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honeyhenry · 6 months ago

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Apple Pie and You and I: A Very Happy Seresin

Ignore the fact it has been over a year since the last instalment...I would offer my life story but it has been HECTIC. Anyways, I have never ceased to think of Dad-to-be!Jake Seresin and since it is now the summer holidays, my gift to you is this lovely part 4 of the APAYAI series!

In the calm haze of what surely would be a sweet summer, you found rest in the peace held within the mid-June evening. Jake would return shortly from his quick job out by Mav's old place, helping Rooster refurbish the old skyline beauty Maverick hadn't had the time for lately. A whole stack of them had taken their turn, and while Jake remained a reliable friend now in the squad, he had really fought it internally, not wishing to leave your side.

Not when he could be snuggled up to his wife, on the porch or resting on the sofa, smelling the strawberry shampoo from your hair, or your shea butter moisturiser. Nor could he kiss you as and when he liked from 4.30pm, the second he got home from work, all the way to bedtime and then again in the morning before you both headed off - him to base, and you to your kindergarten class.

No, he wasn't going to be home until closer to 9 - almost 30 minutes away yet - and the worst part was, he was missing more than just you these days. The swell that continued to grow once you'd left Texas had become his new obsession - the slice of heaven that he already adored because they were going to be just like you, and make you look like the sweetest, hottest little thing this side of the States.

Resting quietly on the sofa, you await his return, knowing he'll ache and sweat and smell on his return - you can't wait to soak him all in and show him the newest development. You swear this baby grows dramatically overnight, a claim you state often whilst Jake just smirks because it's his big Seresin baby that he personally delivered, that grows and nestles inside you.

Your living area is lit by a chamomile candle and a yellow lamp that envelopes the room into a warm glow. The scattered pillows across the sofa and rug are perfect to relax on, and your most recent book "Parenting 101" swapped out for Cosmo magazine led to an idyllic evening. A small cup of tea and the night had gone perfectly.

Sooner than expected, you hear Jake's truck pull up into the driveway. Instead of standing to check and then unlock the door, you wait. Jake much prefers you to stay safely in the house, always alerting you if he has arrived - that you shouldnt be moving a muscle if you can help it. 8.36pm - he's early.

"Lovebug? It's me, I'm home!" he hollers into the foyer of the house, his deep voice carrying through to the living room. Pressing your soft bunny slippers to the floor, you call back.

"In the living room, honey!"

You hear footsteps and then a moment later, there he is, basking in the glow of the lamp above you. Or is it sweat? You can't decide for sure, taken aback by the mixed smells of oil and sweat.

"Hey baby," he finds your lips, leaning over the sofa to not get it marked, "and hey little baby." You smile as he extends a warm hand down to your stomach, smiling softly as he soaks in the moment.

"How was work? And Mav's?"

"Fine, fine. Got a bunch of stuff fixed in the back, Bradshaw got covered in grease and oil so if you see him with a black moustache, you'll know why."

You giggle as he stretches and then quirks a brow. "More importantly, how are you? How is peanut treating you? Being a good and upstanding citizen?"

"I think they grew again overnight. Or through the day, really since breakfast - although it might just be breakfast and my other meals.

"Yeah? Lemme see" he pulls you up carefully and you stand, moving past the plethora of pillows you had build a comfortable place to sit. He smooths his hand down his own shorts first, hoping it would be clean enough, before undoing a little clasp of your pyjama shirt to gain access to your stomach. His hand, warm and firm, rests atop your belly and you can't quite tell if its just butterflies, or that the baby is starting to move within you.

"Oh yeah, i feel it." he rubs softly still. "They're certainly growin'. Good job peanut" he speaks in high praise "and good job Momma...makin' us a baby..."

You have a quick kiss before you usher him upstairs to shower, and you turn the lights off, blow the candle out, and head upstairs to bed. You have your routine set - facial moisturiser, nightly stretches, a warm cup of tea, and belly rubs with your new balm.

You are finishing up your routine, rubbing small shapes into your belly as the smell of coconut fills the room. Jake adores watching you, from the doorway of the en suite. You sit back a little, scooping the balm onto your palm before ever so carefully applying it in small circles, then larger, deeper strokes while still taking tender care of your body. His favourite part has to be when you start whispering sweet words to your belly, realising you aren't alone in this routine. He's caught you a handle of times with; "We love you so much"; "Have you had a nice day in there, hm?" and tonight is no different.

