against my skin. “So warm, so soft, so sweet,” he sinks his fangs into my skin. It feels like a short needle prick and I jump a little in surprise. As I jump, Nandor’s hold on me tightens to keep me in place. I whimper a little as I feel him begin to take pulls of my blood.

“That… feels really nice,” I mutter to myself, feeling as if I had entered a trance. Nandor groans as he continues to drink deeply from my neck. The sounds are lewd and wanton as my body curls into him. It feels as though a thousand hands are holding me against him, making me feel safe and protected in his arms.

He takes a couple more pulls of my blood before pulling away, licking the puncture wounds on my neck. He kisses the marks gently, groaning from deep in the back of his throat.

“You taste divine,” he breathes the words as if they are keeping him alive.

“That felt really nice,” I mutter, still in a daze. Nandor chuckles and holds my face in his hand.

“I’m sure it did. I made sure to be gentle with you,” he says as he kisses the spot where he bit again. There are moments like these that help one realize just how connected blood really makes us. It feels as if we are bonded in some way, and I can tell Nandor is feeling it, too. “I’m sure you can feel how intense things are right now. Just take a deep breath, okay?” He holds eye-contact with me and takes a deep breath, trying to get me to follow suit. When I do, he smiles and kisses my cheek. “Good girl,” he whispers. My eyebrows knit together with his nickname.

“Oh, you liked that, did you, darling?” He kisses my lips quickly before saying, “my good girl,” once again.

4am - Nandor’s POV

Nandor woke up with you in his arms, feeling the weight and security you offered him. However, after a moment of peace, he feels something pressed against his back.

“Get up,” Guillermo’s voice is a deep warning.

“Guillermo–” Nandor tries to speak.

“Get up. I will not ask again,” he hisses again, holding the stake against Nandor’s back. Nandor looks over as you begin to stir.

“You wouldn’t want to wake her up, would you?” Nandor’s voice is a deep purr.

“Did you bite her?” Guillermo already knows the answer.

“Only because she asked,” Nandor nearly taunts Guillermo, who grabs Nandor and pulls him out of the bed.

“I told you to leave my sister alone,” Guillermo growls at Nandor, who holds his hands up in defense.

“She invited me in,” Guillermo frowns at Nandor’s words. When you stir, they both look over in surprise.

“Did anyone think about asking me what I wanted?” You stare at the two of them, glaring at Guillermo. “Yes, I invited him in. Yes, I realize that may sound dumb to you. No, I do not regret it,” Guillermo bristles at your words.

“I’m just making sure you’re safe,” his voice is a strangled mix of frustrated and calm.

“Unhand Nandor, dude,” you say to your brother, who begrudgingly lets him go. Guillermo storms out of the room, causing you to want to go after him.

“Don’t. He needs a minute alone,” Nandor starts.

“You don’t know what he needs. I need to apologize to him.” You get up and make your way out of the room, heading down the stairs to find Guillermo fuming in the kitchen.

Guillermo’s POV

“I’m sorry,” are all the words you can muster. He hears you from behind him and he turns around, glaring.

“I told you to leave it alone for the night, and what did you do? Not that. Certainly not what your brother asks you to do,” you frown.

“It’s fine, he was fine! Nothing happened,” at your words, Guillermo’s eyes flicker to the puncture wounds on your neck. She flushes in embarrassment and quickly covers up the marks. “Nothing beyond that.”

“I don’t care what happened between the two of you, I want Nandor to be good to my sister. I don’t want him to lose interest the second you lose your novelty to him.”

“I don’t think I’m some novelty to him. I think he likes me–” Guillermo holds a hand up to quiet his sister.

“I need to speak with Nandor,” he says with a biting edge to his tone.

“Not with that stake, you don’t,” Y/N says with a glare thrown his way. Guillermo huffs, standing up from the table and walking out of the kitchen without his stake. As he stomps his way up the stairs, he sees Nandor peer from out of his room.

“You, me, talk. Now,” Nandor opens the door for him, allowing him entry.

“Guillermo!” Nandor says with a friendly lilt in his voice, trying to appeal to Guillermo’s normally good-natured attitude. “What is cracking, friend? How has your day been going?” Guillermo looks at Nandor’s room, still in complete disarray from the night before. He turns at Nandor and looks up at him.

“When you said you wanted to court my sister, I could have killed you. When I saw you holding my sister this morning, I almost killed you,” Nandor shrinks from Guillermo’s words. But, he sighs. “Be good to her. That’s not a lot to ask for, is it?” Nandor immediately shakes his head.

“I will be the best to her. Only the best she deserves,” Guillermo nods, thinking over Nandor’s words. He huffs and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“If you so much as break her heart, I’ll put a stake through yours,” Guillermo threatens. Nandor crosses his fingers over his heart.

“Scout’s honor,” he bares his teeth in a little smile at his bodyguard. Nandor nearly jumps for joy as he makes his way out of the room to find you. When he sees you at the bottom of the stairs, Nandor grabs you around your waist and spins you around, kissing your bandaged cheek again.

Y/N's POV

“Well, that went well…” I say with a laugh as Nandor brings me closer to kiss my cheek.

“It did. Better than I could have ever imagined, my morning star,” I blush at his nickname, which elicits a satisfied noise from Nandor. “You like my little nicknames?” Nandor leans in and kisses my lips once again with a surprising amount of gentle energy. He dips me once my feet touch the floor, breaking apart only to look at me with the same reverence as yesterday.

“Yes, I could get used to the nicknames,” Nandor smiles brightly, his fangs bared.

“Anything for you, little one,” he whispers, leaning down to kiss me again.

#what we do in the shadows #wwdits #nandor the relentless #nandor #nandor x reader #nandor the relentless x reader #guillermo de la cruz #y/n #x reader #wwdits x reader #what we do in the shadows x reader #hurt/comfort

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obsessivestar · 3 months ago

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'What If It's All A RomCom?' - a Ted Nivison x Reader.

!! This is Chapter 2! Here's Chapter 1 if you're interested! !!

{{-Story Description: You're a youtuber with a fairly decent following deciding to help your good friend Tanner with a minor film project, with you set as the leading lady. When the actor for the male lead is a no show, Ted takes up the role himself. One problem: This short film's a Rom Com, and you just met the guy.-}}

//18+, Def gonna be some smut. Reader is implied to be afab, under 5'5 and has specifically named friends, all who have no real connection to Ted.

This story will be in multiple chapters. Also gonna post this on Wattpad and Ao3 (when I figure them out LMAO) under the same username: ObsessiveStarla. Hope you enjoy :^)

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Oh and the gif was made by me!

Word count: 3.4k

Chapter 2: Is It That Sweet?

Ted and I headed out into the open road once more, having to go through a suburb to get to the closest coffee joint. For some reason, I expected the ride to be a quiet one, despite Tanner sending us on this snack run for us to socialize. Truthfully, I'm a little nervous. I know I said I'd be okay with kissing someone, but I knew Conner enough to be comfortable with it. This is different.

"How long did it take you guys to get up here?" Ted breaks the silence with a harmless question, keeping his eyes on the road. I move my eyes in his direction, but I don't look directly at him.

"3...maybe 2 hours?" I answer, making a rough guess. "We left a little later than we wanted to, but we couldn't get ahold of Conner and we had to just go."

"Did you guys call him at all?"

"Straight to voice-mail, like, every hour. Kinda glad you stepped in when you did." I turn my head to Ted as I finish that last sentence, seeing a grin spread along his face.

"I want him to get that A." Ted admitted, referring to Tanner. He half-opens his hands on the wheel as he speaks. "'Haven't known the guy long, but I know this is big for him."

"How do you know him, if I'm good to ask?" I tilt my head a little. I mind as well ask him, Tanner's answer was vague at best. "You don't go to the same college."

"No no no, I graduated years ago, pretty sure he was still in high school when I did." Ted scoffed with a shake of his head. "I met him through Joe."

"And how do you know Joe?"

"OK, this is gonna sound fucking insane, but..." Ted pauses and lingers on the sentence, like he's trying to find the right words.

"He's a friend...of my friend's cousin. We met at his wedding and Joe introduced me to Tanner at his wedding."

I believed him, but was surprised to hear that. I was at Joe's wedding too, I don't recall him being there at all. "You were at Joe's wedding?"

"I didn't stay for the after party, but yes, I was."

"I was there too. I was one of the maids of honor."

"I know. I remember you."

"You remember me?"

"Yeah. That's why I said 'finally'. Joe told me about you at that wedding."

"When???" I was even more confused now.

"When you were almost late!" He laughs, glancing away from the road for a moment to look at me. "Is this an interrogation? You don't trust me now?"

"It could be!" My concern breaks into a smile. "Tanner tells me about this mysterious 'Ted' that's gonna be on set and an hour later, you're practically my hero--our hero, the crew's hero. Now I'm learning we've been in, like, the same plane of existence before but it feels like you've just...spawned in."

"'Just spawned in'?" Ted repeated, still smiling. "I'd like to think I'm just a highly observant man, thank you very much. I remember you."

Now is the moment I realize I had sat up a bit more in my seat, leaning my back against the seat once more with a bewildered expression on my face.

"So--okay." I shut my eyes for a moment, ready to really process all of this information.

"You met Joe through your cousin."

"Cousin's friend, but yes." Ted confirms.

"You met Joe at your cousin's wedding, through his friend."

"Yes."

"Then you went to Joe's wedding."

"Yes."

"You saw me, and you met Tanner at Joe's wedding."

"Yup."

"And that's how you know everybody."

"You-You nailed it. Right on the coffin."

The first thing I do is start laughing, putting my face in my hands. Ted's laughing too, his eyes closing slightly as he does. He takes one of his hands off the steering wheel to run his fingers through his tall hair.

"I fucking told you it sounds insane!" He chuckles, glancing at me again. "I should just start lying and say we met in college, Jesus fucking christ."

"I'm glad you didn't lie! I just--oh my god, why is that so funny?" I wipe my eyes, trying to hold back the urge to continue laughing. I'm such a giggler. I'm the type to want to keep laughing about a joke that was told a good 5 minutes ago. "Why the fuck don't I remember you?"

"I don't fucking know! Maybe--Maybe, yknow, maybe it was just a long fuckin' dream I had and I'm really just lying to you. I don't know."

Ted and I are all smile's now, taking a couple minutes to come down from all the laughing. I don't even quite understand why that was so funny to me. Maybe it was the way he explained it all, or the way I tried reiterating it back to him. It did truly sound crazy, to an extent, but I believed him.

What I almost couldn't believe was that he remembered me. Why would he be able to remember me from the ceremony, but not actually come to meet me like he did Tanner? Tanner wasn't even the groom's best man, he wasn't up there with us. Before I had the thought to ask Ted, we pulled up to a Dunkin' Donuts drive-thru and got in line. Of course, it being the morning and all, there was quite the line-up.

I take my phone out to start getting everyone's order written down in my notes so I can pass the phone to Ted when we're at the speaker. "Have you been on many film sets?" I asked Ted, setting my phone down next to me.

"Oh yeah. I've helped make stuff before. Music videos, other short film's..." Ted, Tanner and I had talked briefly about each other while we were waiting for Conner to get back to us, so we knew about each other's respective channels.

"Is there, uh..." I paused, once again feeling a sense of embarrassment. "What's it all gonna be like? Filming I mean. It's not usually all done in order, right?"

What I was really trying to ask is: 'When are we gonna have to kiss?', but no way am I phrasing it so plainly.

"It all depends on how the director wants to do it." Ted explains, moving up a bit in the lineup. "We only have that set for about 3 weeks, so any scenes that need to be filmed there will have to be done pretty much immediately. Anything that's shot outside will be shot...out there." He pauses with a chuckle. "And then, yknow, everything else is just...after."

So that means one of the first scenes may be a kissing scene. Great. Wonderful.

We finally move up in line enough to be able to order everything. I hand Ted my phone so he can read off every order to the speaker, handing it back to me once he was done. He drove up to the window and was told he'd need to park, looking at me with a smirk before pulling away from the building to find a spot. As Ted drove around the parking lot, I thought about YouTube again. While Ted's channel had mostly grown during the pandemic, mine only started to grow within the last couples months after I was invited to this big collab creators like Eddy Burback and Jakey. I've become pretty good friends with a lot of the guys in the 'Commentary' corner of YouTube, I'm becoming as close with them as I am with my personal circle.

Huh. Kind of strange that I'm friends with Ted's friends and he's friends with mine, but we've never really met up until now. Small world, I suppose.

Ted found a decent spot to park in, slowing the truck down before putting it in park, finally able to take his hands off the wheel with a sigh. "Might wanna let Tanner know we'll be a while." Ted spoke, taking his seat belt off to better relax in his seat. I take out my phone to send a quick text to Tanner, letting him know we had parked and were just waiting.

There's a moment of silence after I set my phone down again. I can't think of anything to say, Ted is relatively quiet. I'm trying to think of a topic to turn to, but the pressure to speak completely blanks out my mind. It's unlike me.

"You're...okay with me doing this, right?" Ted speaks up, settling his elbow up on one of his armrests as he turns to look at me.

"Hm?"

"Taking Conner's place." He clarified. "I feel like I've just kind of...inserted myself into this, like...without your permission."

"I...don't think you need my permission, you needed Tanner's, right?"

"Well yeah, but I'm not...potentially gonna be locking lips with Tanner."

'Potentially'. I focus on that word in particular. Yes, he hasn't read the script. He doesn't know.

"I mean, I don't know, I'm just guessing." Ted added a humorous rasp to his voice, shrugging his shoulders up with his hands out.

"There's...a few." I admit with a bashful smile. "But I mean, he's there if you want to."

"Hey, I'm not opposed to smooching up the homies." Ted jokes, pointing at me somewhat. I start laughing and fling my head back, truly not expecting such a response. Ted starts laughing too, lightening the air up a little bit.

"I've--I've been down for it before! For the good of the content, I will settle my lips upon another man, another bro, if you will!"

I have to bring myself down from the laughing fit, moving some of my hair out of my face as the chuckling slowly subsides. Oh my god, he's just so funny and...oddly charming. I can see why Tanner suggested we do this snack run together, I'm strangely comfortble with Ted. If this was really the idea, it worked.

"Look, all I'm trying to say is..." Ted let's out a last few chuckles and for the first time, our eyes equally meet each other. He's giving me a genuine smile as he speaks.

"I can...reach out to a few other friends if you'd rather...have more of a choice. I'm cool with taking a step back, I'm sure Tanner would get it."

I keep my eyes settled on his for a little while, feeling warmth rise up my cheeks once more. It's in this moment I realize there isn't a lot of space between us. We're not uncomfortably close, but enough for it to make me blush.

"I'd rather it be you." I reply truthfully, making sure to sound confident. "I was surprised when you offered for sure, but...fuck, Tanner was right to put us on this trip, I think we'd work well together."

"Oh yeah? You'd kiss me?"

I see Ted's self-assured expression waver for a moment, like he spoke before realizing how it would sound. I take the opportunity to turn my body more towards him, resting my elbow on the backrest of the seat so I can prop my head up.

"Yeah." I reply in confidence, giving him a huge grin. "It's 7 kisses. I'll kiss you 7 times."

"It's SEVEN times!?" Ted sits up more in his seat to turn to me as well.

"Yeah! There's a fuckin...the first one is us playing spin the bottle with a bunch of other people."

"Oh my god, it's--you know we'll have to kiss more than 7 times, right? It has to--" He pauses to laugh "It has to look right!"

"That's fine! You're the one that said you'd 'kiss the pretty lady'!" I try to mimic his strong voice as I quote what he said back on set. Ted furrows his brows and rolls his eyes, looking down at his steering wheel. I raise a brow as he seems to glide his tongue along the front of his top teeth, opening his mouth to cackle.

"I did say that, didn't I?"

"You did. 'Pretty lady' here heard it."

Ted shakes his head again and mouths what looked like 'fuck' to himself. Before the conversation could continue, an employee of Dunkin Donuts knocks on Ted's window, completely startling him. I let out another little laugh as he rolls down his window to get all of the food, moving the bags of food to the backseat, putting most of the drinks in the cup holders he had available and handing me the rest to hold. He thanks the employee before rolling his window back up, letting out a huff before putting his seatbelt back on.

"Well, yknow what, I said what I said."

Ted smirks to himself, starting the truck up again. As I put my seatbelt on, he turns the radio on. Big mistake.

🎶'Now he's

🎶thinkin' bout meee, every night ohh,

🎶is it that--'

He turns the radio off.

I smile to myself and turn my head to look out my window, resisting the urge to laugh. Cute.

The first half of the ride back is quiet, only it doesn't feel awkward this time. I'm okay with it. I'm content, maybe even a little excited to get back. I can't bother to convince myself it's not because of Ted. Whether he meant to be or not, he was incredibly sweet and reassuring on this ride. Any doubts or worries I had about him taking Conner's spot had practically melted away.

"I suppose we've got good news for Tanner when we get back, eh?" I speak up, turning my head away from the window to look at Ted. He glances at me and lightly shakes his head, scoffing with a smile. "You're gonna let that slip up go to your head, aren't you?"

"'Slip up'? Awe.." I playfully pout at him "You don't think I'm pretty anymore?"

"Pretty fuckin' obnoxious."

"Ooh! Such harsh language, Teddy!" I put on an old-timey mid-atlantic accent, moving a bit away from the window. "That's not very becoming of a future star in the romance genre!"

"I'm gonna fucking pull this truck over and make you walk back, you fucking...prissy little passenger princess."

"With all the drinks in my hand?"

"You've got four. Four people not having their drinks would be worth it."

"You wanna watch the princess strut down the street?"

"No I wanna watch you trip and fall on your fucking..." I pauses for a bit longer than he probably meant to.

"My...pretty lady face?" I complete his sentence for him, shooting him a winning grin.

"I fucking hate you."

I break into joyful laughter as Ted tries to hold back a chuckle, making sure my grip on the tray in my lap is steady so I don't spill any of it. Bashful is a good look for him.

Finally we get back to set. Ted parks his truck exactly where he parked it before we left and gets out with me to start grabbing all the food. Joe and a few members of the crew come out to help carry everything back inside. This gives me the opportunity to talk to him about everything. As soon as Ted slipped up and flirted with me in the truck, I knew I needed to tell Joe.

We separated away from the rest of the crew for a moment while the rest of the wardrobe team got Ted into a different outfit for the shoot. I give Ted a quick little wave and he shoots me the middle finger with a mocking smile. Asshole. Joe and I decide to hang out by the top part of the stairs leading up to the second floor.

"He did not fucking say that." Joe gasps at me, giving me a look as if I were making it up.

"Dude, and he like...he was SO embarrassed after, I could tell."

"Ted did not fucking say 'you'd kiss me'"

"I swear to God!" I laugh quietly, getting shushes from Joe to keep it down. "You think I'd make that shit up? And!--And later, after he was all shy and shit, he tried to turn on the radio and 'Expresso' started playing and I've never seen a man turn the radio off SO FAST."

"Jesus christ..." Joe rests the side of his hand on his forehead, a dumb smile on his face.

"What's with you not telling me about this guy?" I ask Joe, turning more to him. "He was at your wedding! He met Tanner, but not me? What did you say to him?"

"I didn't want you two fucking!" Joe chuckled, getting a light but friendly smack on the shoulder from me.

"You're bullshit."

"I'm joking! Look--I didn't tell him not to approach you or anything, but like, I don't know, he didn't ask about you after the ceremony. He just left."

"Why did he leave before the party?"

"He had other plans, I guess. He didn't know anyone else there anyways. Dude would've just...danced by himself."

"Could've danced with me."

"He's literally right down there, (Y/N), go ask him why he didn't."

I take a peek over the railing to see Ted's new outfit being adjusted by the wardrobe team, watching as they were trying to decide whether or not to tuck the shirt in. He had a plain white tee on and some brown slacks with a leather belt around it, now with his glasses off and in his hand. I'm still surprised I didn't notice him at the wedding. Maybe I was blind, that's a fine looking dude, I feel like I would've remembered him.

I suppose my gaze was a bit too fond looking, as Joe's smile fades a little.

"(Y/N), I wouldn't do that..." His tone suggests he's worried about me.

"Do what? Look at him?" I joke, giving a light scoff.

"Not like that. This happens all the time."

"What happens all the time?"

"Cast members hooking up. It doesn't end well."

"Oh my god, Joseph, I'm not planning on hooking up with anyone"

"No no no, it literally happens like, all of the time. I'm serious." Joe clears his tone, setting his now empty cup beside him. "People that play love interests together will end up mixing the feelings, like they'll think on camera chemistry is real chemistry, and it ALWAYS ends badly."

"Isn't most of that faked for PR or whatever?"

"That would be worse! I'm just--I trust you, (Y/N), I'm just telling you, as your friend: don't fall for this guy. Don't even sleep with him. I'm serious."