"You're gonna be nice and relaxed in there hm? Me and daddy love you little baby pie. Could just eat you up..."

Moving from the door, he speaks up, hoping to not jolt or surprise you too much.

"Hey, don't go eating up my legacy now"

You giggle, a sound he knows will only ever be beaten by his child's first cry, before halting your laughter at the mere sight of him.

Leaning against the doorway, dripping wet, with a towel barely clinging around his waist. It would be a lie to say that your husband had never looked so good, because this was his standard. Anything he set his mind to, he would accomplish. It just so happened that having a body to die for was the collateral. And here he was, gazing into your soul, heart soaring while watching you treasure and love upon his biggest achievement yet.

"Don't you worry an inch Lieutenant. But I just know they are the cutest, I mean look!" you gesture to his side of the bed. All that sits there is his watch, his alarm clock, and a framed picture of the sweet blob sonogram. "You agree!"

"Yes honey, they're cute I know. Cause they're half you. The other half? Well they'll be the best Top Gun 2050 graduate if they get anything from their Pops."

"You know what, I want them to be all of you."

"Oh really?" Jake shucks off the towel before grabbing his pyjama shorts, grinning cockily as he stretches and flexes, much to your amusement. "I mean I get it, who wouldn't wanna go for a dip in this gene pool?"

"I'm serious, you goof! I have dreams, and the baby...they have your eyes, and that one little dimple like you have your cheek, and, and I don't know. I feel, when I feel the baby, that they're just like you. They feel like home. And-"

You're halted by his physique pressing up beside you, kissing you as if he'd been on an infinite deployment and that holding you was the only sure sign that he was really back home; alive, safe, loved.

"You make me the happiest man alive. You both do. Now, lemme check the house and I'll be right back to hear more about these dreams you're having about me." He winks and you groan, knowing your confession will fuel his ego that little bit more.

As he heads downstairs, you begin massaging your belly again before crying out;

"Oh, Jake!"

You hear the clatter of the teacup he'd taken downstairs, and 5 loud thumping footsteps before he reappears at the door.

"What?!"

With big doe eyes, you smile sheepishly.

"I forgot to tell you, the baby is the size of an apple today."

Jake's expression shifts from one of panic, to utter relief. His chest visibly drops and he runs a hand through his drying hair.

"Baby....don't do that...y'just scared me to death. I'll be right back and then y'can tell me all about it."

On his return from locking up, checking the lights and ensuring he had his uniform laid out for the next day, Jake quietly moved into the bedroom and clicked the door shut. In one hand, he had a glass of water - one you'd never ask for but he knows you'd need through the night. In the other, is a thick, wooden book covered in a multitude of colours and shapes.

You quirk an eyebrow, curious about whatever Jake was holding.

"No Aviator's Digest or Fatherhood 101 tonight?"

"Actually, Bradley gave me this, wanted us to have it at least for now. Something' bout reading to the baby. Then they know my voice... if I'm away." Jake looks down at the book as he shuffles into bed, doing his best not to disturb how comfortable you have made yourself during your nightly routine.

You know that being away now means a great deal more to Jake than before. The issue is sensitive, of course. He doesn't want to be an absent father in the way deployments and time on base can project. You haven't spoken about it too much, but you know it will bother him. Simultaneously, giving up the job he has worked so hard for to be more present is a big sacrifice. One that would also be financially risky to your growing family.

Instead of diving deeper, you keep it light. Jake has no plans to go anywhere anytime soon, or even for very long. It's best to focus on what you can control.

"Oh? What book is it?"

"Something about a hungry caterpillar. Looks a bit demonic on the front, but Bradshaw swore his cousin's kids loved it."

He rests up against the headboard, curling one arm around your shoulders, intertwining his hand with yours atop your belly. Certain that he has you safe and warm in his arms, he unpops your shirt again at your tummy "so they can hear" which has you rolling your eyes. He holds the book right by your belly, and begins.

"Good evening, baby Seresin. This is your father, your Pops. Now you gotta listen - there's a test at the end of this story and we don't tolerate anything but top marks here."

"Jacob Seresin!"

"All right, all right. Now, are we ready? Then let's begin. In the light of the moon, a little egg lay on a leaf. One Sunday morning..."

By the time he had turned to the middle page after his soft southern drawl had recounted a feast of apples, pears, and plums, you - and baby - were fast asleep. Closing the wooden book, he pops the button back into place carefully, sorts your pillows, and turns off your bedside lamp.

He'd finish the story tomorrow evening.

#apayai #jake seresin x reader #hangman x reader #top gun maverick fic #jake seresin #dad!jake in my feels

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with-my-calamitous-love · 3 months ago

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AND I WONT CONFESS THAT I WAITED…

ryunnosuke akutagawa x reader

you watch as your lamp burns by the window, waiting for your lover to return.

celebrating his return to the manga <3

inspired by peter

normally, ryunnosuke wouldn’t have anyone to return to.

sure, his sister would be there, but that was a given. or maybe stacks of paperwork or copious pent up coughs would greet him. but for the most part, he was used to returning home alone.

and he liked it that way. or so he told himself.

when you come home alone, theres never the pain of realizing your house is empty. he was the only entity within his walls, the only soul that wandered the place. he was the only person who could break his own heart, the only one who could enter his home and take parts away from him. when you shut everything out, the only person who can you is you.

but he’s learned to build his heart up from steal. if his lungs continuously failed him, he’d shield his heart and freeze it with ice no one could penetrate. was he safe or was he broken?

he finds himself face to face with that question when he meets you.

so after 2 long years of melting that ice with sunlight, you found yourself waiting by the window.

he said at most, a few days. he was on some port mafia mission, involving the were-tiger with chopped up hair. that he’d be facing off some old man with a particularly powerful sword and a particularly powerful team. a strange generalization, you thought.

days developed into weeks. then, inevitably, months.

was it something you did?

the cool night air greets you as you thrust your windows open, then same ones that akutagawa loved to look out onto the world through. he’d stumble into your apartment, a cup of tea already brewing for him. he never spoke much, not even to you, but he showed his affection through actions more.

he’d greet you in the bedroom, offering a peck to your forehead. he’d scold you about keeping your windows open, especially in autumn. he complains its only worsening his lungs, but he can’t help but love the way the moon reflects off of your irises.

and he tells you about his life, underneath those stars. about his past, his sister, and all the darkness he kept within like a locket. he tells you that falling in love was not for someone like him.

“..love.” he mutters under his breath, almost scoffing when you bring up the subject. he’s standing behind you, arms encasing you between him and the window. though he’d never tell you, he’s trying to keep you warm. the night are was often not very forgiving to kind folk like you.

your brows furrow, but you understand where he comes from. “yes, ryu. love.” you reaffirm. “i’m in love with you.”

he blinks for a moment. first, he thinks what terrible taste in men you have. and how lucky he is to be that man.

he sighs, his throat running dry. though he does prompt to press his lips to your forehead once more, staring at you with a light in his eyes you’ve never quite seen before. no one in the mafia would know that the demon ryunnosuke akutagawa was also a gentleman, one who gently ushers you to bed and puts you to sleep with a kiss to your knuckles.

he waits for you to fall asleep before he leaves a letter, and bids you farewell.

[y/n],

you’re kindness will be the death of both of us. i don’t know why you’ve decided to show me kindness, or any semblance of love for that matter, but you have.

a spot in my heart is reserved for you. and my heart, that i knew to be cold and unwelcoming, beats for you. thank you for showing me what it means to love.

…i’ll come home soon.

and when i do, i’ll tell you all about it. about that damn were-tiger i swore i’d beat down, or that former mentor whose approval only comes second to yours. you’ve changed so much for me. you’ve given me something i want to live for.

thank you.

i’d write that i love you, but i’d rather you hear it from me.

yours,

ryunnosuke

the goddess of timing, unfortunately, has a cruel heart. and so the moment akutagawa admitted his feelings for you, he was pulled away from the one thing that made the air around him breathable.

you read his letter everyday. at first, you cried to it, and clutched it to your chest. then, after the first few weeks, you wondered if he had been lying. your ribs get the feeling he did.