I search Joe's face for any signs of this being a bit, but there's nothing. I don't know who he thinks I am in this moment, I just think Ted's a little cute, I'm not about to pull him into my chambers like some work siren. I've worked with a lot of male youtubers. I consider most of them to be great friends, I've never developed feelings for ANY of them and I'm certainly not the type to jump into bed with a dude because he smiles and twinkles his eyes at me.

I break the tension with a disregarding laugh, rolling my eyes. "Maybe I'll sleep with him just to spite you."

"(Y/N), I'm--"

"I know, I know, you're serious." I interrupt him, scoffing again. "I won't sleep with him."

"You're sure? You're gonna make sure you don't catch feelings for this guy?"

"'Catch feelings'..." I mutter in disbelief, snickering into my cup as I finish the last drop. Joe's silent, I guess he's looking for a genuine answer. I set my empty cup down and look at him, straight in the eye.

"I am not going to 'catch feelings' for Ted Nivison."

"You're sure?" Joe asks again, getting another eye roll from me.

"I'm sure!" I insist, the pitch in my voice elevating slightly. I can't tell if I sounded defensive or something, but it's a good enough response to get Joe to finally drop it.

I don't know why I'd sound defensive, I don't intend to catch feelings for anyone here.

I mean it. My feelings? Sealed. Shut tight. Buried in the hatch, if you will.

No one's catching those feelings. Not him.

__________________________________

|| Chapter 1 || Chapter 3 || Chapter 4 || Chapter 5 || Chapter 6 (smut) || Chapter 7 || Chapter 8 || Chapter 9 || Chapter 10 (smut) || Chapter 11 || Chapter 12 || Chapter 13 || Chapter 14 (smut) || Chapter 15 ||

#ted nivison x y/n #ted nivison #ted nivison fanfic #ted nivison x you #ted nivison x reader #ted nivison x yn #youtuber x reader #youtuber fanfiction #jschlatt #AllARomCom

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muiitoloko · 4 months ago

Note

Hi can you do a Frank x reader slowburn, where the reader is newbie lower rank that got assigned to be with him. She’s clumsy and a nervous wreck around him (but that’s because she admires him and wants to do her best). At first, frank gets annoyed with the reader because how can someone be that level of rank and then is quite the opposite of a “soldier” traits stuff. The vibe is kinda “The Devil Wears Prada” but meets “Top Gun”…I need it to be like really really slowburn and it can be a series if you want….

ps I need a scene where suddenly you see why the reader is at that level of ranking and that’s where frank slowly respects her (action scene where there’s some type of trouble happened or just like her showing her shooting skills)

thats all! i really like your works especially the series ones <33333

Title: Beneath the Uniform.

Summary: Stripped of her rank, a soldier fights to prove she is more than her demotion, forging an unlikely bond with a lieutenant general hardened by years of command.

Pairing: Frank Benson × Fem! Reader.

Warnings: Anguish, rejection, mention of fighting, mention of shooting.

Author's Notes: I'm glad you like my story and hope this new story pleases you too.

First and Second part here.

Also read on Ao3

Frank Benson stood up from his desk, his imposing figure casting a long shadow across the room. His hazel eyes, sharp and discerning, locked onto you as you entered his office. You snapped to attention, your body rigid with the formality drilled into you over the years. But despite your best efforts, Frank could see your hands trembling slightly as you saluted him. The telltale sign of nerves, of insecurity, and it irked him.

"At ease, Private," Frank said, his baritone voice carrying a tone of disdain. He watched as you lowered your hand, trying to steady yourself, but the slight quiver in your movements didn’t escape his notice. His eyes narrowed slightly as he took in your appearance—neat, tidy, but still a shadow of the officer you once were. To him, you were just another reminder of how the army had softened, allowing anyone to slip through the cracks and land a position they didn’t deserve.

He didn’t know the specifics of why you were assigned to him, nor did he particularly care to find out. All he knew was that you were a demoted captain now reduced to a private, and that spoke volumes in itself. To Frank, it was an insult—assigning a soldier with such a tarnished record to him, a Lieutenant General with decades of experience and a spotless service record. The army, he thought bitterly, was clearly lowering its standards.

You stood there, trying to hold your composure under his scrutinizing gaze. The silence in the room was suffocating, broken only by the faint ticking of a clock on the wall. Frank finally broke the silence, his voice cutting through the air like a blade.

"Do you know why you're here?" he asked, his tone flat, giving nothing away.

You swallowed hard, trying to find your voice. "Sir, I—"

He cut you off with a wave of his hand, the gesture dismissive. "You're here because someone up the chain of command decided that I needed an assistant. And for some inexplicable reason, they thought you'd be a suitable choice."

His words stung, and you fought the urge to shrink under his gaze. "Sir, I was—"

"Spare me the details," Frank interrupted, his voice edged with impatience. "Frankly, I don’t care about the reasons behind your demotion or whatever sob story they’ve attached to your file. What matters to me is competence, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let a former captain, now a lowly private, mess up my operations."

You bit back the retort that threatened to spill out, knowing it would only make things worse. You had been reassigned to Frank after your previous posting became untenable due to your demotion. The brass had decided that placing you under Frank’s command would give you a chance to "redeem" yourself, though you doubted Frank saw it that way. To him, it was likely more of a punishment—dealing with you was probably the last thing he wanted.

"You’ve been assigned to assist me in operational planning and logistics," Frank continued, his voice dripping with skepticism. "You’ll handle the paperwork, the briefings, and whatever else I deem necessary. And you will do it without complaint, without hesitation, and without any more mistakes. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, sir," you replied, your voice steady despite the turmoil inside.

Frank gave a curt nod, his expression unyielding. "Good. Now, get out of my sight and familiarize yourself with the files on your desk. I expect you to be up to speed by tomorrow morning."

You saluted him again, your movements stiff but controlled, and quickly turned to leave. As you walked out of his office, you could feel his eyes boring into your back, the weight of his disdain heavy on your shoulders. You knew that earning his respect would be an uphill battle, one that would require you to prove your worth every single day.

You sighed as you closed the office door behind you, the cold metal clicking shut with a finality that seemed to echo in your chest. To think that you had admired this man so much—Lieutenant General Frank Benson, a name spoken with respect and reverence throughout the British Army. He was a legend in his own right, having won numerous honors over the years, his reputation built on a foundation of unyielding discipline, sharp intellect, and tactical brilliance. But now, after that first interaction, the admiration you once held felt tainted, replaced by a gnawing sense of disappointment.

As you walked down the corridor, you forced yourself to greet the other soldiers you passed, maintaining the decorum expected of you. Each step sent a dull throb of pain through your leg, a stark reminder of the injury you sustained in Afghanistan. The wound, though mostly healed, had left its mark—a lingering ache that flared up when you pushed yourself too hard, like this morning during training. You had been determined to prove to yourself that you could still keep up, that your demotion hadn’t broken you, but the price for that determination was now an uncomfortable limp that you tried your best to conceal.

You straightened your back, willing yourself to walk normally as you passed a group of officers. The last thing you needed was for anyone to notice your discomfort, to see any more signs of weakness. In the military, perception was everything, and you had already given Frank Benson enough reasons to doubt you. The thought of him, his sharp hazel eyes piercing through you with disdain, made your stomach churn.

Lieutenant General Benson had been someone you once looked up to—a figure of authority who represented everything you had aspired to be in your career. But now, all you could think about was the way he had dismissed you, his baritone voice dripping with disapproval, his every word a reminder of your fall from grace. The admiration you had for him felt like a distant memory, replaced by a growing resentment that you struggled to keep in check.

But you couldn’t afford to dwell on that. You had work to do, and no amount of pity or self-doubt would change the fact that you were now just another private under Benson’s command. The files waiting for you on his desk were the first of many tasks that would come your way, and you knew you had to tackle them with the same determination that had once earned you your rank.

As you approached the end of the corridor, you felt the pain in your leg intensify, a sharp reminder of your limits. You paused for a moment, leaning against the wall to catch your breath, cursing yourself for pushing too hard. The injury was a direct result of your decision in Afghanistan, the moment that had changed everything. The moment you chose to save that young girl, defying orders, knowing full well the consequences it could bring. It was a decision that had cost you your rank, your career, and now, it seemed, the respect of a man you had once idolized.

You closed your eyes for a brief moment, pushing the memories aside. Now wasn’t the time to reflect on the past; you needed to focus on the present. Taking a deep breath, you pushed off the wall and continued walking, this time with a more measured pace, determined not to let the pain slow you down any further.

The truth was, as much as Benson’s disdain stung, it also fueled a fire within you. A fire that refused to let you be defined by your demotion, by your injury, or by the scorn of a man who knew nothing of the choices you had made. You had been a captain once, and while you no longer wore the rank, the experience and knowledge you gained from that position were still with you. You would prove to Benson, and to yourself, that you were still capable, still worthy of the uniform you wore.

By the time you reached your new desk, tucked away in a corner of the operations office, you had steeled yourself for the long night ahead. The files Benson had mentioned were neatly stacked, their contents waiting for your attention. You pulled out the first folder, flipping it open and scanning the contents, your mind already beginning to compartmentalize the tasks at hand.

But as you worked, you couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched, the sense that Benson’s eyes were still on you, scrutinizing your every move. You knew that gaining his respect would be an uphill battle, but it was a battle you were determined to fight. You had come too far, faced too much, to let one man’s judgment define your future.

With that thought, you buried yourself in the work, your focus sharp despite the throbbing pain in your leg. You knew this was just the beginning, the first step in a long journey of redemption. But you had faced worse, and you had no intention of letting Lieutenant General Frank Benson—or anyone else—stand in your way.

The days that followed your reassignment to Lieutenant General Frank Benson’s command were a blur of long hours, late nights, and an overwhelming sense of inadequacy. The mountain of files on your desk never seemed to shrink, no matter how many hours you poured into them. You often found yourself stumbling over military jargon that had once rolled off your tongue with ease, your confidence still shaken by the demotion.

Frank Benson was a constant presence in your life, even when he wasn’t in the room. His hazel eyes, sharp and piercing, seemed to haunt your every move. You could almost feel his disapproving gaze whenever you fumbled with a report or misplaced a document. His voice, low and authoritative, echoed in your mind, a reminder that any mistake you made would only confirm his already low opinion of you.

Despite your best efforts, it seemed that everything you did managed to draw his ire. There was the time you accidentally spilled coffee on a crucial operations report, earning a withering glare that made your heart drop to your stomach. Or the day you showed up five minutes late to a briefing, breathless and apologetic, only to be met with a scathing remark about your lack of discipline.

"Private, if you can’t manage to arrive on time, perhaps you should consider a career more suited to your...relaxed attitude," Frank had said, his voice dripping with disdain. You had stood there, cheeks burning with embarrassment, trying to explain that you had been caught in a meeting with another officer, but Frank had already turned his attention to the next item on the agenda, dismissing you with a wave of his hand.

Your attempts to lighten the tension with humor were met with even harsher criticism. It had become something of a defense mechanism—whenever you felt the pressure mounting, you’d crack a joke, hoping to defuse the situation. But Frank Benson was not a man who appreciated levity, especially not from someone he already considered unworthy of wearing the uniform.

One particularly tense afternoon, as you were reviewing logistics for an upcoming operation, you had made an offhand comment about how the army should consider investing in self-filing paperwork. The room had been silent for a beat too long, and you had realized your mistake as soon as Frank’s hazel eyes locked onto you.

"Private, this is the British Army, not a comedy club," Frank had said coldly, his voice sending a chill down your spine. "If you’re unable to take your responsibilities seriously, then perhaps you should reconsider your place here."

You had stammered an apology, feeling the weight of his disapproval like a physical force. It was clear that your attempts at humor were only making things worse, but you couldn’t seem to stop yourself. It was as if the more you tried to fit into Frank’s rigid expectations, the more you felt the need to rebel against them, even in small ways.

The tension between you and Frank reached its peak during a critical mission briefing. The room was filled with high-ranking officers, all waiting for the Lieutenant General to lead the discussion. You had been tasked with preparing the briefing materials, a responsibility that you took very seriously, knowing that any mistake would be magnified tenfold in Frank’s eyes.

As you began to distribute the briefing folders, you noticed too late that one of the key reports was missing. Panic seized you as you frantically searched through the papers, your heart racing as you realized that you must have left the document on your desk.

"Private," Frank’s baritone voice cut through the room, silencing all conversation. "Is there a reason why this briefing is being delayed?"

You looked up, meeting his steely gaze, your throat dry. "Sir, I—"

"Speak up," Frank demanded, his tone brooking no excuses.

"I...I seem to have left one of the reports on my desk, sir," you admitted, your voice trembling with the effort to keep your composure.

Frank’s expression darkened, and you could see the anger simmering just beneath the surface. "You ‘seem to have left it’?" he repeated, his voice low and dangerous. "Private, do you understand the gravity of this situation? This is not some inconsequential task that you can fumble through with your usual lack of attention. This is a mission briefing, and your incompetence is unacceptable."

You stood there, frozen in place, the weight of the room’s attention pressing down on you. Frank’s words cut deep, each one a reminder of how far you had fallen. You had once been a captain, respected and trusted to lead, but now, in Frank’s eyes, you were nothing more than a liability—a soldier who couldn’t be trusted to perform even the most basic tasks.

Frank didn't mince words as he stood there, towering over you with his imposing figure, his hazel eyes gleaming with barely concealed disdain. "What could I possibly expect from someone like you?" he sneered, his voice dripping with contempt. "A demoted captain, now reduced to a mere private. Tell me, how does it feel to fall from such heights, hmm? To go from leading men to barely being able to carry out the simplest of tasks?"

You stiffened, every muscle in your body tensing as you fought to keep your composure. The room seemed to close in around you, the walls pressing in as Frank continued his verbal assault. His words cut deep, each one a deliberate strike designed to wound.

"I can't even fathom how you managed to get into the army in the first place," Frank continued, his tone mocking. "Perhaps your dear old daddy, the Colonel, had to pull a few strings, eh? A little nepotism here, a favor there. After all, it's the only explanation for how someone as incompetent as you could have ever worn the rank of captain."

The mention of your father, a respected officer with decades of service, sent a jolt of anger through you. You could feel the heat rising in your cheeks, the humiliation mixing with a growing fury that you struggled to contain. But Frank wasn't finished; he leaned in closer, his voice lowering to a cruel whisper.

"How disappointed he must be now," Frank mused, his eyes gleaming with malice. "To have a daughter who couldn't even hold onto her rank. Demoted from captain to private. What a disgrace. Daddy's little disappointment."

You clenched your fists, the urge to lash out nearly overwhelming. You could feel the sting of angry tears threatening to spill over, but you forced them back, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing you break. You stared at the floor, your vision blurring as you struggled to keep your emotions in check. The humiliation was almost unbearable, the weight of Frank's words pressing down on you like a physical force.

But you remained silent, biting down on your lip to stop the words that were on the tip of your tongue. You knew that if you said what you truly wanted to, it would only make things worse. So you swallowed the anger, the pain, and the humiliation, forcing yourself to remain still as Frank continued his tirade.

"Go get that file," he ordered sharply, his voice slicing through the air like a whip. "And when you're done with that, I want you out of my sight. Your punishment for this disgraceful display is to do push-ups until the sun goes down. Maybe that'll knock some sense into you."

You mumbled a barely audible "Yes, sir," your voice trembling with the effort to keep your emotions in check. Frank didn't even acknowledge your response; he simply waved over another soldier who had been standing at attention nearby.

"Make sure she does every single one," Frank instructed coldly, his eyes never leaving yours. "And if she slacks off, you make her start over. I won't tolerate laziness, especially not from someone who should know better."

The soldier nodded, a mixture of pity and discomfort in his eyes as he glanced at you. But Frank's gaze was unyielding, his expression hard and unfeeling. You could feel the weight of his judgment pressing down on you, the humiliation of being reduced to this... nothing.

Without another word, you turned on your heel and marched out of the room, the soldier following closely behind. The moment you were out of sight, the tears you had been holding back finally spilled over, hot and angry against your cheeks. You wiped them away furiously, trying to pull yourself together as you made your way to retrieve the file.

The pain in your chest was almost unbearable, a raw ache that made it difficult to breathe. Frank's words echoed in your mind, each one a dagger that twisted deeper with every step you took. You had once been proud of your accomplishments, proud to wear the uniform and serve your country. But now, all of that seemed so distant, so out of reach.

By the time you returned with the file, the sun was already beginning to dip low in the sky. You handed it over without a word, your hands trembling slightly as you fought to maintain your composure. Frank barely glanced at you as he took the file, his focus already elsewhere. You were dismissed without so much as a nod, as if you were nothing more than an inconvenience.

The soldier led you outside, to a spot where the setting sun cast long shadows across the ground. He glanced at you, his expression conflicted, but he said nothing as you dropped to the ground and began your push-ups.

Each movement sent a jolt of pain through your arms and shoulders, but you welcomed it. The physical pain was a distraction, something you could focus on instead of the crushing humiliation that weighed on your heart. You pushed yourself harder, gritting your teeth as the minutes turned into hours, the sun sinking lower and lower in the sky.

You would do better. You promised yourself that much as the sweat dripped down your face, mingling with the dirt on the ground beneath you. Damn Frank Benson would eat his words. He didn’t know you, didn’t know the lengths you’d gone to earn your rank, and he certainly didn’t know the fire burning inside you now. You had never needed your father’s influence to get where you were. Every stripe, every promotion, was earned through your own blood, sweat, and determination. You had fought, sacrificed, and clawed your way to the top, and you wouldn’t let some pompous old man march over everything you’d built. You wouldn’t let him break you.

Your arms screamed in protest, muscles burning from the relentless push-ups, but the pain was welcome—no, it was necessary. It grounded you, gave you something tangible to focus on as the anger inside you surged. The anger fueled your strength, pushing you beyond your limits. You had no intention of stopping, not even as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long, dark shadows across the ground.

The soldier who had been tasked with watching you shifted uncomfortably as the darkness settled in. “Private, that’s enough,” he said, his voice laced with a mix of concern and discomfort. But you didn’t even acknowledge his words, continuing with the push-ups, your body moving on pure determination and fury.

“Private, I said that’s enough!” the soldier repeated, his tone more urgent this time. But still, you didn’t listen. You wouldn’t stop, not until you had pushed every ounce of strength from your body. The physical pain was a small price to pay to silence the gnawing humiliation that had taken root in your heart.

Inside the building, Frank Benson stood by the window, his imposing figure backlit by the dim glow of the interior lights. His hazel eyes were narrowed as he watched you through the glass, his expression unreadable. He had expected you to give up, to fall in line like so many before you. But as the minutes turned into hours, he found himself unable to look away. There you were, still going, still pushing yourself beyond what any normal soldier would have endured. It was both infuriating and oddly impressive.

The room around him was silent, the last meeting of the day having just ended. But Frank remained at the window, watching you, his thoughts churning with a mixture of disdain and something else he couldn’t quite place. He had seen soldiers break under less, yet here you were, defying every expectation he had of you.

He didn’t hear the footsteps approaching until the person was standing beside him, their presence unmistakable. Frank didn’t need to look to know who it was. The familiar scent of polished leather and the subtle creak of a well-worn uniform told him everything he needed to know.

“Lieutenant General,” came the low, even voice of Colonel [Your Last Name]. Frank could feel the man’s eyes on him, probing, questioning, though his tone remained deceptively casual. “I’ve been hearing a lot of hubbub about you insulting me during a meeting today.”

Frank kept his gaze on the window, watching as you continued with the push-ups, your form unwavering even as the night closed in. He didn’t deny the accusation. “I was scolding your daughter,” he replied, his voice as calm and composed as ever. There was no point in lying, not when the truth was as plain as day.

The Colonel hummed, a low, thoughtful sound as he turned his attention to the window as well, watching you with an inscrutable expression. The two older men stood in silence for a long moment, the only sound in the room the distant hum of the building’s ventilation system.

“She’s got your stubbornness,” Frank said finally, breaking the silence. There was no malice in his tone this time, just a grudging acknowledgment of the trait he recognized. He had seen plenty of soldiers break under pressure, but you—despite your many flaws—hadn’t buckled. Not yet, at least.

The Colonel’s lips curled into a thin, humorless smile. “Stubbornness isn’t always a virtue, Lieutenant General,” he replied, his tone cold and measured. “Sometimes, it’s just a symptom of not knowing when to quit.”

Frank could hear the disdain in the Colonel’s voice, the unspoken criticism aimed not just at you but at Frank himself for recognizing it as something worthy of note. The Colonel’s eyes remained fixed on you, but there was no warmth, no pride, only a clinical assessment of a soldier—no, of a daughter—who had failed to meet his expectations.