how poetic is it, that both of you thought it was just goodbye for now.

while he’s away, he swears he’ll grow up. that he’ll change and be better. that, for what little time his lungs give him, he’ll love you more. he’ll let you teach him what love is, and love you back tenfold. and once he’s done that, he swears he’ll come find you. promises oceans deep, but never quite to keep.

and though he’d never admit it, he thinks about you every damn day. he wonders if you’re still a mind reader, able to steal the scene of every room you’re in. he’s heard great things from whispers and rumours, and he’s glad that life was easier on you than it was on him. you deserved it, after all.

and as weeks develop into months, selfishly, he hopes you wait.

and you do.

you let that lamp burn every night while your life dances around you. you hope, deep in your heart that he’ll return. that he’ll drink your shitty tea and scoff at your shitty jokes. that he’ll put you to bed and linger around in the morning, planting a kiss to your forehead like always. you hope that he’ll return with his feet on the ground and with stories to tell, because you never lost a single ounce of love for him.

you tried to hold onto it. and its true. you never lost any love, even after you draw the curtains, and turn down the lights.

you hope he forgives you.

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middle-ans · 6 days ago

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I figured this would get asked for sure, but it hasn’t yet.

Major Lewis Nurse George please!!

Will you believe me when I say I feared this one, but also waited the most? Absolutely smashed me even though I have this particular idea sketched in my head from start to end, and zero chances surviving writing it. But it scratched the itch so perfectly, so thank you very much for asking! (3478 words, I knew it’d be one of the longest)

Also - tw war, tw mentions of blood and injuries, tw air raid alarms

October, 1940, Canterbury

Amidst all the human burdens, his personal sleep being absent for the third night in a row seemed ridiculous. George leaned his elbows on the desk piled with paperwork, rubbing his red eyes and sighing with fatigue. Another night shift, understaffed and they had exhausted the tea supply, waiting now for the next shipment by the end of next month, if they were so lucky. So far the wing had been uneventful, he sat at his post in the main hall, the hospital building looked like a separate battlefield with large rooms occupied by rows of beds and soldiers constantly arriving. No private wards for even a few people, they couldn't afford such a rarity.

The lamp on his desk blinked faintly before fading out entirely, and George held his breath, quickly shifting his clear gaze to the window. Quietly, even too much so, his lips fell open, moving soundlessly in an outline of counting - four, three, two, one. The hum of aircraft and the howl of the alarm siren was as always late, with the first deafening blast coming Omega was already under the table, shuddering with the entire building when a bomb was dropped a few dozen miles from the hospital. They remained almost untouched by most, a small building nearly at the edge of the city, but every so often George shrank into a ball and squirmed, wondering if this night would be an exception. He can hear the fiddling from the beds, triggered traumas screaming desperately in the throats of some of the soldiers, and as frightening as it is, Omega crawls out from under the only rickety shelter to run to their beds and offer a hand to squeeze, to claw at the faint connection to reality amidst the agony and quench the pain just a little. It's Private Peters, clutching at the bandage on his head that nurse notices will need to be changed as soon as the Luftwaffe are done with today's raid, and his old green eyes on a young twenty-year-old face one of the most striking displays of the madness they've been caught up in.

“Sh-h, it's okay Peters, you're in the hospital. I'll go over to the others for a bit and come back, alright? Don't look out the window, the flashes might annoy you.”

With a lingering warmth, George leaves him to run over to the other bunk, three further down the row from Peters, to Alan curled up in a ball and sobbing into the bend of his elbow.

“Now, now, no worries, I worked so hard to heal your arm and you ruined all the bandages by crumpling it under you.”

They must have thought he was resistant to such things, had developed an iron rod and shut off the heart, leaving only the head, but that was too far from the truth. George was trembling as much as they were, but having controlled his voice he was at least seemingly calmer, confidently promising them what was forbidden by any wartime ethic - safety.

“We've got warbirds coming in, lots of them,” Alex slipped past him in the aisle, darting off at a run. As the last German plane buzzed toward the sea, the bustle returned to the hospital in a triple storm of chaos. “They said to vacate as many bunks as we can.”

“From where?” George scolds as he tosses a stack of folders and fixes his coat. Perfectly white, not for long apparently.