“She’s a disappointment,” the Colonel continued, his voice devoid of emotion. “Always has been.”

Frank’s brow furrowed slightly at the harshness of the statement, but he said nothing, letting the Colonel speak. The Colonel’s next words, however, revealed more than just disappointment; they unveiled a deep-seated resentment.

“I never wanted her,” the Colonel said, his voice as cold as steel. “I wanted a son, someone who could carry on the family name, follow in my footsteps with pride. But instead, I got her. A daughter who thinks she can play soldier, who dares to believe she could ever live up to the standards set by the men in this family.”

Frank finally tore his gaze from the window, turning to look at the Colonel with a mixture of curiosity and something darker—a hint of disapproval, perhaps. It wasn’t unusual for parents to have expectations for their children, but the bitterness in the Colonel’s voice went beyond that. It was as if he had never seen you as a person in your own right, only as a failed attempt at continuing his legacy.

“She’s not a son, true,” Frank said carefully, his voice measured. “But she’s still a soldier.”

The Colonel’s eyes narrowed, his expression hardening. “She’s not fit to wear the uniform,” he snapped. “Her demotion was well-deserved. I tried to steer her away from this path, tried to save her from this humiliation, but she was too damned stubborn to listen. And now look at her—reduced to nothing more than a private, barely able to keep up with her duties.”

Frank could feel the intensity of the Colonel’s disdain, and for the first time, he wondered how much of your struggle was due to the weight of your father’s expectations. It wasn’t just the army you were trying to prove yourself to—it was him, the man who had never wanted you to succeed in the first place.

Outside, you continued your push-ups, your body trembling with exhaustion but your resolve unbroken. You had no idea that your father was watching you, judging you with every fiber of his being. To you, this was just another obstacle to overcome, another test of your strength and determination.

“She doesn’t belong here,” the Colonel said, his voice filled with finality. “She never did. But she insisted on this path, and now she’s paying the price. She’s weak, Lieutenant General. Weak and delusional, thinking she could ever be anything more than a failure.”

Frank didn’t respond immediately, his mind racing as he considered the Colonel’s words. He had seen weakness in you, certainly—seen the way you struggled under the weight of your mistakes, seen the way your hands trembled when faced with his scrutiny. But he had also seen something else, something that the Colonel was either blind to or unwilling to acknowledge: a flicker of defiance, of determination that refused to be snuffed out, no matter how many times you were knocked down.

“She saved a life,” Frank said quietly, almost to himself. “That’s more than some soldiers ever do.”

The Colonel’s gaze snapped to Frank, his eyes flashing with anger. “She disobeyed orders,” he retorted sharply. “She put her own misguided sense of morality above the mission, above the lives of her comrades. That’s not bravery, Lieutenant General. That’s stupidity.”

Frank met the Colonel’s gaze head-on, his expression unreadable. “And yet, she’s still here,” he pointed out. “Still pushing herself, still trying to prove something.”

The Colonel scoffed, dismissing Frank’s observation with a wave of his hand. “She’s a fool, and you’re wasting your time if you think she’ll ever amount to anything. She’ll never be more than a private, and that’s only because I won’t let her tarnish this family’s name any further by leaving in disgrace.”

Frank said nothing, his thoughts hidden behind a mask of calm professionalism. But as he turned back to the window, watching you push yourself to the brink of collapse, he couldn’t shake the feeling that the Colonel was wrong about you. There was something in you, something that refused to be broken, no matter how much pressure was applied.

He wouldn’t tell the Colonel that, though. It wasn’t his place to interfere in family matters, and he had no desire to provoke the man any further. But as he watched you finally collapse onto the ground, your body spent from the hours of grueling push-ups, Frank couldn’t help but feel a twinge of... what? Sympathy? Respect? He wasn’t sure. All he knew was that you had earned a measure of his attention, whether you realized it or not.

“Keep an eye on her, Lieutenant General,” the Colonel said, his tone dismissive as he turned to leave the room. “And don’t hesitate to come to me if she steps out of line. I won’t tolerate any more failures from her.”

Frank gave a curt nod, his expression neutral. “Of course, Colonel.”

With that, the Colonel left the room, his footsteps echoing down the hallway until they faded into silence. Frank remained by the window for a moment longer, watching as you finally pulled yourself to your feet, your body swaying with exhaustion but your head held high.

You had a long way to go, that much was clear. But Frank found himself wondering just how far you could go, how much you could achieve, if only you could find the strength to break free from the shadow of your father’s expectations.

Perhaps it was time to push you in a different direction—one that would force you to confront your own limitations, your own fears, and in doing so, perhaps discover a strength you didn’t even know you had.

The road ahead wouldn’t be easy, but Frank Benson had never been one to shy away from a challenge. And neither, it seemed, were you.

The sun hung low in the sky, casting a golden hue over the barracks as you moved with quiet efficiency, collecting the last of the briefing materials for Lieutenant General Frank Benson. The days since that humiliating encounter had been long and grueling, but they had forged a steely resolve within you. Gone was the nervousness that once gripped you in his presence; gone, too, was the inclination to crack jokes in a vain attempt to lighten the atmosphere. You had learned quickly—adapted to the harsh realities of your situation.

You now anticipated Frank’s requests, moving almost in tandem with his thoughts. If he wanted a report, it was on his desk before he asked. If he needed transport, you were already waiting by the vehicle. Your efficiency and discipline had grown, honed by a determination to prove yourself—if not to your father, then at least to yourself.

This morning, you stood at attention outside Frank’s office, waiting for him to emerge. The crisp morning air was filled with the distant sounds of soldiers drilling, the rhythmic cadence of their movements a constant reminder of the world you were trying to reclaim a place in.

When the door opened, you straightened your posture, meeting Frank’s hazel eyes with a calm, composed expression. His gaze lingered on you for a moment, assessing, as if trying to gauge what had changed. But if he found anything, he didn’t comment on it.

“Vehicle’s ready, sir,” you said simply, your voice steady.

Frank gave a curt nod, his white hair catching the light as he stepped out, his baritone voice as authoritative as ever. “Let’s not waste time then. We have a meeting to attend.”

You fell into step behind him, your mind already running through the logistics of the day. The meeting was critical—a gathering of top military officials to discuss ongoing operations and strategy in the Middle East. Frank would be in his element, directing the discussion with the same sharp intellect that had earned him his rank. And you would be there to ensure everything ran smoothly.

The drive to the meeting location was silent, save for the hum of the engine and the occasional rustle of papers as you reviewed the agenda. Frank sat beside you, his eyes occasionally flicking over to the documents, but his focus remained outward, as if always calculating, always planning.

As you navigated the vehicle through the winding roads leading to the military compound, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. It was a subtle tension in the air, a sense that you were being watched. Your instincts, honed by years of service and sharpened by your recent trials, prickled at the back of your neck.

“Sir,” you said, your tone professional but laced with caution, “I recommend taking a different route. There’s something about this road that doesn’t feel right.”

Frank turned his head slightly, regarding you with a look that was both curious and wary. “Explain.”

“Gut feeling, sir,” you replied, keeping your voice level. “And I’d rather be safe than sorry.”

There was a brief pause as Frank considered your words. Finally, he nodded. “Very well. Take the alternate route.”

You didn’t need any further prompting. You took the next turn, guiding the vehicle onto a less-traveled road that wound through a series of low hills. The tension in your gut didn’t ease, but you kept your focus on the task at hand, eyes scanning the surroundings with heightened vigilance.

The ambush happened so quickly, it was almost a blur. One moment, the road ahead was clear; the next, a burst of gunfire erupted from the hillside, shattering the silence. The windshield exploded in a spray of glass, and you barely had time to swerve the vehicle as bullets peppered the metal, the sharp cracks of gunfire echoing in the confined space.

“Down!” you shouted, your training kicking in as you slammed the brakes, the vehicle skidding to a halt behind the cover of a small ridge.

Without hesitation, you grabbed your rifle from the backseat, the weight of it familiar and reassuring in your hands. The world narrowed to a single point of focus as you assessed the situation. The attackers were positioned on the ridge, using the high ground to their advantage. But they hadn’t accounted for your quick reaction.

“Stay low, sir,” you instructed, your voice calm despite the adrenaline surging through your veins. “I’ll handle this.”

You reached for the door handle, ready to leap into action, but before you could open it, Frank's hand shot out, gripping your arm tightly. You turned to look at him, your instincts screaming at you to move, to fight, but what you saw in his eyes froze you in place. Frank's hazel eyes, normally so sharp and commanding, were wide with panic. He was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling rapidly, and his hand, still gripping your arm, was trembling.

"Sir?" you said, your voice tinged with confusion. You glanced down at where his other hand was fumbling for his sidearm, but it was clear that he was struggling. For a split second, your mind raced through the possibilities—had he been shot? Was he injured? But as you quickly assessed him, you realized it wasn’t physical—Frank Benson, the unflappable Lieutenant General, was having an anxiety attack.

The realization hit you hard. Frank was a man of control, always the one in command, always the one making the tough calls from the safety of his office. But it had been years since he was on the front lines, years since he’d faced the reality of combat up close. The years spent behind desks, overseeing drone strikes and coordinating operations from afar, had dulled his edge. And now, here in the heat of an ambush, the raw terror of being back in the thick of it had caught him off guard.

You took a deep breath, pushing down your own fear. You knew what had to be done. Frank wasn’t in any shape to command this situation, and it was up to you to protect him. The irony wasn’t lost on you—a demoted captain, now a private, taking charge of the situation. But there was no time to dwell on that. Your training and instincts kicked in, and you moved swiftly.

“Sir, you need to stay down and keep your head low,” you said firmly, your voice steady and commanding, despite the chaos erupting around you. “I’ve got this.”

Frank’s grip on your arm loosened slightly, his hazel eyes locking onto yours. For a moment, you saw the vulnerability in him, the fear he was trying so hard to suppress. It was a side of him you’d never imagined existed, and it struck you deeply. But there was no time to dwell on that either.

You gently but firmly pried his hand from your arm, giving him a reassuring nod before grabbing your rifle. You didn’t hesitate as you slid out of the vehicle, using it as cover while you assessed the situation. The attackers were still positioned on the ridge, firing down at you, but they hadn’t moved from their position. That was their mistake.

You took a deep breath, steadying your aim, and returned fire. The first shot took out one of the attackers, the second forced the others to scatter. You moved quickly, staying low and using the terrain to your advantage, keeping yourself between Frank and the line of fire. You could hear his labored breathing behind you, and you knew you had to end this quickly.

The next few minutes were a blur of movement and gunfire. You pushed forward, using every bit of cover you could find, firing in controlled bursts to keep the attackers at bay. Slowly but surely, you forced them to retreat, the intensity of their fire dwindling as you pressed the advantage.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the gunfire ceased. You held your position for a few moments longer, your heart pounding in your chest, before slowly rising from your cover. The ridge was clear—the attackers had retreated.

You turned back toward the vehicle, your breath coming in heavy gasps, the adrenaline still coursing through your veins. Frank was still in the car, his chest heaving as he tried to regain control of his breathing. His eyes met yours, and for the first time, there was no disdain, no judgment. Instead, there was something else—something softer, almost vulnerable.

You walked back to the vehicle, lowering your rifle as you approached him. “It’s over, sir,” you said quietly, trying to keep your voice steady. “We’re clear.”

Frank nodded, his breathing slowly beginning to steady. He reached up, running a trembling hand through his white hair, his gaze never leaving yours. “You saved my life,” he said, his voice low and gravelly, the usual baritone softened by the weight of the moment.

You shrugged, trying to downplay the situation, though your heart was still racing. “Just doing my job, sir.”

Frank’s eyes narrowed slightly as he studied you, really seeing you for the first time since you’d been assigned to him. The harsh, critical gaze was gone, replaced by something more thoughtful. And in that moment, he saw you—really saw you—not just as a soldier, not just as the demoted captain he had so harshly judged, but as a person. A woman who had just risked her life to protect him.

You continued to take control of the situation, leaving Frank crouched in the passenger seat, his breathing still ragged and uneven. Without hesitation, you hopped back into the driver’s seat, your hands gripping the wheel tightly as you shifted the vehicle into gear. The adrenaline still surged through your veins, but you forced yourself to stay calm, focused. Frank needed you to be steady, even if he’d never admit it.

"Hang on, sir," you said, your voice firm but calm, as you pressed down on the gas. The vehicle lurched forward, skidding slightly on the loose gravel before gaining traction. You kept your eyes on the road, scanning the horizon for any signs of danger as you sped away from the ambush site.

In the seat beside you, Frank leaned back, his white hair slightly disheveled, his hazel eyes closed as he tried to control his breathing. His chest heaved with each breath, and you could see the way his hands clenched and unclenched in his lap, a telltale sign of his struggle to regain composure. You stole a quick glance at him, your mind racing as you considered how to help him.

The radio crackled to life, interrupting your thoughts. "Base to Sierra Three, do you copy?"

You reached for the radio, your hand steady despite the tension coiled in your chest. "This is Sierra Three, Private [Your Last Name] speaking. We’ve encountered an ambush but are currently en route to safety. What are your orders?"

There was a brief pause, filled only with the sound of static, before the response came. "Sierra Three, you are to return to base immediately. I repeat, return to base. We’ll send backup to secure the area. Over."

"Copy that," you replied, your voice steady. You placed the radio back in its cradle, then glanced at Frank again. "We’re heading back to base, sir. Just hold on a little longer."

Frank didn’t respond, his eyes still closed as he leaned back in his seat, trying to regulate his breathing. His usual commanding presence seemed diminished, replaced by a man grappling with something deeply unsettling. You knew what it was—fear. The raw, unfiltered fear that comes when a person who has spent too long in the safety of command is suddenly thrust back into the heart of danger.

You drove in silence for a few moments, the hum of the engine and the crunch of gravel under the tires the only sounds filling the space. But the tension was palpable, hanging thick in the air between you. You needed to do something to break it, to help Frank calm down.

"Sir," you began carefully, keeping your eyes on the road, "my father—the Colonel—once told me something about you. He said you saved his life."

You felt Frank’s eyes on you, a subtle shift in his posture, but he didn’t say anything. Encouraged by the reaction, you continued, keeping your tone light, conversational.

"He didn’t give me all the details, of course," you said with a small, knowing smile, "but he mentioned that you two served together a long time ago. He told me how you pulled him out of a bad situation, one that could’ve gone very wrong if you hadn’t been there. He always spoke highly of you, sir. Said you were one of the best officers he’d ever served under."

Frank’s eyes opened, and he turned his head slightly to look at you. His expression was guarded, but you could see the flicker of recognition in his eyes as he remembered the incident you were referring to.

"You know what my father is like," you added, trying to inject a bit of humor into the conversation. "He doesn’t hand out compliments easily. So when he told me that, I knew it meant something. Said he owed you a debt he could never repay."

Frank remained silent, but you could sense the tension in him beginning to ease, just a little. His breathing was starting to steady, the panic slowly receding as he focused on your words instead of the attack.

"I guess what I’m trying to say is," you continued, your voice softening slightly, "you’ve been in tough spots before, sir. You’ve faced danger head-on and come out on top. Today was no different. We made it through because you were here, and I wouldn’t have it any other way."

For a long moment, the only response was the sound of the engine and the road passing beneath you. Then, finally, Frank spoke, his voice low and a little rough but steady.

"You did well back there, Private," he said, his tone softer than you’d ever heard it. "Better than I gave you credit for."

The acknowledgment took you by surprise, but you didn’t let it show. Instead, you nodded slightly, keeping your focus on the road. "Thank you, sir. Just doing my job."

Frank fell silent again, but this time, the tension between you had eased, replaced by a tentative understanding. He leaned back in his seat, his eyes closing once more, but his breathing was calmer now, more controlled.

As you drove back to base, the sun began to dip below the horizon, casting long shadows across the landscape. The adrenaline was slowly fading, leaving behind the exhaustion of the day’s events, but you felt a small spark of something you hadn’t expected—a sense of connection with Frank, a mutual respect born from the chaos of the ambush.

The road ahead was still long, and you knew there would be challenges to face in the days to come. But for now, as you drove through the twilight, you allowed yourself a small moment of relief. You had made it through, and so had Frank. And in that shared survival, a new bond had formed, one that might just carry you both through whatever came next.

After the intense drive back to base, you and Frank Benson finally arrived at the military compound. The sun had fully set, and the compound was lit by the harsh glare of floodlights, casting long shadows across the vehicles and buildings. The moment you pulled into the motor pool, a group of medics hurried over, their faces etched with concern. Frank waved them off, his baritone voice steady as he assured them he was fine, though his white hair was slightly disheveled, and the lines of tension were still visible on his face.

As Frank stepped out of the vehicle, he adjusted his uniform, his hazel eyes scanning the area with his usual sharpness. He seemed to have regained much of his composure, though there was a lingering weariness in his posture. He nodded curtly at you, a subtle acknowledgment of your efforts during the ambush, before walking off to debrief with the other officers.

You were about to head to the barracks when you heard a familiar voice call out, "Captain!" The voice was filled with concern, and you turned to see Second Lieutenant Jamie Collins striding toward you. Jamie had been one of the soldiers under your command in Afghanistan, a bright and capable young officer who had always looked up to you. His dark hair was slightly mussed, and his blue eyes were wide with worry as he approached, his steps quick and purposeful.

"Captain, are you okay?" Jamie asked, his voice laced with genuine concern as he came to a stop in front of you, his gaze sweeping over you, searching for any signs of injury.

You couldn’t help but soften at the sight of him, a mixture of warmth and sadness filling your chest. You managed a small smile, but it was tinged with melancholy as you gently corrected him. "Jamie, I’m not a captain anymore. And I’m certainly not your captain." Your voice was soft but firm, carrying the weight of the reality you had come to accept. "You shouldn’t call me that."

Jamie’s face fell slightly, a flicker of confusion and hurt passing over his features. "But... you’ll always be my captain," he said, his voice quieter now, almost as if he was trying to cling to the memory of who you had been.

You shook your head gently, your smile fading as you took a step closer to him, lowering your voice so only he could hear. "I appreciate that, Jamie, I really do. But I’m a private now. You’re the Second Lieutenant here. It’s you I should be saluting." There was a quiet insistence in your tone, a reminder of the chain of command that you both had to respect, no matter how much it pained you.

Jamie’s expression shifted to one of reluctance, his shoulders sagging slightly as he realized the truth in your words. He hesitated for a moment before giving you a small nod, the respect in his eyes clear as day. "Understood, Private," he said, though the formality of the title felt strange coming from him, and you could tell he didn’t like it.

As you exchanged these words, you noticed Frank Benson standing a short distance away, his gaze fixed on the two of you. His hazel eyes held a curious glint as he watched the interaction, the way Jamie had instinctively referred to you as “Captain,” and the way you had gently corrected him. Frank’s expression was inscrutable, but you could sense that he was piecing something together, trying to understand the depth of your connection with the younger officer.

Jamie glanced over his shoulder, realizing that Frank was watching. He straightened up quickly, giving you a small, almost apologetic smile before saluting you, the gesture crisp and respectful. You returned the salute, though the role reversal felt strange and uncomfortable.

"Take care of yourself, Jamie," you said quietly as he lowered his hand, the warmth in your voice genuine despite the formality.

"You too, Private," Jamie replied, the title still feeling foreign to him, but he gave you a nod of understanding before turning to leave.

As Jamie walked away, you could feel Frank’s gaze still on you, assessing, considering. When you finally turned to face him, his expression was thoughtful, though he said nothing. The moment stretched between you, the silence heavy with unspoken questions and newfound understanding. It was clear that Frank had witnessed something in your exchange with Jamie that had piqued his interest, something that didn’t quite fit with the picture he had formed of you.

But whatever conclusions he was drawing, he kept them to himself, his demeanor as guarded as ever. He gave you a curt nod, signaling that you were dismissed for the evening, before turning to head toward the officers’ quarters. As you watched him walk away, you couldn’t help but wonder what he was thinking, and whether today’s events had shifted his perception of you, even if only slightly.

As you made your way to your own quarters, the weight of the day’s events settled heavily on your shoulders. The road ahead was still uncertain, but for the first time since your demotion, you felt a small glimmer of hope—hope that maybe, just maybe, you could prove yourself once again, not just to Frank Benson, but to yourself.

In the days that followed the ambush, there was a noticeable shift in Frank Benson's demeanor toward you. While he remained tough, his usual edge of disdain had softened. He still held you to high standards, but there was now a mutual understanding, a silent acknowledgment of the life-or-death bond forged during the ambush. Frank's hazel eyes no longer bore into you with unyielding judgment; instead, there was a glimmer of respect, perhaps even curiosity, that hadn't been there before.

Frank, despite his outward stoicism, couldn't shake the incident from his mind. The way you had acted so decisively, so fearlessly, lingered with him. He had seen soldiers crumble under pressure, had seen them falter when it mattered most, but you—you had faced the danger head-on, saving both of your lives without a second thought. And yet, there was still a mystery surrounding you, a puzzle he couldn’t quite piece together.

Your files were frustratingly sparse on the details of your demotion. The official report mentioned insubordination, a blatant disregard for direct orders, and yet it also noted that you had acted to save a single life. The incongruity of the situation gnawed at Frank. Why would someone like you—a former captain who had proven herself under fire—make a decision that would cost her everything?

One afternoon, as you were engrossed in your latest task, Frank made a decision. He wanted answers, but he knew better than to ask you directly. Instead, he sent for Second Lieutenant Jamie Collins, the young officer he had seen interact with you the day you returned from the ambush. Jamie had been one of your comrades in Afghanistan, and Frank suspected that if anyone knew the full story, it would be him.

Jamie arrived promptly at Frank’s office, standing at attention as he awaited instructions. Frank motioned for him to sit, and as Jamie took his seat, Frank studied him closely. The young officer had a respectful demeanor, but there was a trace of something more—loyalty, perhaps, or even admiration—when he spoke of you.

"Second Lieutenant Collins," Frank began, his baritone voice steady, "I need to understand something about Private [Your Last Name]. Her file is incomplete, and I have reason to believe that you might have the information I need. What led to her demotion?"

Jamie hesitated, glancing at the door as if to make sure you wouldn’t walk in at any moment. Frank noticed the apprehension and gave him a reassuring nod. "You can speak freely here, Lieutenant. This is between us."

Jamie took a deep breath, clearly grappling with the weight of what he was about to say. When he finally spoke, his voice was steady but filled with a deep sense of respect. "Sir, I’m not sure what the file says, but I can tell you this: [Your Last Name] has always been the kind of leader who cares about every life under her command. She’s saved my life more times than I can count, and I’m not the only one."

Frank leaned back in his chair, his expression thoughtful as he listened. Jamie continued, his words pouring out as if he had been holding them in for far too long.

"In Afghanistan, she wasn’t just our captain—she was our protector. She didn’t just give orders from the safety of the command post; she was always on the front lines with us, putting herself in harm’s way to make sure we made it out alive. There were times when the rest of us were ready to give up, but she never did. She always found a way to keep us going."

Jamie paused, his blue eyes clouded with memories. "There were so many times she could have just followed orders, could have put the mission first, but she didn’t. Instead, she made sure the civilians in the villages we passed through were safe. I remember one time—we were supposed to clear out an area suspected of harboring insurgents. It was a high-risk mission, and we were under orders to proceed without delay. But as we were moving in, [Your Last Name] saw a group of children playing nearby, unaware of the danger."

Jamie’s voice softened as he recalled the event. "She didn’t hesitate. She broke formation and ran to get those kids to safety, even though it meant delaying the mission. The rest of us followed her lead, and by the time we secured the area, the insurgents had gotten away. Command wasn’t happy, of course. They blamed her for the failure, but none of us did. Those kids are alive today because of her."

Frank absorbed this information in silence, the pieces of the puzzle beginning to fall into place. Jamie’s account painted a picture of a soldier who valued human life above all else, even if it meant sacrificing her career.

"And it wasn’t just the locals she protected," Jamie added, his voice filled with admiration. "She took care of us too. There were times when food was scarce, and she’d give her rations to the younger soldiers, claiming she wasn’t hungry or that she’d already eaten. We all knew it was a lie, but she did it anyway. She’d go without so we wouldn’t have to."

Frank’s hazel eyes darkened with understanding. He had misjudged you, had seen your demotion as a sign of weakness, of failure. But now, he saw it for what it really was—a consequence of your unwavering commitment to protecting others, no matter the cost.

"She was disrespected by some," Jamie continued, a hint of bitterness in his voice. "Some of the other officers didn’t like taking orders from a woman, especially one who was so young. They questioned her decisions, undermined her authority. But we, the ones who served under her, we knew better. We saw her strength, her courage. She was a leader in every sense of the word, and we’d follow her anywhere."

Jamie fell silent, his words hanging in the air between him and Frank. Frank’s expression remained impassive, but inside, he was deeply moved. The picture Jamie painted was of a leader who had been willing to sacrifice her own career, her own well-being, for the sake of others. It was a rare quality, one that Frank now realized he had been blind to.

After a long pause, Frank finally spoke, his voice low and measured. "Thank you, Lieutenant Collins. You’ve given me a lot to think about."

Jamie nodded, sensing the weight of the conversation. He stood, saluted Frank, and then left the office without another word. Frank remained seated, staring at the door long after Jamie had gone, his mind racing.

He had been wrong about you. He had been so focused on your demotion, on the fact that you had disobeyed orders, that he had failed to see the bigger picture. You weren’t a failure—you were a soldier who had chosen the hard road, who had put the lives of others before her own career. And that, Frank realized, was something he deeply respected.

As the days passed, Frank’s attitude toward you continued to soften. He still held you to high standards, still pushed you to be your best, but there was now an underlying respect in his interactions with you. He began to involve you more in strategic discussions, seeking your input on matters that he would have previously handled alone. And though he never directly mentioned the conversation with Jamie, you could sense that something had shifted between you.

One evening, as you were leaving the office after a long day, Frank called you back.

"Private," he said, his tone less formal than usual, "I’ve been meaning to ask—about that day in Afghanistan, the one that led to your demotion. Do you regret your decision?"

You paused, caught off guard by the question. You had spent so long trying to forget that day, to push it to the back of your mind, that you hadn’t expected Frank to bring it up. But now that he had, you realized that you didn’t regret it—not for a moment.

"No, sir," you replied, your voice steady. "I don’t regret it. I did what I had to do."

Frank studied you for a moment, his hazel eyes searching yours. Then, with a slight nod, he simply said, "Good. You did the right thing."

It was a small acknowledgment, but it meant the world to you. For the first time since your demotion, you felt truly seen—not just as a soldier, but as a person who had made the difficult choice to save a life, even when it cost you everything.

As you walked out of the office, you felt a renewed sense of purpose. The road ahead was still uncertain, but with Frank Benson’s newfound respect and understanding, you knew you could face whatever challenges lay ahead. You had proven your worth once, and you would do it again, not just for yourself, but for the lives you had sworn to protect.

#alan rickman #alan rickman x reader #frank benson x reader #frank benson

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ddaz3d-and-cc0nfused · 3 months ago

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𝙋𝙍𝙊𝙇𝙊𝙂𝙐𝙀: 𝘉𝘈𝘊𝘒 𝘏𝘖𝘔𝘌

pairing: spencer reid x reader

summary: returning back home isn't entirely unwelcome, it's just the guilt and shame that is. things are tense between you and your mom, and you want nothing more than to fix it, but you have to fix yourself first.

word count: 2078

warnings: withdrawal symptoms, the reader is an alcoholic, cigarettes, addiction, allusions to reader's father being sick.

a/n: HII!! so i'm kind of nervous but also excited because i've never posted a series before! i have a loose idea of what i want to do with this story, so i'm riding with vibes right now! i hope you guys like this and let me know how you feel!!

masterlist | series masterlist | AO3

Your head hurts.

You’ve never been a particularly good flier, the jetlag you experience every time you land never fails to make you feel sick.

The terminal you stood in was loud, the large area booming with people since you had landed in the early afternoon. It was warm in Quantico, Virginia, and it was still the beginning of September. The skies were clear from what you could see through the glass roof, the clouds a welcoming softened contrast to the turmoil stirring within you.

You squint up at the sky through your sunglasses and your already bitten down nails find themselves trying to pick at the peeled skin of your cuticles, but your movements pause at the absent added weight of an engagement ring.

It’s like a punch to the gut, but you don’t have much time to think when you spot your mother standing off to the side near the entrance. You’d already been through baggage claim, your whole life amounted to two full suitcases. They were just clothes, everything you had back in New York belonged to him.

The nervousness after finally seeing your mother again made your throat close and nerves light up like wildfire. You felt that familiar itch of need under your skin, like you wish you could peel back the flesh and scratch at your bones.

You could settle for taking a deep breath.

You made your way towards her as she waved hesitantly; she looked older, the brightened coloring of her hair no longer shined its youthful color, instead, it was replaced by almost a full head of gray. It looked good on her, but you have a feeling she aged faster than she probably should have because of certain circumstances.

This was why you dreaded coming back here, back to Virginia, back home; you weren’t ready to face the guilt and grief that you had fought so desperately to try and run from. You felt completely out of your depth, like you didn’t deserve to come back after what you did.

It surprised you when your mother willingly answered your phone call – seeing though she hadn’t bothered to try and reach out to you even though your number was still the same – you were to blame for it though, there were only so many instances where someone can stand being ignored before they just give up all together.

“Mom.” You breathed out, the words feeling foreign on your tongue. You push your glasses up into your hair and you know you look like shit. You had called her and left right after it happened, so yesterday's running makeup still sat dried on your face. You tried to make yourself presentable during the flight, but there was only so much you could do with airline water and a tissue.

It wasn’t just the makeup, and you know it; it was the dark circles under your eyes due to basically years of shit sleep – and even days without it – bloodshot eyes and sunken features, on top of your tremoring figure due to withdrawal.

She gives you a once over, a quick, fleeting up and down look, but you can see it, the absolute devastation and concern written on her face.

“Hi.” Is all she says. “Is that it?” She gestures down to your suitcases. “Yep, that’s all of it.” Another look. “Okay.”

It’s awkward and tense and no one knows what to say. You sure as hell don’t, because if you open your mouth, you’re not sure what would come out. An apology? A snarky remark or an ugly comment? You’re a mix of emotions right now, and all you can focus on is the want for a cigarette and a drink.

It doesn’t take long to approach the car, and it’s the same shitty Kia Sedan that your dad had let you drive when you were just a teenager with a permit. You soften at the sight and your mom pops the trunk open with ease. She takes your suitcases from you, and you don’t stop her. When she gets fretful like this, you just have to let her do her thing and take care of you.

‘Even though I don’t deserve it’ you can’t help but think bitterly.

It still smells the same when you sit in the passenger seat of it, the faux leather seats still withered and chipping.

“So…” Your mom begins. You can see her grip on the steering wheel is tight, her posture tense as though she doesn’t know what to do now that you’re here. You can’t stand it. She used to be so confident, so self-assured. Maybe not everything stayed the same.

“How are you?” She questions meekly. “Tired and jetlagged.” You choose to indulge her. “Right.” She says, tone light. “How about you?” You ask, “How are things?” You know there’s so much she wants to say, but she doesn’t want to risk starting a fight, so she settles for, “I’ve been fine.”

“Right.” You reiterate, nodding while turning your head to stare out the window.

“Your first AA meeting is in a few days.”

Down to business, thank God. “Alright.”

“I really need you to stick to this, okay? We had an agreement.” The trust between the two of you is completely broken, and you have no idea how to fix it. There’s so much about her you need to relearn, half a decade of missed moments and memories that could’ve been made.

“Okay.”

“And you’ll call my therapist?”

“Yes mom.”

“I’m serious. I want you to try and put in an effort. I know things are hard right now, but I really want to help you, and I can’t if you won’t work with me. I refuse to let you turn into some couch surfing drunk that does nothing but self-destructs the whole day –”

“God, mom I said okay!” You snap.

It goes silent. Just great.

It’s mid-afternoon when you finally make it home.

That’s what really takes the cake.

The lawn is well kept, your mom most likely paying someone to come out here. Before you left, your mom’s arthritis had been getting worse, but she rarely cared about herself when your father was sick.

The porch was decorated with all sorts of plants either sitting or hanging off the railings, a different assortment of windchimes and crystal sun catchers scattered about the awning.

You take the initiative to get the suitcases out yourself as your mom starts for the front door. A sick sense of nostalgia settles over you. The street was still the same; your house was one in three within the little cul-de-sac, sidewalks still marred with childlike chalk drawings, lawns scattered about with chairs, bikes, and toys.

Your eyes fell on the house across from yours and that same itch found itself resurfacing.

When you got inside you could have thrown up; it felt like a weight was being placed on your chest, your heart aching as you took in the family photos on the walls. You knew you were shaking by now, your tremoring getting worse and sweat perspiring on your brow. You felt so bare without your protective vices.

“I’m gonna make lunch, okay? I’ll give you some time to set up.”

“That’d be great, thanks.” You say through your dry throat. She places a reassuring hand on your shoulder before giving it a squeeze.

You keep your gaze focused forward as you brace the hall to your old childhood bedroom, which was on the right at the end.

Opening the door, you take in what looks like a snapshot in history, the room so untouched that it was frozen in time.

The blankets on your bed were left askew like you had left them the night of your departure, your side table decorated with a box of tissues, your old sketchbook, and a cup of pens and pencils sat on top of it.

Your desk is still holding old textbooks and what not, but you had practically stripped the room clean when you left.

You abandon your suitcases to sit on your bed, and when you do, a small gust of dust flurries around you and you can’t help but laugh. It wasn’t that it was funny, but if you didn’t react in some sort of way, you would’ve cried.

You felt so emotionally unbalanced, and you blinked hard to rid yourself from the burning behind your eyelids. Just then, you remembered something.

Standing up, you make your way to your closet, opening the sketched doors to dig around for a shoe box, when you find it, you make a small ‘whoop!’ sound. It opened to reveal your old smoke stash. You were young and taking care of your dying father pushed you to pick up cigarettes.

You hid it as a courtesy to your mom, but you’re sure that now at the ripe age of twenty-seven, you don’t need to be that careful. You take out the old carton and it still has a whole role of filters left. Then you flicked the gear on the lighter and it lit up. Finally, a win.

“I’m gonna step out for a bit, okay?” You announce to your mom as you retreat down the hall. “Oh?” She says in surprise. “Where are you going?” You wave off her question. “Just gonna sit out on the porch for a second. Is that cool?”

You know your mom is worried about you, now that you are trying to get clean, she feels as though she has to keep an eye on you. You went completely cold turkey, the last drink you had was the day before you flew out.

“Yeah, yeah, that’s fine.” She rushes to say. “I’ll be back inside before the food’s done, okay?” You reassure her. You’re trying to get used to finding an old balance with her, because you missed her, more than anything. You want her to trust you again.

“Okay.”

You find yourself sitting in that familiar spot on the porch step, the same one you’d sit on when your dad couldn’t sleep and you’d find yourself out here in the middle of the night. Someone else used to sit with you too.

Your eyes flicker over to the house across the street while you light up the cigarette between your lips. The nicotine and tobacco helps to ease the itch in your veins and you sighed, blowing the air out with it.

There was another relationship you needed to fix.

You haven’t seen or talked to Spencer in years, but he was your best friend up until you left for New York with your then boyfriend. I mean… it’s not often you’d meet a twelve-year-old that goes to college. He was the exact opposite of the boy next door with his big nerdy glasses and meek demeanor, like he didn’t know how to carry himself.

You knew the bullying was bad, so you were his only friend.

You liked that he was smart, and he knew how to listen, you loved his mom, and you were there for Spencer when her schizophrenia started to get bad. Two hurt people that found themselves acting as a crutch to the other.

That same sickening feeling of guilt reappeared, and you took in another deep drag of smoke. You held it there, longer than you probably should have and when you released it, you were dizzy, and your throat burned uncomfortably.

Your blinks were slow, and you grew nauseous.

“Fuck.” You murmured, running the filter up and down the bottom of your shoe to put it out before flicking it away.

You hang your head between your legs and attempt to ground yourself.

“Hon?” Your mom calls out from behind the screen door. “Are you okay?” She rubs up and down your shoulders and you sniffle. “Yeah just…” You take a deep breath. “Just a little nauseous.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything because you’re a grown woman that could make her own decisions, but don’t make me take those things away too.”

You couldn’t help but laugh at her chiding.

“Yes, mother.” You say dryly but without any malice. It’s nice to be able to joke like this with her.

“Now, how about a sandwich? I bet it tastes better than those things.”

“Ham and cheese?” You question hopefully and finally lift your head. You’re greeted with her fond smile that makes her look younger. “Yes, baby. Ham and cheese.”

ೃ⁀➷ my lovely taglist!: @alina02 @louderfortheback @minervadashwood @their-love @fandomsarelifee @theendofthe70s @nomajdetective @mgg-theprettiestboy @phoenixblack89 @celtic-crossbow @hallecarey1 @bunnybabe-babydoll @dixonzzgirl @violettavirus @khxna

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makuyi13 · 6 months ago

Text

"The Least They Could Do" (Morpherine / Morph x Wolverine)

by @makuyi13

"The ways they could make him happy if they were Jean. But they weren’t. Logan was the man, the myth, the legend, and Morph was just Morph. And they were just friends.

And they hoped to God that was enough."

Author's Note: Alright guys I've gotten over an adequate amount of my fears and written a little one-shot after years and years of not being able to write fan-fiction! So anyways this is a really big step for me and I'm obviously very nervous, so please be nice. If I messed up on Morph's pronouns or grammar or spelling somehow, though, please do tell me so kindly. Anyways fellas enjoy I hope it's good :)

Oh I added some more edits, too. The ending is better now.

Edit: The hell have I been doing not posting this on AO3. Here you go fellas https://archiveofourown.org/works/57571678

Logan was upset. Again.

It was like the guy was sentenced to be upset for life. There was always something for him to be frustrated about. There would be a few days, weeks if he was lucky, when there wasn’t, and all was well. But then something would go wrong again.

This time it was about Jean.

Again.

She was to have a baby with Scott.

And of course Logan was upset about it.

Morph felt bad about it, being such good friends with Logan and all, and caring about him and his happiness so much, but there was a part of them that was glad that Jean was with Scott. They didn’t know why, and there was always a bit of them that didn’t want to find out. And even worse (Morph felt horrid about this), there was always that part of them that hoped Logan would never have Jean.

It made them feel evil, wishing that kind of misfortune upon somebody, especially their best friend. And being evil was a wretched thing, they knew, but they couldn’t help it. They couldn’t help it at all.

Smart people knew better than to bother Logan when he was upset. But the good thing was that Morph didn’t necessarily consider themself smart. So that was how they found themself opening the front door and stepping outside the mansion to go find Logan.

It happened to be cloudy. All murky skies and chill, although there wasn’t excess moisture or cold. Morph walked down the slight slope, hands behind their back, looking around. Logan was slumped in the distance, staring off. Morph jumped and started, almost running, but caught themselves just in time. As they stepped nearer, they suddenly became painfully aware that they had hands. They tried to drop them by their sides, but they seemed too stiff. Crossing their arms seemed weird and hostile. Keeping them behind their back just seemed awkward and unnatural.

They shook their head forcefully. What was wrong with them? That coffee Jubilee made them must have had something in it. Morph shoved their hands in the pockets of their sweater after whatever fumble just went on. Ignoring it all, Morph opened their mouth to say “hello”.

“What’s cookin’, good lookin’?”

Morph cringed. Of course what came out instead had to be something dumb. They felt their face burn and suddenly felt a strong desire to dig a hole and die. God Almighty, why would they say that? Just why? Why did they always have to try and fail to be funny?

Logan didn’t look their way, but grumbled something under his breath instead. He didn’t say anything else, and Morph took that as an invitation to sit down next to him. They brushed their long skirt, gathering it as they settled. They began to have second thoughts about this. Maybe Logan didn’t want to see them. Maybe they couldn’t really make Logan feel better. Maybe Logan didn’t care if they were there or not. After all, who were they? They were just a friend. They weren’t even Jean.

But… that didn’t really matter, did it? They didn’t need to be Jean to have the kind of time that they wanted to have with Logan. Did they?

Morph realised they were staring and studying Logan a little too closely. Running their eyes along his brow, down his temple, his mouth… Ugh, they thought to themself. That was really pathetic of them. Ripping their eyes away and trying to shift a little to seem a bit more animated, Morph heard Logan sigh next to them. As if he had been tensing his muscles the entire time he was out here and had relaxed them just now.

“You know you don’t have to follow me around when I ain’t feelin’ well, right, bub?” Logan finally spoke, his voice gruff yet slightly defeated.

“It’s the least I can do,” Morph shrugged.

And yet it kind of was the truth. There wasn’t really anything Morph could do to make Logan feel better but this. They thought all the time about all the things they could be. Thought about the sweet songs they would play for him if they were some kind of musician. The long, heart-warming letters they would write if they were some kind of writer. The ways they could make him happy if they were Jean. But they weren’t. Logan was everything; he was the man, the myth, the legend; and Morph was just Morph. And they were just friends.

And they hoped to God that was enough.