“You think I asked questions? Hurry up, I need sheets, preferably clean ones.”

And Alex wasn't lying by labeling the number as 'lots', because not since George joined the volunteers in the nursing society in late 1939 had he seen such an overflow of wounded in the scroll of a single night. All types of injuries he couldn't look at when he started, rips, burns, shrapnel, on his first such tour of duty with a dozen wounded after midnight he'd cried helplessly on the hallway floor, far from being able to help anyone, least of all himself. Now he clenched his teeth, holding his jaw stiffly in tension as he waltzed from one bed to another in the barely lit hall, the power having gone out as soon as the raid began. With any luck, it would be fixed by tomorrow night. Omega's breathing was infrequent and short, letting in blood odors in snatches while his head spun steadily from the density of the air, but George dared not complain. If he was given a choice of which ability to shut off while he worked, it would be hearing. Those screams would haunt him until his last day.

The sheets oozed dirt in no time, they weren't a first class hotel to have their patients complain about the quality of the fabric and its immaculate whiteness, so pushing a cart with first aid supplies and a kerosene lamp, George got the trembling in his fingers under control and kept working. Far past midnight, close to the first rays of dawn, the whole room finally fell quiet, the silence diluted by occasional quiet moans from the occasional bunks at different ends of the room, and Omegas around drifting exhaustedly from one bed frame to the next.

George sighed, straightening his gown and lowering himself into a chair next to the nearest bunk, lamp burning weakly on the bedside table where he'd placed it, and his attention followed tiredly over the soaked bandages around the arms of a man sleeping in a restless slumber. The nurse reached out to see if the soldier's fever had broken purely automatically, running his fingers under the black hair falling over the forehead. His eyebrows twitched at the touch, and George almost thought it best to leave the man alone, but his head reached up to follow the escaping warmth of Omega's fingers. The nurse blinked, returning the uncomplicated dance of the pads back to those rare patches of skin that were free of scratches and wounds. Above on the top of his head was a wisp of hair clumped together from congealed blood, the wound itself washed and sanitized, but that was probably the source of fever plaguing Alpha in his sleep. Alpha, no doubt, his scent seeped even through the deadly odor of the ward. Their job teaches them to be immune to things like weak instincts and primitive pleasures, such as sniffing a handsome man and blushing at the sight of him staring back at them. George examines his hand on the grayish sheets, the bandage applied hastily and carelessly, but the man begins to frown and flinch in his sleep so he's forced to take his fingers into the warmth of his palm and coax them there until Alpha exhales relatively calmly. Omega blinks tiredly, mindlessly rubbing his skin where it won't hurt, and Alpha's scent only flows more intensely into George's fluttering nostrils, the tartness of walnut wood and freshly cut grass in May, crisply breezy, an anomaly in their lost reality. He flinches when fingers embrace his own in return, and gently breaks their contact to attend to the bandage on his arm.

There is little pleasantness in this, he imagines, frowning sympathetically at the painful groans in the hoarse voice still unknown to him, trying to spare him what pain he can, holding the soldier's wrist and shushing him quietly while he removes the dirty bandages. He sometimes sang, barely audible, just mumbling a soft tune and it smoothed the wrinkles on the patients' faces, distracting them from what he was busying his mind with. George had to leave his bed to grab a bowl of warm water and clean gauze, blotting it and wringing it out to apply gently to the man's elbow. He protested louder, twitching in the sheets, and Omega tried desperately to quiet the agony, pressing his palm against his cheek and mumbling confused reassurances. Alpha breathed raggedly, poking his nose into his palm, and it was the only thing that allowed nurse to finish with the bandage, bent in an awkward position over the bed in the low light, fighting the man's disgruntled sighs every time Omega was forced to withdraw his palm and pick up the bandages with both hands. Just as he was finishing up with the first rays of dawn and the kerosene lamps burning out on leftover fuel, the soldier squinted his nose, fluttering eyelashes persistently and restlessly. George wasn't sure he'd be awake this early, and it could hardly be called consciousness - Alpha looked at him with a blurry stare, unaware of anything but what for some reason made the corners of his lips creep up his haggard face.

“Angel,” he wheezed, staring at George. “You're an angel.”