They blinked a few times. Keep it together. Clear the mind. But now they’ve realised that Logan’s shifted his body so that they’re sitting across from each other, facing each other, and now their mind’s a little too clear. Blank, even. And then Logan’s reaching for their leg and their heartbeat’s getting loud and fast, fast and loud, and then that thick, rough hand of his is touching the fabric that’s swimming around Morph’s legs, and all they can think of is damn, all they can hear is the heavy, rapid thump of their heart.

But all Logan does is touch the hem of the skirt and softly say in his tough, gravelly voice, “This looks good on you.”

And it suddenly means the world to Morph. Their heart squeezes tight and releases. He likes my skirt, he likes my skirt. They dare to look at his face. It's saddened, defeated, creased with age and worry and hardened with pain, and yet they can't find ugliness in it, because there's a sixteenth of a smile lingering on his chapped lips and an unbearably sincere look buried deep in his brown eyes, no matter how much Logan tries to hide it all and shove it under. And that's when Morph knows they would wear that skirt over and over just to see that kind of look in Logan's face again and again. A confusingly, maddeningly good kind of feeling is rushing through their veins, and Morph wants to push it away, tell it to leave them alone, but they can't. Because they do love that feeling, even if they don't know what it is.

"Thank you," Morph breathes, wishing they had more to say.

And then Logan avoids their eyes, turns his body away and it’s over. Morph could kick themself. But instead they silently swear not to say or do anything stupid while they’re with Logan. So they just sit. And so does Logan. Neither says a single word. Neither moves. It’s just Logan and the grey sky and the still air and the lawn and Logan and the silence and the sweater weather and Morph hoping with all their heart that Logan was feeling a little bit better at least. But then again, they didn’t really do much for him. They couldn’t really. All they could do was just come and be there and try their best not to fumble like an idiot (again). Even if Logan said they didn’t have to.

It was the least they could do.

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suzukiblu · 1 year ago

Note

i am literally for real obsessed with your timberkon pink kryptonite fic so i definitely would love to see another sneak peek, but i'm also loving all the superfam stuff you're putting out!!! something that i wish you would write because i love your works (and have since the darcy lewis stucky days) and i think you would do amazing things with the pairing is jaytim, but i know thats not everyones cup of tea

(i realize now that you were probably aiming for an ask rather than a reply so here it is in your inbox too hskdhsh)

Thank you! ❤️ And oh, asks and replies were both fine for this, no worries. I try to just specify in-post whenever I have a preference but it's not gonna bother me either way.

I DO like JayTim to read, but I've never really felt a particular bug to write it myself? At least not yet, anyway, that may one day change. Though I miiiiight still put Kon in the middle because I am who I am and all, haha.

I'm planning to update the pink K fic on AO3 tomorrow, though I'm pretty sure I've already posted enough of chapter two in excerpts on Tumblr to have posted basically all of it by now and I'm trying to avoid doing that with chapter three, sooooo instead please accept the beginning of this very niche Superfam omegaverse pack dynamics AU instead. I've been looking for an excuse to post this whole big long thing anyway, lol.

Read-more for length, 'cuz there's kind of a lot here, haha.

The representative from the wet nurse agency shows up fifteen minutes early with an unusual-seeming omega who can't be a day over nineteen, being generous. Bruce makes a note to look into the agency's hiring practices a little more closely. The current situation is something of an emergency, unfortunately, and he's only had time to run the intermediate-level background checks so far.

Maybe this isn't the prospective wet nurse, he halfheartedly hopes, and they're just another representative; one who's in training or just here as backup. The kid smells like milk, though, and also why the hell would the agency send out an omega representative? Omegas are typically secretaries and clerks and almost all do in-office jobs, where they're "protected" from the outside world.

The practice is stupid and demeaning and borderline abhorrent, but it's a step up from the days when an omega couldn't get any job that wasn't as a nanny or a sex worker or some fucked-up combination of the two. Clark being an actual reporter is something that was practically unheard of two lousy generations back, and even now Clark is still an unusual exception in his field. Typically, an omega writing for a newspaper would be doing gossip or advice or something domestic, not investigative journalism.

So no, there's no way that this particular omega is anything but a wet nurse candidate, unusual-seeming and concerningly young or not. And Bruce had insisted on the candidate coming to meet them in person, even when the agency had very unsubtly implied that it would be better to just have the milk delivered.

Bruce is absolutely looking into this agency's hiring practices. An omega this age should barely be presented. One who's already allegedly producing enough milk to be a viable wet nurse for what they're requesting . . .

It's concerning, yes.

"Master Bruce, the representative from the Waterton Agency and her associate," Alfred introduces politely, gesturing between Bruce and their guests. He doesn't look or smell disapproving, even in the mildest notes, but Bruce knows he is.

Of course he is, with an omega who might be being either abused or taken advantage of or outright trafficked in the manor.

Bruce should've run a better background check.

"Hello, Alpha Wayne. My name is Ellen Travers," the agency representative greets tightly as Bruce steps into the parlor. She's a harried-looking blonde beta with graying hair who looks very unhappy to be here and is doing a very bad job of hiding the nervous dissatisfaction in her scent.

She doesn't introduce the omega.

Bruce puts on his stupid "Brucie" grin and strides right up to Travers, sticking a hand out to shake. She puts on a weak attempt at a polite smile in return and takes it.

"Hello there, Beta Travers, thanks so much for coming out here on such short notice!" Bruce greets her with a lie of cheerfulness, but Travers continues to smell nervous and upset and her smile is no less forced. And the omega . . .

The kid smells downright sullen, which is not a typical scent to catch off an unfamiliar presented omega and doesn't do anything to make him seem any older.

And yes, he's definitely unusual. He's much taller than Travers–about Bruce's own height, in fact–and has a very broad build and a surprising amount of muscle on him on top of that. Bruce knows full-grown alphas who'd kill to be built like this kid. He's also much more "handsome" than "beautiful", and frankly couldn't look less like the kind of sweet and pretty little things the agency had advertised on their website if he tried, much less the soft and maternal type Bruce had been expecting to actually have show up, given the specific requests he'd made.

Well, it does make sense. Bruce obviously wasn't going to provide the agency with either a Kryptonian genetic profile or a Kryptonian pup's exact dietary needs in search of a suitable wet nurse, but the nutrient requests that they'd made would likely necessitate an omega of a similar build to Clark's to supply–hell, the kid even resembles him a bit, funnily enough. They've already had four agencies tell them that they simply didn't have an appropriate candidate on staff, and the milk samples they'd been able to provide hadn't proven very helpful.

Bruce has no idea how the Kents ever fed Clark, but Martha had at least had the advantage of having a pack bond with him. A packmate's milk always does miles better by a pup than a stranger's or any kind of formula ever could.

Though she'd had some very odd cravings while nursing him, she'd told them. And Clark had still grown up underfed, even with formula and yellow sunlight to supplement–the Fortress had observed marked evidence of childhood malnutrition in him, he'd said.

Occasionally Bruce wonders what a properly-nursed Kryptonian raised under a yellow sun from infancy would've actually turned out like.

The thought is . . . well. A thought.

A thought that still makes him leery of how Jon Kent might grow up, sometimes.

Those concerns aside, though, the really unusual thing about this omega isn't either his physique or his face. Bruce is perfectly used to omegas with "nontraditional" looks after knowing Clark and Diana this long, to say nothing of various other Justice League members or other superheroes and villains he's known, or of both raising and reuniting with Jason. But this omega isn't as demurely dressed as mild-mannered Clark Kent would be; he's wearing opaque sunglasses and an alpha-cut studded leather jacket and alpha-style jeans and an inconveniently inaccessible plain black T-shirt with no sign of a nursing bra underneath it, nothing soft or appealing in either his clothes or his posture. If anything, he looks aggressive; tense and guarded and ready to start some shit. Even Jason usually puts up a temporary illusion of traditional omega mannerisms when he's meeting strangers as a civilian, if only so he'll be underestimated. This kid isn't even pretending to make the attempt.

And the kid smells completely and undeniably stray, too. Bruce can't catch a single note of packscent coming off him. Not even the scent of whatever pup got him milked up enough to qualify for this job. Unbred omegas sometimes lactate in heat or when under stress or if someone in their pack either has or adopts a pup, but a stray who doesn't smell particularly distressed or anything like he's on his cycle shouldn't be producing any milk at all.

At least not without using the kind of stimulants that Bruce explicitly forbade when filling out the agency application, anyway. Those medications are necessary for some omegas, obviously, but in this situation . . .

Kryptonian pups don't respond well to getting anything like that in their milk, they've already very thoroughly learned.

The omega also has spiked stainless steel piercings in his ears, snake bites under his mouth, and two curved barbells in his left eyebrow. All his other jewelry is heavy alpha-styled rings and bracelets, and his nails are painted a chipped black. And he is, notably, not wearing any kind of collar or necklace, and his neck is completely unmarked.

Bruce is in no way oblivious to the obvious message that an uncollared and unbitten omega's neck presents when left so obviously bared. Especially on a stray one who's dressed like an alpha and standing like he's expecting a fight.

He cannot imagine why this kid is working as a wet nurse.

None of the theories that come to mind bode particularly well, though.

"This omega is our most fitting candidate for your needs, Alpha Wayne," Travers says, her smile turning increasingly forced. Bruce thinks he can safely translate that expression as that of a beta who did not in any way agree with that assessment but was stuck following orders. "She fulfills all of your nutritional requests, including the necessary iron content and the prioritized fats and proteins, and, of course, is not taking any manner of lactation-inducing stimulants or supplements."

"He," the omega corrects, sounding dubious. Travers's mouth tightens. Bruce knows a lot of old-school traditionalists who won't call a male omega "he" or a female alpha "she", no matter what said omega or alpha's preferences happen to be, and makes another note about looking into this agency more thoroughly.

Much more thoroughly.

"She isn't available for direct nursing, unfortunately, but her milk is a perfect match to your requests and she produces both excellently and reliably; her supply will be more than enough for your needs," Travers continues as if the omega hadn't spoken, and the omega's lip curls in obvious annoyance as he rolls his eyes with no attempt to hide his exasperation even in the presence of an unfamiliar alpha.

Bruce thinks of Jason with a brief pang, and pushes the thought aside. It's not the time.

Maybe he could've asked Jason for help with this, if he'd been a better father. A better alpha. A better . . .

But he wasn't, so now there's an annoyed stranger standing in his parlor instead of a content packmate curled up in their nest.

"Really?" he asks, tilting his head and blinking down at Travers with a deliberately surprised expression. "The consultant made it sound like you'd need multiple donors, for the amount we're asking."

If one goddamn barely-presented kid is actually producing enough milk to even half-feed a Kryptonian pup . . .

"This omega produces sufficient quantities for your needs, Alpha Wayne," Travers replies with another forced smile. She must know how ridiculous a statement that is, when she's talking about a stray kid and not a fully mature omega with at least a couple of litters under their belt who's well-established in a stable pack, but she says it with conviction all the same.

"Oh, good!" Bruce says brightly, because he's supposed to be a stupid knotheaded playboy who wouldn't know a damn thing about nursing either way. "That'll be convenient, then."

Frankly, he only wishes one omega could produce what they need right now, but requesting that much milk from one agency for just one pup would be immediately flagged as suspicious, and definitely turned down outright. They're still looking for other candidates under false names, but at the rate they're going, they're going to need to keep supplementing with formula, which already hasn't been going well.

If Clark could get milked up himself, this wouldn't be a problem, of course. A Kryptonian omega could easily produce more than enough for one Kryptonian pup, especially under a yellow sun. Clark nursed Jon without a problem for years and was actually overproducing when he was, Bruce knows very well.

Unfortunately, that's not an option anymore. Not since . . .

Clark would never forgive himself if something like that happened again.

Never.

And Kara and Karen are both alphas, and Jon's a beta and only ten anyway, and the only other living Kryptonians they know of are either remorseless criminals imprisoned in the Phantom Zone or the sickly little pup who's slowly wasting away upstairs.

Formula and concentrated yellow sunlight haven't been enough. Clark can't get milked up anymore. They haven't been able to synthesize any appropriate supplements either in the Fortress or in working with the Justice League or STAR Labs or even in collaborating between them.

And the pup is just getting weaker, and quieter, and sicker.

A human wet nurse probably won't even help that much, at this point, but . . .

Well, it's the best chance they have to keep the pup alive until they can synthesize something. Maybe the only chance, now.

"We strive to provide to our clients' convenience, Alpha Wayne," Travers says, and the omega rolls his eyes again. Bruce is less and less convinced of him being an adult in any way but the presentation of his pheromones.

It's rude to address an unfamiliar unpacked omega directly, especially as an alpha. Technically Travers is chaperoning them in a professional situation, though, and Bruce has increasing suspicions about this omega's personal standards so far as "manners" go anyway.

And everyone knows Brucie Wayne is stupid and shameless, of course.

So he flashes the kid a grin, and he says, "Well, it's great to meet you, we appreciate you making the trip! What's your name, Mr. . . .?"

The kid blinks at him, clearly surprised both to be spoken to and to be called "Mr." instead of "Miss" or "Ms." or even "Omega". Travers looks absolutely scandalized.

Bruce really doesn't approve of the kind of traditionalists who won't introduce an omega or use their stated pronouns, though, so fuck if he cares.

"Her name is Carly, Alpha Wayne!" Travers interjects quickly, her tone a little bit too bright to be genuine. "Short for Caroline."

"Just Carl," the kid corrects, shaking his head. Travers's mouth tightens again. It's not a very typical omega name, so no surprise.

It occurs to Bruce to wonder if Carl might be a trans alpha, which he probably should've thought to wonder as soon as he saw how he was dressed and got an impression of his personality. Obviously the kid's at least not currently on HRT if he's working as a wet nurse, but that doesn't rule out the possibility of him being transgender all the same.

Actually, affording gender-affirming care is definitely a reason that a kid like this one would be working this job, especially if said kid's family weren't supporting them. Wet nurses make more money than most other fields that omegas without a diploma can expect to get into, at least short of sex work, and Carl is very obviously too young to have graduated college yet.

Actually, Bruce still isn't even sure if he's old enough to have graduated high school yet.

He's going to burn down this whole damn agency if they're knowingly employing a minor as a wet nurse.

"Nice to meet you, Carl," he says easily. Carl's eyes narrow consideringly, and then he folds his arms and smirks, crooked and casual.

"Sure," he says. "Nice to meet you too, Wayne."

Travers looks agonized. The last non-alpha stranger who called Bruce "Wayne" instead of "Alpha Wayne" was a beta terrorist who was in the middle of kidnapping him, and he's not sure any omega who wasn't an active supervillain ever has, so he's not surprised by her reaction.

Carl is still watching him with the same cocky smirk, though, an obvious challenge in the expression and his posture both. Bruce puts another point towards the possibility of him being a trans alpha, though he's not stupid enough to actually ask if he is, especially not in front of someone the kid works under. Presentation aside, Carl might not be out, and Travers is currently at least professionally following traditional manners, so Bruce doesn't have much hope for this agency being all that progressive and doesn't want to accidentally get the kid fired.

Though if Carl is a minor, Bruce is going to have to see if he can't slip him a business card and find him another job. Especially if he's going to be burning down the agency he's working for.

"Why aren't you available for direct nursing, if you don't mind me asking?" he asks in a curious tone, because he still can't smell a pup on the kid and most wet nurses who aren't nursing their own pups do direct nursing, and he wants intel about the agency's typical practices. Carl shrugs.

"Stubborn tits," he replies, pushing his chest out as he gestures at himself with no apparent sense of shame or self-consciousness, and Travers looks increasingly agonized. Bruce is just increasingly missing Jason, himself. "Milk flows too slow and the pups always get all fussy and stress out about it. Which, whatever, pups are weird anyway, they're not really my thing."

"'Weird'?" Bruce repeats, carefully noting the lack of possessives in reference to any potentially dysphoria-triggering anatomy. Still not a confirmation, but another point. Carl shrugs again.

"I'm afraid Carly doesn't bond appropriately with pups, Alpha Wayne," Travers interjects quickly, and Carl scowls at her. "She has an unfortunate detachment disorder."

"I 'attach' fine," Carl grumbles sourly, jamming his hands into his jacket pockets. "I just don't like kids."

Travers grimaces. Bruce keeps pretending to be an oblivious idiot. He has met omegas who don't like children. They exist.

They're just all deeply, deeply traumatized people. Or clinically insane.

Or both, frequently.

So . . . "detachment disorder" seems likely, yes.

Bruce doesn't consider either sex or gender to be the end-all be-all of a person, of course, but there are certain biological imperatives that no one can deny as existing, and a lactating omega faced with a theoretical hungry pup–really, just about any omega faced with a theoretical hungry pup–is not ever going to say they "just" don't like kids. Usually the problem with omega wet nurses is them liking kids too much, in fact, and getting distressed or depressed when the parents wean the pups and they won't be seeing them again. The decent agencies have psychological support for that in place and typically offer paid leave between long-term clients. The Waterton Agency does up to a month, which is one of the reasons Bruce chose it.

So yes, Carl is almost definitely traumatized.

Though really, a wet nurse who won't be around much isn't the worst thing, considering. Neither Clark nor Jon started developing any especially noticeable powers until they were older, but they can't assume anything based off a sample size of two, especially when said sample size is made up of biological relatives. And even if they didn't have to worry about that, well, the manor is frequently full of vigilantes and the cave is right underneath it. There's a lot that a regular guest could notice, especially over however long they might need to be nursing. Especially because nursing is a quiet, out-of-the-way activity that takes a while, and it would be very easy for someone to forget to keep their voice down or to not do a damn quadruple-backflip off a chandelier at the wrong moment.

And there's a reason Clark and Lois brought this problem to the shadows of Gotham, as opposed to staying in bright and sunny Metropolis with it. They've got something to hide right now, and a lot to figure out.

Plus if even a molecule of kryptonite gets involved in this situation, even secondhand . . .

Power Girl and Supergirl and Steel are the ones taking shifts watching Metropolis right now, and everyone is just going to leave it at that. Superman isn't coming out for anything less than the apocalypse.

"Well, the Lane-Kents will probably want you to meet the kiddo either way, if you don’t mind," Bruce tells Carl, offering an easy shrug. "Peace of mind, you know how it is."

"Not really," Carl says. Bruce debates slipping the kid a psychiatrist's business card, but he'd probably take it as an insult.

"Er, yes, Alpha Wayne," Travers says awkwardly. "Actually, we were expecting Alpha Lane to be with you . . . ?"

"Lois is currently stuck in Metropolis traffic thanks to Metallo bashing up half of downtown this afternoon and Clark is upstairs getting the kiddo around. Little guy just woke up from his nap," Bruce replies with a pleasant smile, making another note of how Travers left off the omega member of the couple's last name, and also apparently doesn't expect to be meeting said omega at all. He is increasingly regretting choosing this agency, though he may yet manage to do some good in the world by subtly dismantling it. Or maybe just by buying it outright and doing a little restructuring.

Or a lot of restructuring.

"Wait, it's not your kid?" Carl asks, wrinkling his nose with a puzzled expression. Travers looks pained. The Waterton Agency isn't Gotham-based, so Bruce isn't sure why she apparently expects Carl to be up on the Wayne pack's current members, especially considering how she keeps talking over and outright ignoring him. Bruce has a hard time picturing her bothering to provide the information herself, at this point.

"Oh, no, just doing a favor for some visiting friends," he replies smoothly, still wearing the same pleasant smile. Which is a lie, of course, because actually the Lane-Kents are part of his secondary pack and "visiting friends" therefore in no way covers what they are to him. The Wayne pack is both his primary and his family pack, obviously, and the Justice League is a loosely-connected tertiary pack, but his secondary pack lacks both an official name and public recognition, because explaining to the public why Brucie Wayne's secondary pack is two award-winning reporters from Metropolis, a random museum curator in Gateway City, a decorated Navy SEAL, and occasionally a cat burglar with commitment issues is just not going to work out for anyone's secret identities.

And that even without counting how everyone knows about Lois Lane and Steve Trevor's respective very public connections to Superman and Wonder Woman, much less ever explaining anything about Selina. Bruce, meanwhile, still isn't sure how he ended up in a pack with any of these people. Clark and Diana definitely have a lot to answer for either way, though.

Mostly he blames Clark. Diana has more decorum. Clark is just . . . Clark, so now Bruce gets a scarf and cookies from Martha Kent every Christmas, never mind that he's technically Jewish, because God forbid he ever tells her that and she starts sending him Hanukkah presents instead. He cannot handle eight nights' worth of Martha Kent's colorfully-wrapped scarves and lovingly-packaged cookies. That's just not a thing he can do.