Omega sighed, they were all like that. Saw him in semi-conscious hot flashes and came back to fight it further in deep sleep, then sang odes to him of their love and gratitude until they were discharged, healthy and ready to return to the battlefield. He glanced at the uniform jacket hanging on the edge of the top headboard of the bed, a patch with a blood type and a rank stained with dirt that he couldn't make out, but George discerned the name - L. C. D. Hamilton.

“Sleep,” he whispers to him, adjusting the sheets over his undershirt, the cotton fabric in scarlet stains and three tiny buttons under his collarbones. “The fever should break by dinner.”

When Omega gets to the room on the second floor of the house he's rented by an old lady who sings in the church choir and occasionally helps out at the radio factory, his strength is enough to take a quick shower with the remnants of hot water and collapse onto the creaking bed in a dreamless sleep. He hears the rumble of sirens and can't make out if it's a scrap of his imagination or actually an alarm, but doesn't care either way, rolling over onto his other side and getting the last hour of sleep before it's time to get up and get ready for the next shift.

“Almost everyone's stabilized,” Alex jumps up from the chair at his post in the hallway as soon as he sees him pacing exhaustedly through the ward. “We're still short on blood, almost all the staff donated some more today, but I'm not going to ask you, you already look one step away from dropping dead in here. And we're short on nurses, so-”

“You're so encouraging, Alex,” Omega rolls his eyes, wrapping himself in a white coat from the closet of their small storage room, straightening the lapels and tying his belt. “Did they fix the power?”

“Yeah, but in an hour it'll be time to turn out the lights anyway - light cloaking and all that. Speaking of your looks - it still managed to catch someone's interest even in such a deplorable state. One soldier-”

“Oh, Alex,” George sighs tiredly, checking the previous shift's records. Not again.

“Called for you all the time in his sleep.”

“How do you even know it was me?”

“Angel,” Alex shrugs. “You're always Angel, darling, and he mumbled incessantly. Almost knocked poor Logan's eye out when he came over to change his bandages.”

George shakes his head stubbornly, but can't help but drift his thoughts to the man. Apparently the fourth night shift is working wonders on his guard.

“How is he?” the nurse asks quietly. “Has the fever gone down?”

“Go and check, it's your shift now, not mine,” Alex pushes him further down the row of bunks before rushing out towards the exit and waving goodbye.

George keeps his face emotionless as he walks through all the patients in the room, because there are no special ones, there are all of them, needing if not a bandage or injection, then at least a drop of sympathy in the middle of this pantomime theater. In the semi-darkness of the room, he doesn't notice when he walks over to the bed with a jacket on the headboard, sets down the lamp, and hops in place as his hand is grabbed, tugged insistently, something he's not quite used to in the emergency room.

“Oh for heaven's sake,” he breathes out, closing his eyes for a second to catch his breath. “Sir, you can't just-”

“Angel,” a glance, this time absolutely clear and unequivocal, lingered on him with sheer fondness and a glare of amusement, the man pulling himself up higher on the pillow. “So you weren't a vision? I thought I'd gone to heaven, since I saw you.”

George swallows, sitting down on the edge of the mattress and starting to unwind the bandages on the man's arm, slowly, and this time Alpha holds up much better, no gnashing of teeth or groans.

“Have you had the wound treated? With ointment, or just peroxide?” he asks as casually as possible while he feels the gaze of dark eyes solely on the side of his face turned toward the soldier.

“I think with ointment, too. Not as carefully as you did, of course.”

The nurse snorts, hiding a smile and blush behind the curls that have fallen over his forehead.

“You were barely here last night, with a fever and delusions. How can you remember what I did it?”

“I remember you singing,” Mr. Hamilton says, plainly and calmly, a confidence in his voice that is lacking in those brash flirtations of the younger soldiers. And they're probably a lot lower in rank than Alpha. “And if I may?”

George looks up cautiously, averting his gaze from the wound when the man takes his hand and opens his palm, pressing it against his own cheek. The tendons in Omega's neck tighten in tension, he feels a small tremor in his fingers where they are gripped between the soldier's light grasp and his cheek.

“Yes, I definitely remember that,” the man smiles, loosening his grip so George can bring his hand back to the bandages. Lost for words and lost for breath.