He doesn't even celebrate holidays, except when Dick cons him into it. Which admittedly he's been doing more often again the past few years, but–

This is off-topic, Bruce reminds himself, but then gets distracted as Carl cocks his head a little and frowns over something. Bruce instinctively wants to brace himself for trouble at the sight, because that frown actually very strongly reminds him of Clark's "what the hell weird and concerning thing did I just notice with my super-senses" frown, but A) Carl doesn't have super-senses and B) Bruce just heard the stairs creak, which means the actual Clark is finally on his way down to meet them. No one else in the manor would ever make the steps creak any way but deliberately except for Lois or Jon, and Jon is out on a walk with Damian and Titus while Lois is, again, currently stuck in Metropolis traffic. So: Clark, definitely.

Also Clark tends to make the stairs creak a lot louder than either Lois or Jon do, given the very notable size difference there.

"Has Alpha Lane authorized you to make decisions for his pup's care, Alpha Wayne?" Travers asks with another forced smile. Bruce is resolving to check specifically her background too, at this point.

"No, no, that won't be necessary, good ol' Clark's right here," he says, waving a hand dismissively. "It's his pup too, and he knows much more about ones this age than I do anyway."

"Yes, well, omegas tend to get a little . . . irrational about the idea of sharing their pups with a wet nurse," Travers says "politely", like she thinks she's stating a fact. Bruce would say something cheerful-sounding and subtly insulting back, typically, but Carl's frown is deepening and he looks a little bit . . . odd, maybe, or . . .

There's a strange little pup-call from the stairs, very quiet and echoing in unusual registers but still recognizably one all the same, and just as recognizably resigned-sounding. It's a pup-call that clearly expects to go unanswered, at this point, which is something that Bruce would like to never hear again in his life, given the option.

Though it's better than a pup who's given up on calling at all, he supposes.

He tries not to grimace at that thought, though he's sure Clark's grimacing enough for the both of them right now after hearing a call like that. The pup is starving, and they just can't feed him properly. At this point sending him back where he came from might be kinder.

Honestly, if Bruce didn't know exactly who his parents were, he might've already insisted on that.

It's just–

The pup calls again, even quieter. Travers looks perplexed.

"Er," she says. "I apologize, Alpha Wayne, but is the pup ill? We can't be around them if they are, it's against agency policy."

"Oh, the kiddo just sounds like that," Bruce replies dismissively, and then lies, "Vocal chord deformity, apparently. We're not sure what caused it, pediatrician thinks it's something genetic."

Well, it is genetic. Jon calls in exactly the same registers, and according to Martha and Jonathan so did Clark.

So it's genetic, yes. Just not a deformity.

Carl's expression looks–odd, still. Bruce isn't sure what to think of it, but it makes him a bit wary. A detachment disorder doesn't imply an actual negative reaction to the presence of a pup, obviously, but . . .

Clark steps into the parlor with Lor-Zod sitting on his hip, the pup no older than two or so and looking small and listless in his arms, his dark skin all washed out and his previously bright eyes gone dull and tired. When he first crash-landed in Metropolis in the rocket he'd been wrapped up inside, Clark said he'd popped out of it energetic and excited and clamoring for attention in toddler-level Kryptonian, but he's been slowly fading ever since, wasting away without the nutrients that they just can't provide him. He's probably only made it this long thanks to the sun.

Again, Bruce has no idea how the Kents ever fed Clark, though he was already at least three by the time they got him, which probably helped. A pup Lor's age is capable of eating solid food, obviously, but milk or formula is still a major part of a pup's diet until they're four or five, if not older, and the longer the better. Hell, most kids still at least semi-regularly nurse for as long as their dam can manage to stay milked up, or even until they present themselves. No one can wean a damn toddler and expect them to thrive.

Or even survive, in Lor's case.

Lor opens his mouth in another weak, resigned little pup-call, and Clark's own mouth tightens as he restrains himself from answering it and giving the pup false hope for milk he just doesn't have, and Bruce steels himself to–

Carl croons.

Travers startles. Bruce is . . . surprised, a bit. A detachment disorder doesn't really imply the kind of omega who'd croon at a pup they've never seen before in their life, after all.

It's an unusual and unpracticed croon, as if it's a sound Carl doesn't make very often, which Bruce supposes would make sense. Lor responds to it immediately, though, shifting weakly in Clark's arms and pup-calling again.

Carl, with absolutely no manners or decorum whatsoever, sweeps right past Travers and Bruce and Alfred and just plucks Lor straight out of Clark's arms. Which–forget the kid calling him "Wayne"; that's a damn etiquette breach. Hell, Clark probably only didn't take Carl's head off for snatching up his pup without permission because he's so clearly dumbfounded that he actually did it.

Bruce is slightly less dumbfounded due to having spent five seconds in the kid's presence, but still, what is he–

"Carly!" Travers chokes in horror. Carl very obviously doesn't even hear her and just starts purring at Lor and cuddling him close in a way that really doesn't even slightly imply "detachment disorder".

And then Bruce figures out what was "odd" about Carl's expression, before.

"Huh," he says, a little bemused. "Did he just go into feral drop?"

"Alpha Wayne, I assure you, this is not the Waterton Agency's standard of behavior!" Travers sputters, sounding even more horrified, and Clark just blinks and tilts his head.

"I think he did, yeah," he says, looking perplexed. Carl continues ignoring everyone in the room except for Lor and just purrs louder at him as they both nuzzle into each other. Lor makes more very distinctly Kryptonian pup-calls at him, and Carl croons back with no apparent concern over their strangeness, sounding absolutely goddamn enamored.

That is definitely not a detachment disorder, Bruce thinks. There is no possible way that an omega with a detachment disorder just went into full feral drop over a pup at first sight.

Or possibly first sound, he's realizing.

Bruce is perfectly aware that omegas can feral-bond with distressed pups whether they mean to or not, but he's never seen it happen this fast outside of a warzone or a natural disaster. He's heard hearsay and read studies about particularly compatible sets that have done it under less stressful circumstances, but distressed and starving pup or not, he wouldn't have even expected a human omega to be capable of bonding with a Kryptonian pup like that.

Or at all, frankly. Deliberately created and carefully cultivated pack bonds are one thing, but . . .

Lor chirps, the sound still a little quiet and fragile, a little weak, but also undeniably hopeful, and Carl gives him a low, rumbly purr in reply and yanks up his inconveniently-cut T-shirt to expose his chest with no trace of hesitation or modesty. He's already leaking sweetly-scented milk, already adjusting his grip on Lor to let the pup get at his chest as easily and comfortably as possible, and Lor latches without a moment's hesitation and immediately starts to nurse.

And then Lor purrs. Carl just watches him with undeniable adoration, still paying no attention whatsoever to anyone else in the room.

Alright, then, Bruce thinks carefully.

Well, that just happened.

"Thought you didn't like kids, Carl?" he inquires casually, putting on an easy grin, and Carl finally seems to come up enough to remember that the rest of them exist, though he still doesn't actually take his eyes off Lor.

"I would literally become a supervillain if this kid asked me to," he replies dreamily, keeping Lor cradled in one arm and tracing a finger down the pup's cheek with a soft, besotted expression that's unmistakable for what it is even with the sunglasses on. He looks like he might just burn down the world if someone tried to take Lor away from him right now, and his pheromones are so all-encompassing and so cloyingly sweet that Bruce genuinely might need to see a dentist after this.

"Well usually I'd say we keep Batman in the loop on that kind of thing around here, but if the kiddo asks, it only seems fair," he jokes with a laugh.

"I would drop-kick Batman off a roof for you," Carl informs Lor lovingly as he strokes his cheek again and then skims a fingertip along the little barely-visible scar splitting his eyebrow. Lor keeps purring sweetly and Alfred coughs to conceal a low chuckle. Clark looks a little pained to be watching one of his pups nurse from another omega so easily and eagerly, but his mouth quirks in amusement at the comment anyway. Bruce doesn't dignify any of them with a response, because he is an alpha with dignity and also is in no way threatened by a passing comment from a barely-presented kid who clearly isn't even combat-trained.

. . . although he also isn't going to be stupid enough to try coaxing Lor away from the omega he just feral-bonded with just yet either.

Then Tim walks by the doorway, takes one look at Carl with Lor, and trips over literally nothing and into a full faceplant on the foyer floor. Bruce pauses, then raises an eyebrow.

"Alright down there, Timmy?" he asks. Tim scrambles back to his feet, looking more genuinely mortified than he's ever seen him.

"Fine!" he blurts. "Fine. Everything's fine. All the things are fine. Uh. What? Who?"

"This is Carl," Bruce says, gesturing to the kid. "Wet nurse from the Waterton Agency. And his escort, Beta Travers. Carl, Beta Travers, this is my son, Tim Drake-Wayne. And also Clark Lane-Kent and his pup, Chris Lane-Kent, who I'm assuming you've figured out are your prospective clients."

"Yes, Alpha Wayne," Travers says with a grimace. "We gathered."

"Ngh," Tim says, looking at literally everything but Carl and Lor. His face is bright red, which is an unusual amount of embarrassment for him to be showing just over tripping. Typically he masks that kind of thing a lot more effectively. Bruce would almost think he was actually embarrassed by watching Carl feed Lor, but Tim's literally never been affected by anything but passing curiosity when seeing a pup nurse before, so that seems unlikely. And he's a male beta, if still an unpresented one, so it's not like he's got any reason to care all that much about it anyway.

So his reaction does seem a little odd, yes.

Hm.

"Chris," Carl coos adoringly down at Lor. Bruce is in no way stupid enough to think that he absorbed any of the rest of that introduction or has even noticed Tim's presence at all. He wouldn't even put money on him having noticed Clark's presence, in fact, except as a pup-delivery system. The kid is very clearly in love with the pup in his arms and doesn't give a damn about any of the rest of them at all.

Detachment disorder. Sure.

#bruce wayne #kon el #clark kent #chris kent #tim drake #superfamily #timkon #lowkey but it's there lol #omegaverse #not sfw #this-was-a-terrible-idea #rinfic #wip: the wet nurse omegaverse

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void-ink-studios · 1 year ago

Text

Wrath of the Wishmaster

You asked, you shall receive.

Thanks for helping me clear my writer's block. I might write more scenes that happened prior to this, but enjoy what's here for now! Might post to AO3 later, who knows?

Enjoy babes!

Word count: 2,500

There were many things Scarab did not understand about the Wishmaster, Prismo. Many… Many things.

Why did an all powerful being decide to spend its eternity making pickles and writing fan fiction of the universes he observed? Why, of all things to add to the featureless Time Cube, was there a hot tub?

And why, above all, did he tolerate all of Scarab's... strangeness?

Because no one liked bugs.

That was the lesson Scarab had learned in his eons of existence.

No one liked bugs. At least, not the kind of bug he was.

Of course, people like butterflies. They liked to watch the pretty and dainty little things as they flutter along. But only from a distance. People still recoiled if they got a good look at their face. Or anything that reminded them that they’re bugs, and not just living little splashes of color.

And Scarab was no butterfly.

He was a beetle. Was? Is? He wasn’t sure anymore. So much of himself had changed since he first emerged from his burrow.

And yet, there was Prismo, calling his little chirps and trills "cute." Encouraging him to find places in the Time Room to burrow and hide and crawl.

There was Prismo, who didn't recoil at the site of his real face. Who saw his strange mouth and eyes and decided to kiss it all over, rather than hide it behind his mask again.

So no, he did not understand many of how Prismo operated. But Scarab was not about to complain. He felt more alive in his own shell than he has in eons. He kept his mask off more often than on these days. His hidden arms had seen more exercise than ever before. He was starting to remember the strange language of chirps and trills and buzzes from his old home.

Of course, there were still bad days. Days where he had to sit still and stare at something stationary just to remember what direction was up. Days where he crawled away into one of his hidden nooks to tremble out of sight.

He had been reluctant to let Prismo in on those days, at first. He held up walls and scooted away and flinched enough to get the Wishmaster to back off for quite a while.

But, as he came back into contact with himself, and as Prismo called him beautiful and quirky, rather than disgusting and unsettling, the walls came down.

He wasn't ready to tell him what happened to his antenna and wings. But, Prismo was at least there to turn the screen wall to something calming. Or to rub his aching back and shoulders on days where he could do little else but shake.

It was... nice. He hesitated to call it wonderful, but it really was. Much better than a bug deserved, but he was not about to remind Prismo of that.

No, he had Orbo to do that for him.

He knew he had grown far too comfortable with Prismo when he heard the orb roll into the Time Room, loudly calling for his buddy the Wishmaster. Who was not currently there, but instead tending to his pickles for the moment. He trusted Scarab to watch the main room for any wishers, which he had been doing diligently from his perch on the ceiling.

Scarab froze, stuck to the ceiling like he was pinned there.

Maybe if I don't move, he won't notice I'm here.

It was a nice thought. But when had the universe been nice to him before?

"Uhm... Scarab? Mate? Whatcha doing up there? I thought we cleared up a while back that that creeped people out."

Scarab stayed silent as he crawled back down the wall. He ignored the way Orbo visibly shivered at his method of locomotion, standing at attention once his feet touched the floor.

He unconsciously made a nervous, light buzzing sound, his mouth parts clicking together as the orb stared at him like a disection project.

"So, what's all this then? You think just because Prismo's not here, you can do whatever you want? I thought we talked about this forever ago, Scrabs. You might be just a bug, but you got raised to the pantheon. You gotta act like it."

Orbo rolled to look around the Time Room. Scarab reached gingerly for the remote, trying to alert Prismo to their visitor.

"Seriously, I still feel bad enough for Prismo to get stuck looking at you when you were at your best. If he's stuck with you, it's the least you could do to not creep the guy out. That's not how you show appreciation, Scrabs."

Scarab tried to tune it out. He wasn't creepy, not to Prismo, Prismo called him beautiful, insect traits and all. Orbo swung around to look at him, now noticing his face.

"Where's your mask, man? No one wants to see the horror show your kind calls a mouth. It's bad enough when we have to watch you eat, you can at least put the rest of it away."

Scarab felt small. Tiny. Just like he did when he first met Orbo, who took one look at him, and decided he wasn't meant for the glittery Judgement Hall. He barely even noticed when he shuffled the plates back over his face.

"Much better. So, where's Prismo then? Not like I came all this way to talk to you, right?"

Orbo laughed. Scarab didn't. He just kept his eyes trained to the floor, still quietly chirping to steady his nerves. His world started to feel tilted. What he wouldn't do for his cane right now.

"Cut it with the noise, mate. It's like you've forgotten you're a god or something. You want to go back to the dirt? Is that it? I can talk to Boss for you, if that's what you want."

"...No. That won't be necessary."

"That's what I thought. Now, where in Glob's name- Oh, Prismo! Buddy, there you are!"

Scarab didn't look up to acknowledge the Wishmaster's presence. He felt so tiny. Just like a gross little bug pinned to the wall.

"...What are you doing here, Orbo?"

That made Scarab look up. Prismo's tone. All the warmth had been sucked out of his voice. There was an edge to it. One that the beetle had never heard before, not even during the whole Fionna and Cake disaster.

"Aw, mate, can't I just come check on my good buddy? It's been ages since your last party, man. Us at the office are just itching to groove again. We'd love to see you!"

Prismo's expression was unreadable. Scarab wasn't used to not being able to read the Wishmaster, he was usually an open book. The blue eye shifted between Orbo and Scarab subtly.

"Just haven't been in the partying mood, Orbo. I've been having some friends over for board games, I guess, but I'm not planning on a party any time soon."

The star core seemed to catch Prismo's shifting glance, turning his attention back to Scarab. The beetle stood ramrod straight. Partially to not draw attention to himself and partially to prevent his body from shaking on uncertain legs.

"Oh. Prismo, buddy, why didn't you say anything sooner?" Orbo rolled back over to Scarab, smirking.

"Say what sooner?"

"That this dude was killing the vibe in here! I mean, I totally get it, I wouldn't want a party either if that was lurking in my place somewhere."

Prismo's expression hardened.

"Scarab's not 'killing the vibe' Orbo. He's been nice to have around, he plays board games with me, Cos, and Death."

Orbo rolled his eyes.

"Prismo, you're cool. You don't have to keep it quiet for his sake. Just say the word and I'll find something else to do with him. It's not the first time he failed to learn a lesson."

"I'm not keeping anything quiet. I like having him around. He's actually pretty cool when he's got the space outside of work, and you're being, like, really uncool, Orbo."

Scarab was stunned. He'd been the only one to ever really talk back to Orbo. He'd never expect someone to do it on his behalf.

"What? Me, uncool? Pris, c'mon, mate. You're allowed to say he's creepy, we all know it. He's a bug. You know, those little creepy crawlies? I thought I trained most of the creepy stuff out of him by now. I know you're everybody's buddy, but you really need to make sure the lesson stays in his head if you don't want him weirding you out. Like, I came in here and he was on the ceiling! Looked like a ghost or something. And without his mask! I thought I made it clear his face is a horror show. Thank Glob I got him to put it back on before you had to see it, bud. It's a real doozy, I'll tell ya."

The beetle wasn't looking at Orbo anymore. No, he was watching the growing horror on Prismo's face. Horror not directed at him for once.

"Dude, Scarab's not that bad. A bit uptight when he's stressed, but still a pretty cool dude. Why should he have to hide so much? This is the Time Room, you're supposed to relax in here."

"Oh, Prismo, you sweet dream child. Scarab's not cool. He's not like us, you know?"

"Like us?"

"Buddy, you're the dream of one of the greatest living wizards in the multiverse! I'm the core of a collapsed magic star! That's where gods like us are supposed to come from! Scarab though? He's just a bug. A creepy crawly cockroach that somehow made it up from the dirt he's meant for."

"Didn't he manage to take down a galactic level threat that you couldn't catch?"

"He got lucky." Orbo looked annoyed. That usually ended well for no one. "Knew I should've finished his punishment before he came here..."

"I thought this was his punishment."

"Oh, no, I'm talking about his punishment for trying to start a revolt. Went over my head to the Boss! All over that nonsense with that unauthorized universe of yours. I was gonna take his legs. Maybe should've pulled out his other arms as well. I still can, if you wanted me to, mate."

The silence in the Time Room was deafening. Scarab has seen a lot of expressions on the Wishmaster's face. Contentment, sadness, boredom, amusement, joy, frustration, all of it.

But he had never seen rage. Not until now, anyway.

"What?"

Orbo seemed to completely miss the change in atmosphere, as he carried on just as before. "Oh yeah, it seems to be the only way he actually learns. Thought the antenna would be enough, but nooo, Mr. Buggy Bigshot still thought himself better. I really thought the thing with the wings would've gotten through to him, but I guess not."

The lights in the Time Room went out. Not even the stars from the void outside shed much light into the cube. Scarab never thought he'd miss the sickeningly bright yellow of the Time Cube, but he's permanently paint his shell its color if it would turn the lights back on.

"You. Did. WHAT?"

There was a guttural hiss coming from where Prismo once was. Blue what replaced by a bright purplish pink, staring down at Orbo and Scarab. A friendly smile was replaced with jagged teeth. Fingers replaced with claws. And a growl rumbled through the cube.

Scarab didn't think. Just acted. He opened himself a passage into the lower levels of the Time Room, scurrying in as fast as his legs could carry him. He could faintly hear Orbo yelling after him, but he ignored it completely. The adrenaline let him ignore the pain, ignore the feeling of constantly tipping over. All his instincts told him was run and hide.

He crammed himself into one of his many makeshift burrows, backing as far into the hole as possible.

Prismo was angry, he knew that much. Anger meant pain. Anger meant he'd lose another piece of himself. What would it be this time, he wondered.

It didn't matter he knew Prismo would never hurt him. It didn't matter he knew he probably couldn't be hurt like that while in this form. All he knew was to curl up and hide.

And so he did.

He shook, in fear and pain, and waited. For what, he wasn't sure. But he didn't dare come out of his cubby.

So he waited.

He didn't know how long it was until he felt the familiar tingle of light against his back. He flinched, a frightened trill falling unwillingly from his throat.

"...Scarab? Sweetheart, are you there?"

...At least he sounded like Prismo again...

"...Yes... Yes, I'm here."

"Good, good. I... I'm sorry you had to see me like that. I don't like what I am when I'm like that but... What Orbo was saying... Your wings..."

Scarab felt his elytra twitch under Prismo's touch. The ragged scraps of wings shivered as well, as the beetle sighed out a soft little chirp.

"...It is the way of things, Prismo... Orbo is not the only one with thoughts like that. It's what I've been taught for eons. No one likes bugs, after all."

There was a long silence after that. Prismo was looking at him with a sad calmness. He reached his other arm into the hole, petting a hand over the parts of his face he could reach under the mask. The bug shivered pitifully into the touch, trying and failing to resist the urge to lean into it.

"...You deserve better, Scrabby."

That's what did it. That's what broke the dam.

Scarab wept into Prismo's hand, shaking hard enough to make his carapace rattle.

"Shh... It's okay, honey... Can you come out here?"

It was slow. Almost painfully so. But he managed to peek his head out of his hiding spot. The Wishmaster gave him a kind smile, if not a sad one.

"Can you let me see you, beautiful?"

Scarab hesitated. Orbo's words echoed in his head, loudly, cruelly.

"...I'm not pleasant to look at, Prismo... Much less beautiful..."

"Nope. Not true, Scrabby. C'mon. Let me see that pretty face of yours."

"Prismo..."

"Please, Scarab?"

The beetle sighed. His face plates shivered again, tucking behind his head. His eyes stared, wide and wet at the Wishmaster. A soft kiss was planted on his forehead.

"There we go. Much better."

Scarab refused to start bawling again. Instead, he climbed the rest of the way out of his burrow to curl against Prismo's chest.

"You don't have to worry about Orbo anymore, by the way. He won't be coming back. Not for a few eons, at least."

Scarab didn't choose to question it. Not right now at least. Instead, he closed his eyes as Prismo's hand pet gently over his aching back, the beetle unconsciously opening up the elytra. The dream's hands were always careful when working around his sorry wings. They made the ache go away.

Scarab began chirping. Softly, at first. But it slowly grew, morphing into a simple, but filling cricket song. He heard Prismo softly join in with a light humming.

He might've been just a bug.

But it turns out at least one person likes bugs after all.

#prohibitedwish #scarab the god auditor #prismo the wishmaster #scarab x prismo #prohibitedwish fanfic #wrath of the wishmaster

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hbyrde36 · 10 months ago

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Times Like These

(The Anniversary Edition)

Link to anniversary post

Now with amazing FANART 😱

When Eddie finds himself back in his living room, staring down a very alive Chrissy Cunningham, after just having bled to death himself in the middle of a nightmare world, he was rightfully very, very fucking confused.

-Or-

What happens when the new guy, who only just got inducted into the fucked up world of monsters and mayhem, gets stuck in a time loop and finds himself responsible for saving everyone?

Chapter 1: The Hell Loop

WC: 2,902 | AO3 link

Eddie could hardly breathe past the blood that was flooding into his mouth, threatening to choke him before he even had the opportunity to bleed out. He tried to keep it together for Dustin’s sake. The last thing he wanted was for the kid to get hurt or have to see something like this, hence the cutting of the rope, but traumatized was a hell of a lot better than dead, so he couldn’t regret either of the choices he’d made.

“I love you, man.”

Eddie forced the words out, coughing and sputtering

“I love you too.” Dustin replied.

Eddie couldn’t see anymore, but the tears in the younger boy's voice were hard to miss.

It was the last thing he heard before he died.

Dying didn’t hurt, quite the opposite actually. Eddie could pinpoint the exact moment he passed on, because it was the same moment the pain stopped. He found himself floating away into an unfamiliar blackness and couldn’t even bring himself to be scared. He was too relieved at being free of the agony and guilt.

Before he could do much more than wonder where he was floating off to, a loud almost overwhelming rushing sound hit his ears. Instinctually, he tried to cover them to drown out the noise, only to realize he didn’t exactly have a body right now. No ears to cover, no hands to do it with.

With that frightening thought his eyes shot open, -oh thank fuck he had eyes again- and his feet hit solid ground. Inexplicably, he was back in the trailer. He looked up to find that the ceiling was intact, and Chrissy Cunningham– whole, and alive, was standing just a few feet in front of him, looking nervous and jittery.

“Are you sure you have it?”

What the actual fuck?

“Holy shit, Chrissy! You’re alive?!” Eddie gasped.

Her face twisted up in confusion, a feeling Eddie was also becoming intimately familiar with. What was this? Some life-flashing-before-your-eyes-on-the-way-to-the-grave bullshit? But he was already dead, he was sure of it, so that could only mean…

“Oh shit, I’m so sorry,” he blurted out.

Why he was apologizing to some visage of the past that probably wasn't even real, he did not know, but it felt appropriate.

She’d been through a lot.

“You’re probably not alive, actually, if you’re here. Since I'm, y’know– dead, and all.” He continued, letting out a frankly deranged sounding laugh as he began to pace around the room.

“But why are you here?” He mused, thinking out loud.

It could actually be her, he reasoned. She was dead too, right? But that would mean they wound up in the same place and that was absolutely ridiculous.

A sweet little thing like her?

Guaranteed one way ticket to the good place.

And Eddie?

Well, he never had any doubts about where he was going to end up.

The realization hit him like a Mack truck, stopping him in his tracks.

“Oh my god, I’m in Hell. This is Hell. I ran away. I ran– I didn’t even try to help you and then I fucking died!” Eddie let out a painful sob as he dropped to his knees on the floor, hands covering his face. Now that he was back here, having to face her again after what he’d done, It was all hitting him at once.

His voice shook as he continued rambling. “Right in front of Dustin too… and- and now this is my Hell. I’ll probably have to watch you die, over-and-over-and-over again.”

He felt the air shift, heard the light footsteps as Chrissy took a few hesitant steps towards him.

“Watch me die?” She said, voice cracking, sounding so, so small and scared. “Eddie, please… you’re kind of freaking me out.”

Shit, he really couldn’t stop fucking this up could he?

Even if Hell-Chrissy wasn’t real, he still felt horrible for scaring her. None of this was her fault. He rubbed at his face hard and took a deep calming breath before looking up at her again.

She wasn’t looking at him anymore though. She was rigid, staring straight ahead at something he couldn’t see, only the whites of her eyes visible as they rolled to the back of her head.

He jumped to his feet, every instinct in his body screaming at him to run, again, but fuck that. He was already dead, probably, and none of this was real– he was almost sure none of this was real, but maybe he could still try to help her.

Music had snapped Red out of it, maybe it would work for Chrissy too.

Eddie raced to his bedroom, snatching his Walkman off the bed before sprinting back to the living room. He knew it was pretty fucking unlikely that the head cheerleader of Hawkins High was a secret Metallica fan, but it was the best he could do under the circumstances.

He gently placed the headphones over her ears and pressed play, the volume loud enough that he could just make out the sound of the opening riff to Master of Puppets.

It didn’t work.

He hadn’t really thought it would.

He forced himself to watch as her body began to float.

Listened to the sickening snap as each of her arms and legs were twisted, and broken.

Stood frozen, a silent witness, unmoving until her body dropped to the floor like a ragdoll.

He didn't even scream.

He’d tried, and he hadn’t let her die alone. It was all he could do.

Hell or not, Eddie wasn’t keen on hanging out with a dead body if he could help it. So finally, he let himself go, grabbing his keys off the counter, and rushed out to the van.

–

Eddie drove slowly, aimlessly around town, at a bit of a loss for what to do next. It was a far cry from the way he’d peeled out of the trailer park and sped down the road on the night of Chrissy’s actual death, heart racing like a trapped rat desperately seeking shelter from a predator he couldn't even see. This time around he just felt numb.

Not knowing what else to do, he decided to follow his previous course of action. If he was right in assuming that he was being made to relive his greatest hits from the last 7 days, at least this way he knew he’d get to see Dustin’s face again. He drove towards Lover’s Lake, already dreading spending another night at Rick’s.

–

The morning after a sleepless night found him back in a boat, hiding under a tarp, and clutching tightly to the neck of a broken beer bottle. The numbness had faded hours ago, leaving the door open for anxiety and terror to return in full force. In short, Eddie was freaking out.

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed since he’d left Chrissy's body to grow cold on the living room floor, but the second he heard the voices outside the boathouse he went into panic mode, just as he had the first time, unsure of what or who might be coming for him.

Would it be more visions from the past? Or had the devil finally sent his minions to collect.

A few confusing moments, and a jab to the ribs with a fucking wooden oar later, Eddie was, for the second time in his life, throwing Steve Harrington violently against a wall and shoving a jagged edge of glass close enough to his throat that one deep breath would draw blood.

He stared into the other boy's eyes from inches away, and he wanted to drop the bottle. He remembered every single thing Steve and the others had done for him as he faced down the worst week of his life, but this could very well be Hell.

And that might not be the Steve he’d come to trust.

The one he’d come to know wasn’t the same stuck up asshole he remembered from high school, who had proven time and time again that he was a good guy.

And he couldn’t afford to be wrong.

“Eddie! Stop!” The thing that looked like Dustin shouted. “Eddie, it’s me, it's Dustin. This is Steve, he’s not gonna hurt you. Right, Steve?”

Eddie, wanting to believe it so badly, actually did lower the bottle a little, only to accidentally drop it to the ground, his only weapon shattering at his feet.

He fisted a hand into the front of Steve’s shirt.

“What are you doing here man, what do you want from me?”

Steve dropped the oar, all the breath whooshing out of him at once. “Dustin and Max wanted to find you. I’m just here to keep the little shits safe, I swear.”

Eddie caught movement out of the corner of his eye as Robin and Max began to approach from the side cautiously. Right, they had been there too, he'd almost forgotten.

“We just want to know what happened, Eddie. We wanna help,” Max said.

It was the earnestness in her voice that got him, that made him finally break and move away from Steve, allowing Robin to rush to his side.

“You won’t believe me,” Eddie said, barely recognizing the sound of his own voice with the way it trembled.

He was sure they wouldn't believe it. If it even mattered, if they were even really here, if any of this was even real.

He was still pretty convinced this was all just some form of divine punishment, and only happening in his own head, after all.

It wasn’t about what happened to Chrissy. He knew they would believe that, they had once already, but whatever else was going on here? This deja vu flashback thing or whatever it was? They had no reason to trust he was telling the truth about the fact that he was dead– or had died temporarily? Or that this had all happened to him before.

It was, admittedly, unbelievable.

So, he made a choice. He didn't tell them that part. He told the same story he had the first time around and they in turn told him a very short history of the Upside Down. It didn’t hit so hard this time, since he’d already heard it all once before, but it was still wild to think about everything this group had been through. He couldn’t believe it’d all been happening right under his nose.

Despite himself, he watched Steve through most of the explanations. Eddie had been so focused on his own experience at the time that he hadn’t paid much attention to him after the attempted throat slashing. He looked dejected, sad, already resigned to the fact that the monsters he’d been protecting these kids from for years now were back, again. Eddie sympathized.

The week flew by in a blur of blood, sweat, and tears, events unfolding in the exact same way that he remembered, and he never said a word about it to anyone.

He kept expecting it all to end somehow.

On the rare occasion that he fell asleep, he thought for sure he would wake up from this nightmare either back in his bed after having the longest most fucked up dream of his life, or somewhere– else, preferably on a fluffy cloud after having served his penance for petty crimes.

Unless god actually did hate the gays… then he was fucked.

It wasn’t until he and Dustin were alone, after fortifying the trailer and getting his guitar set up that he decided– maybe he’d been an idiot to just keep going along with the script like this. It’d been days without so much as a hint of fire and brimstone, so either he'd been sold a bill of goods his whole life about what Hell would be like, or, this was really happening.

Again.

At this point, neither possibility was a particularly good one. If he’d been somehow sent back in time and given a second chance, he had absolutely screwed it up.

Fuck it, he might as well tell Dustin now at least. See what happened.

“Alright, uh, listen, I have to tell you something– and I’m not sure you’re going to believe me but I swear I’m telling you the truth.”

Dustin laughed, bright and incredulous as he checked the plugs on the amp one last time. “After everything we’ve been through the past few days, and the shit I’ve seen over the last three years, do you really think there’s anything I wouldn’t believe?”

Ok, kid had a point.

Eddie took a deep breath and squared his shoulders.

Here goes nothing.

“I’ve been through this before, all of it, with you guys. For a while I thought I was in Hell, y’know? Doomed to relive Chrissy’s death over and over again, and between you and me I’m still not totally sure that isn’t the case, but then you guys found me in that damn boathouse just like before, and everything else has happened exactly like I remember, and I-”

His speech was cut short by Dustin screeching, “Are you serious right now?! You have to be fucking kidding me! I can’t believe you… you’re in a time loop and you didn’t say anything?!”

Eddie’s mouth dropped open, eyebrows raised up nearly to the bandana he had tied around his head. “Wait, you believe me?! Just like that?!”

Dustin put his hands on his hips, in a gesture that was eerily reminiscent of a certain babysitter that Eddie definitely hadn't developed the habit of staring at at every given opportunity.

Not the time!

“I wouldn’t say, just like that.” Dustin said, snapping his fingers. “If it was anyone outside of the party I would think they were crazy, but this is you we’re talking about. And like I said, after everything? This is not that hard to swallow. I mean, why would you make something like that–”

Dustin stopped abruptly, his entire demeanor changing on a dime as if he’d just discovered something awful. Belatedly, Eddie realized his mistake.

“Eddie, why would you think you were in Hell? Did you… “ The kid trailed off, and when he spoke next his voice was thick with unshed tears. “Do we lose? Did you…die?”

Eddie sighed heavily and ran a hand through his hair. “Shit, I didn’t think– I guess there’s no way to tell you I might be repeating time without admitting it. Yeah, I… died. As far as Vecna, I have no idea. I was gone before Steve, Robin, and Nancy got back.”

Before he could respond, the Walkie in Dustin’s hand came to life, with Robin’s voice crackling through the small speaker. “She’s in, move on to phase 3. Over.”

“Guess that’s it. Time’s up.” Eddie muttered.

Dustin bit his lip as he looked at Eddie, eyes questioning and full of fear.

Eddie shook his head, silently answering the unasked question. He didn’t want Dustin to tell them, or try and stop this. It was too late. He refused to risk the kid, or somehow make things worse by changing the plan this late in the game.

Dustin squeezed his eyes closed and pressed the button on the handset to reply, “Copy that, initiating phase three. Over.”

Eddie gave the kid his best reassuring smile as he pulled the guitar strap up over his head and with shaking hands began to play, knowing there was no time to waste.

Bleeding out wasn’t any more fun the second time around.

Eddie had given it his all, fighting tooth and nail against those flying leeches, but there was no use. There were hundreds of them, and only one of him. Just as he had the first time he took off on that bike to lead the bats away, he’d known the fate he was resigning himself to. The difference this time was, he actually had a sliver of hope.

If the impossible happened once, maybe it could happen again.

“Sorry, kid.” Eddie said, choking back blood as he watched Dustin limp towards him. “Didn’t notice the leg last time–“ He paused, panting, trying to catch his breath. Talking had already become difficult. “Shouldn’t have cut the rope, s’not like it stopped you.”

He forced a smile, trying so hard not to let it show on his face just how much pain he was in. Not that there was much point, the kid had eyes. He could surely see the red ruin Eddie’s body had become.

Dustin sobbed openly and it broke Eddie’s heart.

“God damnit, Eddie!” He shouted, shaking his head and pounding the ground with his fist. “Promise me if you get another shot at this that you’ll tell me. Tell me as soon as you possibly can about the time loop. Please! We have to come up with another plan.”

Eddie wanted nothing more than to be able to scoop the boy into his arms and comfort him, might have tried anyway but he couldn't move. “What if you don’t believe me?” He choked out.

“I'm adopted,” Dustin blurted out through his sniffles. “My mom only told me last year. No one else knows, not even Steve, but… I trust you, Eddie. I’d believe you without it, but if you need to, tell me that and I’ll believe you.”

Eddie nodded, or tried to, and felt Dustin’s hand slip into his.

“I love you, man”

“I love you too”

Chapter 2

Thanks to @penny00dreadful for being the best beta, friend and cheerleader.

Shoutout also to @theheadlessphilosopher @withacapitalp and @hitlikehammers for the help and encouragement to do this.

Tagging a few friends that expressed interest or I think might be interested? I am ALWAYS happy to tag or remove - just let me know!

Taglist: @hitlikehammers @pearynice @cranberrymoons @thoroughlycollected @blubblesandink @finntheehumaneater @brbsoulnomming @estrellami-1 @hellion-child @mentallyundone @manda-panda-monium @spicysix @kikidoesfanfic @dreamwatch

#steddie fanfic #time loop #pov eddie munson #stranger things #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #steve harrington/eddie munson #steve x eddie #steddie fic #fanfic #hbyrde's anniversary project

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tinfoil-jones · 19 days ago

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For Your Own Good: Intermission

Askbox? Open

If you don't know what this post is about, "For Your Own Good" or tagged as "Early Amnesia AU" on tumblr is a dialogue-only Gravity Falls fanfiction I've been working on that kinda-sorta follows a Mystery Trio -esque timeline, where Ford doesn't build the portal. To sum it up, the whole fanfiction boils down to:

Researcher Ford: I told you I never wanted to see you again.

Mullet Stan: Dude, I don't know who you are or WTF you're talking about right now, but I'm leaving this town and never coming back. You are never seeing me again after this. I'm probably going to forget you in like five minutes.

Researcher Ford:

Researcher Ford: *immediately kidnaps him*

You can consider chapters 1-10 to be Act 1 of the fanfic, and I’m taking a break for at least a week, most likely longer. The chapters so far were already written out in advance, and so was a huge reveal, but I still need to tie things together.

Here’s some authors notes/extra stuff about it, some of it might have already been put in the AO3 before or after notes. These are in no particular order:

This takes place 10 years after Ford and Stan were separated, currently they are both 27 about to be 28. Fiddleford is slightly older than them, being in his early 30s.

Ford is unironically the only person who finds Stan’s really dumb jokes funny.

Ford is the one who displays the most behaviours that would be seen from Mabel and Dipper decades later. Like Dipper, he views washing clothes as a waste of time, and like Mabel he ate an entire tube of toothpaste (granted, it was on accident)

While Ford is the more likely of the two to display traits that later present in Mabel and Dipper, it still happens with Stan as well. Stan has a similar nervous-chewing habit that Dipper displays in the OG series, but his only comes out when he’s particularly anxious. In this case, it was because he had nicotine cravings.

The 'That motherfucker is ugly' line that Stan used on Ford can be considered extra ironic because of how much the Stan Twins look like their dad.

Bill Cipher was originally supposed to speak in Times New Bastard (which is Times New Roman except every 7th letter is jarringly sans serif, a meme from tumblr), but AO3 and tumblr don’t let you change the font.

Stan goes out of his way to avoid using Ford and Fiddlefords given names- but this isn’t because he doesn’t know what they are. In the few times he has used their names, it was a sign that he was being sincere.

If you want to wonder whether or not Fiddleford likes Stan back, consider the fact that he could have walked away at any point, and either washed his hands of the whole thing, or just outright reported Stanford to the authorities.

Bill is more like Discord from MLP - he’s just chaotic, often to the detriment of others, but he isn’t outright malicious (anymore), and he’s too busy SIMPING to cause any real harm. Basically, Bill is Fords patron for studying weirdness - he helps Ford in his research, but the cost that Ford pays is that Bill is able to possess him when he sleeps, and has unlimited access to his brain.

If Ford knew Rick Sanchez, why didn’t Rick see how similar Stan looked and put 2-and-2 together? Easy; Rick didn’t give a single shit about Ford, so he never committed his face or name to memory. Ford himself only remembered Rick because Rick was such a massive, egotistical asshole. If anything, Rick would think Ford is the lesser version of Stan.

Chapter 10 was the first concrete proof that the Stan we’ve been following likely is Stanley Pines and not some similar conman named Stan Malone. The last time Ford saw Stan would have either been when they were teens, so other than Stans commercials for his failed products there’s no way Ford would know what an adult Stan would even look like, and he’d have to use himself as a reference.

Stan has given some insight on his Thalassophobia (fear of the ocean / large bodies of water). In Chapter 10, he told Ford a number of things he escaped, including the trunk of a sinking car, and cement shoes. Cement shoes are either when you tie someone to a cinder block and throw them into a body of water, or when you literally incase their feet in cement, wait for it to dry, and then toss them into a body of water, so they’ll drown. Presumably, these are still things that would have happened to him even if he didn't lose his memories, so why would it give him a fear of the ocean now? Stan Pines in the OG still had a lot of positive memories associated with the ocean - he grew up on the coast, and had a lot of his hopes and dreams tied to the ocean. But without his childhood memories, he has no positive associations with it, only memories of times he almost drowned.

Ford himself is not a touchy guy. The reason he hugs Stan even though it isn’t reciprocated is because from his perspective, this is his twin brother who is in pain and has been suffering all by himself for a long time. And Stan - at least how Ford remembers him - had a very touch-based love language. Fords doing it because he thinks it’d comfort him.

Stan seems pretty calm and chill for someone who’s been kidnapped by a ‘stranger’. This isn’t because he’s an overall chill guy because of amnesia, no he’s super pissed and the second he knows he’s free he will let them know that with his words, and incredible violence. He’s remaining calm because he’s been imprisoned and kidnapped enough times to know that pitching a fit or lashing out at his captors won’t do him any favours.

Fiddleford is still married to Emma-May and they do have Tate. But it's one of those lavender marriages (they're both gay and mutually bearding each other)

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demons-i-get · 3 months ago

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What's in a Name

Destiel fic let's gooooooooo I actually wrote this like, a year ago, but it's not my usual style and a little bit outside my comfort zone so I was never sure about posting it but here we are! I'm still nervous 😅 Let me know what you think! But also pls be gentle with me I am just a litol guy <3 Characters: Dean, Castiel Pairings: Dean/Castiel Warnings: vague sex? Like, it's happening but there's not really any details and it's definitely not explicit at all. Otherwise I can't think of anything else. Please don't hesitate to let me know if I should add anything, though! Word count: 1,324 Ao3 FFN

~ ~ ~

Castiel doesn’t understand human ‘pet names’ and ‘terms of endearment’ as well as he would like. He knows them, has heard them and parroted them and tried so hard to understand, but he just cannot grasp why.

He does not understand why he should call Dean anything other than his name, his name which means love and safety and protection and home and strength and power and all that Dean is to him and more. Why would some random word be more special, how could a word that millions of other, simple people use on their other, simple partners mean more than Dean, when that single syllable, those four little letters, are unique and singularly his own. When the sound of Dean rolling off his tongue is the sound of divinity.

But then.

Oh, but then.

Then Dean greats him in the morning as he stumbles into the bunker’s kitchen with a cup of coffee prepared just the way he likes it still warm and fresh and steaming as he wraps his fingers around it with a soft, “Good morning, sunshine,” as he places a gentle, almost reverent kiss on Castiel’s forehead.

And Castiel feels his chest go warm and soft and okay, maybe he can understand it a little better now.

Then Castiel gets hurt on a hunt and Dean is right there beside him, putting pressure on the wound and getting Castiel’s blood all over his hands and shirt but his eyes are wide, and his voice is shaky and terrified as he says, “Hey, hey, Cas, c’mon, stay with me, you gotta stay with me, babe,” and presses their foreheads together and he is begging with Castiel to hold on just a little longer because help is on the way “you just need to hold on a little longer for me, angel, you can’t go to sleep yet, just a little longer.”

And when Castiel wakes up in a hospital bed minutes or hours or days later with Dean’s voice calling him “babe” and “angel” still ringing in his ears and he cannot feel the pain of his wounds because he is filled too much with the warmth and softness and love from Dean’s words to know the feel of anything else, he thinks maybe he does get it now, maybe he is beginning to understand why when Dean says those words with such softness and love and adoration.

Then Dean is hurt and Castiel is panicking because he doesn’t have his Grace anymore, he is painfully, pitifully, uselessly human and he doesn’t know what to do but Dean is holding his hand and making their eyes meet and he is comforting and reassuring Castiel which is wrong, it is wrong because Dean is the one that is hurt and Castiel should be comforting and reassuring him, but Dean is squeezing his hand and saying, “hey, I’m alright, darlin’, it isn't much more than a scratch,” and he’s pressing a kiss to Castiel’s cheek and showing him, “look, it’s already pretty much stopped bleeding, darlin’, I've had much worse than this and come out the other side no worse for wear, yeah?” and Castiel thinks that he is burning bleeding breaking because Dean is hurt and he is bleeding but he is also right and Castiel knows this but he is still freaking out because Dean is hurt and he cannot heal him.

And later, as Castiel runs his hands along the bandage he had wrapped so carefully around Dean’s chest to cover the jagged slash across his breast and ribs that he knows will scar, as he lays there with Dean’s head tucked into the crook of his neck and their legs tangled together within the sheets and wishes wishes wishes that he still had his Grace, he remembers how even bleeding and in pain Dean had called him “darlin’,” had said that word with such gentle, loving reassurance and how just hearing that word fall from Dean’s lips had calmed his racing heart, and he knows why, now, he has to because it cannot feel better than this, cannot possibly mean more than this, here, now.

(Castiel has always spoken Dean’s name like a prayer, has always greeted him with, “Hello, Dean,” like worship, has always known their bond as something sacred and holy and sublime. Castiel is devoted to humanity and Dean is the alter at which he kneels because Dean Winchester is everything good and right and divine about humanity.)

(Castiel is a Fallen Angel of the Lord, but he did not care and he did not regret a single action he had taken nor choice he had made that got him here because he knew what it was to feel true, human love for someone and what it was to be loved truly, deeply, selflessly in return.)

(Castiel was kissing Dean, trailing his fingers along Dean’s scars, tracing constellations between the freckles scattered across Dean’s body like stardust. He was drinking in the color of Dean’s eyes, olive and emerald and gold and amber like sunlight filtering through the trees to dance along the forest floor, like light refracting through a glass of Dean’s favorite aged whiskey, like starlight casting shadows through a stained-glass window. Castiel would kiss and worship and pray and love until Dean could no longer doubt his devotion, until Castiel had wrung every last drop of self-loathing from his body and convinced Dean that he was worthy of being saved, he was worthy of being loved, he was worthy of living, until Dean believed that he did not have to earn their love.)

(Castiel would praise and worship and prostrate himself on the ground at Dean’s feet until Dean no longer thought himself expendable, no longer thought himself nothing more than another obstacle to be placed between his loved ones and anything that wished them harm, no longer thought himself something to be used up and broken down and thrown away with disgust like one might discard rancid meat.)

Then Castiel was unraveling Dean, slowly, carefully, one gorgeous, gossamer thread at a time with his hands and his mouth and Dean was writhing beneath him, rendered breathless by his steady ministrations and Dean was breathing his name like a prayer, gasping it into Castiel’s shoulder like a plea, letting it tumble from his lips like a hymn as he cries out and trembles and comes completely undone and Castiel is kissing bruises into Dean’s skin, marking his flesh and drowning in the taste of him and Castiel is lost in Dean’s ecstasy, he is flying with wings built from all of Dean’s sinful noises and loving touches and then he is nipping Dean’s ear and whispering, “my beloved, my righteous man, ol monons, ozien, obza,” slipping into Enochian, calling and claiming and consoling Dean all at the same time (my heart, mine own, my other half).

And then, oh and then, Castiel finally knew why, finally understood, as he and Dean lay tangled together, warm and full and sated, as Dean turns to him and asks what the Enochian means and Castiel explains, as Dean’s face melts like sugar on Castiel’s tongue into a soft, warm look of such utter love and adoration and tenderness that Castiel forgets how to breathe, as Dean watches him with those honey-whiskey-sage-pine irises still lit from within by an all-encompassing bliss, as Dean’s eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles and dimples appear at the corners of his kiss-swollen lips and this, Castiel knows, is why, now he understands because it is all about the way Dean looks at him so lovingly, so trustingly, so bashfully at hearing that he is something Castiel treasures and loves and adores and Castiel will spend the rest of their lives branding that look on Dean’s face into his mind just as he burns the words into Dean’s skin with every kiss and bite and breath they ever share.

#dean writes #supernatural #dean winchester #castiel #destiel #spn #im so normal about them #im so fucking normal about them can you tell #(i am a lying liar who lies i am in no way shape or form normal about them)

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brotherwtf · 3 months ago

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... anyway Buck and Bucky are getting married rn

it's always been you on AO3

(read below the cut for the full fic, too)

The John and Gale wedding fic

gonna take this post to also just send a virtual hug to the entire mota fandom and all of it's contributors. You all are some of the kindest and sweetest and most creative people I have had the privilege of posting alongside of. can't wait to see what the future holds for us, never stop creating!

The first thing Jess and El did when they saw Gale was give him the biggest hug he had ever received. It felt akin to coming home, like being enveloped in a warm blanket that smelled like charcoal and something sweet. They didn't talk, which was odd for an Egan, but they did smile the smiles that always warmed Gale's heart.

He helped them bring in their bags and directed them to the guest room, apologized for the mess, and allowed them to get settled. When he returned to the living room, Marge sat on the couch.

"How are you feeling, Gale?" Marge asks when Gale sits next to her on the couch.

Gale sighs, doesn't quite know how to put it in words. He's vibrating with excitement but also feels a pit of dread in his stomach. John's not home right now, he's going to pick up their dress greens, and Gale worries he might say something stupid if he was here right now.

The thing is, Gale and John were getting married that evening. It wasn't going to be anything official, couldn't be anything, but John had "proposed" to Gale about a month ago. It wasn't anything grandiose, the off-handed mention that John's mother gave him the ring. Told him to "use it when he knew it was right", and John knew that Gale was right. It made Gale's heart swell, the idea of being bonded with John forever through something more than words.

Gale was still experiencing the nerves of writing to Marge and John's sisters and still felt afraid to show this vulnerable side of John to his past lover, but Marge only smiled sweetly at him when she arrived. She brought Peggy, the girl she had been living with as Gale lived with John since the war.

"Just nerves is all. Feel like I'm flying again," Gale mutters and Marge chuckles, the sound akin to windchimes in the summer breeze.

She extends a perfectly manicured hand, gripping Gale’s hand in her own. Before the war, Gale might have flushed at the touch, had been so overwhelmed with the feeling of Marge touching him. Now the feeling is just a ghost compared to the nerves he’s feeling in his stomach now.

“Well, you shouldn’t be nervous. You’re surrounded by all of the people who love you the most in your life. Hell, I think John’s sisters are giving me a run for my money by how affectionate they can be towards you,” Marge says and Gale chuckles wryly.

She gives his hand another squeeze and cranes her head to look at John’s sisters who have plopped down on the other side of Gale. They’re smiling as bright as ever, the exact same one that John gives him when they wake in bed together.

“Marge having to talk you down from the ledge? Having second thoughts about marrying our Bucky?” Jess asks, extending a hand for him to squeeze as well.

When John had told Gale he wanted to bring his sisters to this little ceremony, Gale was hesitant. He was afraid that even with how much he trusted Jess and El, they would still look down at them for being “unnatural”, for being queer. He never could have seen El with a scowl on her face, nor Jess with the look of disgust, but he was still afraid they wouldn’t accept him as John’s lover. Even now as he watches El fuss in her purse for the ring she brought from her mother’s, he feels that same guilt.

Marge can no doubt see the expression on his face, so she presses a kiss on his cheek before leaving the living room. Gale turns towards Jess and El, who give him a fond expression as they take his hands.

“El, why don’t you take Gale outside, feels a little stuffy in here,” Jess prompts and El nods.

Jess leaves the room, mutters something about needing to get ready, and El brings Gale into the backyard. Gale can see the flowers he planted for John, can see the small part of land where the ceremony is going to happen, and feels a wave of nervousness flood over him again. It’s hidden from the road, Gale made sure of it when they even hinted at doing something like this, but Gale still felt a fear deep in his gut that won’t quite leave. Like a part of the war never left him.

He turns back to El, gives her a fond smile and brings her in for another hug. She hugs him tight, every Egan child does, something that must have gotten beaten into them since youth. It grounds him now, makes him feel like he’s on solid ground instead of falling thousands of feet through the air. Gale smiles fondly when El squeezes his shoulders gently, smiling a crinkly smile that Gale has seen a million times.

It’s alarming how similar El and John look. They were twins, Gale knew that, but the way their hair curled over their forehead and their lips broke into a smile were exact mirrors of each other. It helped to soothe the fire in Gale’s heart, felt like he was talking to John but not at the same time.

“Do you ever resent me for it? Could have been one of you guys who got this ring. Now it’s just me,” Gale mutters and if looks could kill, Gale would be on the floor with the one El gave him.

“Gale Cleven, by god if you weren’t getting married today I would knock you on your ass for saying such things about yourself,” El says, pointing a stern finger in his face.

Gale chuckles, raising his hands in surrender so El wouldn’t hit him. She was shorter than him by a couple of inches, but Gale knew she could probably clobber him if she really wanted to.

“I don’t know if John ever told you, or if you figured it out on your own, but I’m like you. I’m like Marge, and I gotta say I wish you introduced me to her sooner, by god she is an angel,” El says, lightheartedly shoving Gale’s shoulder. Gale shakes his head, smiling something that crinkles his eyes and hurts his cheeks.

“Jess never had any interest in getting married. She moves around too much to settle down, would find marriage too boring. So Ma didn’t give her the ring because she didn’t want it. And I ain’t planning on settling down either. Haven’t found the right gal for me. But you, Gale, you’re the right fella for John. I think Ma could sense it when you visited last year. She may be a little old yet, but she understands so much more than any of us ever will,” El says and squeezes Gale’s shoulder again.

It comforts Gale, having El here alongside them. He felt so lonely when he and John had started living together, felt he couldn’t express how he truly felt about John to anyone but John himself. Marge hadn’t mentioned how she was seeing Peggy when he decided to break it off with her, mentioned her offhandedly in a couple of her letters, but Gale only truly learned about their relationship when Marge wrote back to John’s inquiry about a visit for a “special occasion”. At least he has her and El to talk about his nerves, about his bursting feelings for John that he can’t express to anyone else.

“That’s mighty kind of you, El. I’m glad you’re here,” Gale says, clasping her hands in his and squeezing them.

There’s the telltale sound of John’s rusty pickup entering their driveway and Gale can’t help the smile that spreads across his face at it. El smiles something knowingly at him before shoving him back towards the house.

“See? You’re perfectly fine, now go get ready we’re losing daylight,”

When Gale crosses the threshold, Marge practically shoves him into the powder room, squawking something at Jess further inside the house.

“You can’t let him see! Just give me the uniform I’ll get him ready!” Marge shouts with a giggle and Gale gives her a confused look.

She grabs the hanger from Jess outside of the door and promptly closes the door, smiling impishly at him.

“Keeping secrets from me now? Come on, we’re adults,” Gale mutters, but Marge only shakes her head.

She pantomimes zipping her lips shut and forces Gale to take off his shirt and put on the uniform.

Marge was a natural at helping Gale get dressed up in his dress uniform, had helped him in the bathroom more than once to fix his hair and epaulets so they looked perfect. It was the same principle now, but Gale couldn’t stop thinking about how different it was yet.

She smoothes out the lapels of his jacket, adjusts his wings on his breast pocket, and smiles kindly down at him. She lets him fuss with his hair in the mirror, shaving one last time so his face feels smooth when he runs his hand over it. The man in the mirror looks younger than Gale feels, almost reminds him of the man who jumped behind the yoke of a bomber with gusto when there was a war to be fought. That man still lives inside him, somewhere, and maybe he’s peeking out right now. There’s all sorts of emotions running through him right now. Will this “ceremony” be worth it? Will those eyebags ever truly go away? Will John fill out his uniform nicer than he does now? Will he ever not be haunted by ghosts and memories?

Marge must be able to hear his thoughts because she grabs his cheek, tilting his head towards her in an awful mimic of the night before John shipped out. She gives him a smile, a kiss on the cheek and laughs silently at the expression that must color Gale’s face.

“Oh come on, Gale. You’re gonna be just fine. You just gotta focus on Bucky, that son of a gun is gonna explode when he sees you like this. By god, it’s making my heart hurt a little just looking at you now,” Marge says and Gale can see the glassiness in her eyes.

She pulls him in for a hug and Gale hugs her back like she’s a tether back to the earth. He’s falling again, but Marge is acting as his parachute for now.

“I’m glad you’re able to do this, Gale. I’m glad you’re happy with John. Fuck, I’m so glad you’re okay, you’re alive, fuck you’re alive,” Marge says and her voice is shaky and wet.

Gale clenches his arms around her further, letting her sob into his shoulder. She pulls away and laughs at the state of herself in the mirror, wiping some of the mascara that has streamed down her face away with her fingers.

“God, I’m sorry Gale. I’m just so fucking happy for you, you’re getting married,” Marge whispers and Gale smiles down at her.

She takes his hand and wipes the tear marks from her eyes, opening the door and yelling to see if the coast is clear. She leads him out into the backyard where Gale and El were standing earlier, and Gale feels his face break into a smile when he sees John and his sisters talking animatedly with their hands. It comforts him to know that John doesn’t look as nervous as Gale feels. As they approach Jess gasps, going silent and pressing a hand to her lips. Gale chuckles. He knows how emotional she gets, the drop of a hat could make her well up.

Gale kisses Marge on the cheek one last time before she stands next to Peggy, perfectly dolled up as always.

And he’s standing in front of John again, feeling like he’s in flight school or being shipped to London, a wave of emotion hitting him like a ton of bricks.

It looks like no time has passed since the night John was being shipped out. He looks the same as he did back then, youthful like no war interrupted their lives and shook them around. He filled out his dress greens the same as he did back then, broad shoulders and stocky frame still as strong as ever. Gale smirks at him, taking John’s hand and bringing it up for a brief kiss.

“So this is it,” John says.

“This is it,” Gale says, smiling sweetly at John’s steely blue eyes.

They didn’t rehearse anything, didn’t want anything to feel forced, and they can’t help but stifle their chuckles when they both open their mouths to speak at the same time. Jess stifles something like a sob into her arm when Gale starts to speak.

“John, Bucky, christ it’s been so damn long since you gave me that name. But we’ve been through so much since that together, Buck and Bucky. And every time I wanted to give up, to let the sky swallow me up, you pulled me up by the shoulders. Told me it was going to be alright, we were going to get through it. Those years would have been so much rougher without you by my side through all of it, John. By god, even on the coldest days or the toughest missions, I stayed alive just to see your smile when I landed, to hear your laugh when you would call me ‘Buck’. It’s you I gotta thank for my being here today,” Gale says, and turns toward Marge at those last words.

She’s weeping into her handkerchief, something quiet and muted while Jess is crying into El’s shoulder and he chuckles, turning back to John.

He smiles something fond, that same warmth filling his eyes as he puts a hand on Gale’s shoulder, the other on his waist so he can pull him gently closer. Gale smiles, pressing a hand to John’s lapel to feel the faint heartbeat underneath it.

“Fuck, Gale. I don’t know what I would do without you. You know, I gave you my name because I was so damn infatuated with you I wanted you to be reminded of me every time someone called for you. It didn’t help when you helped me so much during flight school, helped me tie my shoes and everything,” John says and Gale can’t help but chuckle at the memories.

“I was shaken to my damn core every time you went up in those fucking birds, couldn’t stand the thought of losing you. And when I thought I lost you, when I thought you were taken from me, by god I couldn’t have been happier to see you in that damn Stalag. It was one of the happiest moments of my life. Second to this, of course,”

Gale smiles, wants to lean into John’s chest and listen to him speak, feel the rumble of his voice underneath his chest, but just keeps his hand on John’s heartbeat to center himself.

“I love you, John,” Gale whispers.

“I love you too, Gale,” John whispers back, sneaking his fingers into his breast pocket and pulling out his mother’s ring and a small, grimy piece of paper.

It’s the damn lucky deuce John had forced onto Gale, the one that Gale kept in his trunk until John came back safely from the Stalag, the very one he pressed his lips to at night and whispered how much he wanted John to come back.

“You son of a bitch. How did you find this? Thought I lost it,” Gale says, taking the note between his fingers and flipping it over.

“Dry cleaner found it in your pocket before she washed it. Saved it for you, doll,” John says, closing his hands around Gale’s hands.

The note crinkles under his hands and Gale can’t help the rush of emotion that swells over him. He looks up at John again. There are tears behind his eyes, but they won’t break over his eyelids. It’s been years since he’s been able to cry.

But here, in front of John, he might just allow his emotions to take hold and stream down his face. There’s a look of pure fondness in John’s eyes when he presents his mother’s ring to him, gently held in the palm of his hands. Gale mirrors him, holding the ring his mother had gifted him for Marge in his hands for John to take.

They’re both similar rings, both meant for women with their slimness. John’s has a tiny blue gem in the center while Gale’s is iridescent and clear, refracting the evening’s sun onto his knuckles. John hooks a finger onto the cord holding Gale’s dog tags under his collar and spills them onto the front of his dress uniform, unhooks the tiny clasp, and threads the ring onto the cord. It makes a tiny “chink” sound when it collides with Gale’s dog tags, the one that claims him as part of the military.

Gale does the same with his ring, sliding his hands under John’s lapel to touch the hot skin underneath. He places it back inside of John’s shirt, pressing a palm to where the ring presses against John’s sternum. John takes his hand and keeps it pressed there, gently pressing his lips to Gale’s knuckles.

“Will you be mine forever, Gale?” John asks, squeezing Gale’s hands gently.

Gale smiles, crowding ever closer into John’s space until their chests are pressed together, both of his hands trapped between their proximity.

“I was always yours, John,” Gale says.

Gale presses closer until their noses brush and John finally closes the gap between them.

It’s one of the sweeter kisses they have shared since they confessed their love for each other, one of almost fairytale love and sweetness, the type of kisses that one might read about in a romantic novel. Gale inhales deeply as one of John’s hands finds Gale’s face, tilting him up so he can kiss him ever so slightly deeper. They both exhale together.

Finally, their love is solidified.

Finally, they will stay together, forever.

#clegan #mota #buck x bucky #john egan #gale cleven #masters of the air #fics

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