“Good thing you remember so much,” he flutters his eyelashes, finishing the knot on his forearm. “Strong. Means you'll be better soon.”

“Will you sit with me?” Alpha lets out brokenly, a second before the nurse would have gotten up and headed for the next bed. George opens his mouth to say he still has a lot of work to do, but the soldier grazes his fingers on the sheets with a sore hand, shivering against the warmth. “Please.”

Omega glances around the rest of the room - it's night, dark, and most are asleep, a few nurses walking past the beds to adjust pillows and bandaged limbs. He didn't really have any real reason to refuse, and hesitantly he agrees, moving to a chair to retain some modicum of willpower.

They talk until morning. Extremely negligent of George, he should've left the soldier to sleep, gone to the paperwork that littered the desk at the duty station, done something, but they just kept talking, hiding from the prying eyes of the other staff in the shadows of the dimmed lamp. George said that he had been orphaned in the first month of war after the raid on his home town, he didn't mention what it was exactly, and his sister had been able to catch the last ship to America, which he was incredibly glad about, but he was all alone and so had decided to devote himself to working at the hospital. Lewis had been in the army before the war, something to do with his father's silly insistence, and had had several successful sorties behind enemy lines in France, his careful choice of words and thoughtful narration suggesting a rank with a few badges on his epaulettes and men in his command. He was skilled at playing the piano and baking homemade bread with recipes from his mother's family. George giggled as the man described the intricacies of mixing dough, certain he'd never heard Alpha talk about cooking before. When with the peachy rays of the quiet dawn outside the window, no Luftwaffe raid this time, he yawned in the midst of his own mumblings, Omega glanced down and found Lewis sleeping peacefully, head bowed on the pillow a little uncomfortably, and mouth slightly open in quiet breathing. George leaned over, holding his neck under the bandage and correcting the dislodged fluff in the pillow, gently bringing Alpha's head back, smoothing the hair on the back of his neck.

He's discharged before George returns to the hospital the next time, fresh from a day off and having slept one normal night in what seems like months. He only nods to Alex, trying to smile as he did before, and goes on his evening rounds without long chats in the back room.

After about a week since he last saw Lewis, he finally gets the day shift. George is settling in at a table in the common room, filling out paperwork and reports as accurately as can be observed in wartime when the sunlight from the window is blocked by someone's shadow and he pulls away from files, frowning at the intrusion.

“Good afternoon, Nurse George,” a smile, almost devoid of the mesh of scratches on his face around, shines brightly to him from above, Lewis standing in the full glory of his uniform and with a cap on his head. “I was told I might find you here today, even during daylight hours.”

His hands are placed sternly behind his back, Alpha stands as steady as a ruler in the army-like poise of his posture, and George opens his mouth silently, unable to find anything to say.

“Lewis, it's good to see you're well,” he gulps, rising from a seat so as not to feel so tiny under the shoulder span of the army jacket.

“That's why I came, to thank you properly,” Alpha winds one of his hands behind his back forward, clutching the stems of a bouquet of wildflowers and holding it out for George. “I didn't know which ones you liked, figured we could start with these.”

Oh, in front of everyone, the wing will be buzzing about this forever. Omega hears the commotion and giggles behind the man's back, blushing awkwardly under his scrutiny, but Alpha takes a step closer, blocking his view of the fiddling behind. Having no idea what else he could have done, George takes the bouquet into his hands, briefly meeting the stroke of Lewis' warm fingers' touch and lowering his eyelids immediately in humble awe.

“Thank you, that's quite unnecessary. It's my job, after all. No one gives you flowers for your service, for instance.”

Alpha smiles, tilting his head to pick up the visor of his cap and pull it off, revealing black hair styled back. Out of habit, George studies the spot where the wound was with a quick glance - it all looks healed and barely bothers the man.

“I think it's very much necessary. Might ward off some of the pushy admirers? Peters, you're expected at the barracks as early as tomorrow, so don't think about taking up residence here for long,” it's a misterie how his voice jumps from softness and reserved ease to iron command, Alpha turning around for a moment to glance at the subordinate in the row of bunks. “Are you enjoying music, George?”

“Music?” Omega blinks confusedly, shaking his head in a lack of comprehension.

“The pub near City Hall is having a dance this weekend. If it doesn't interfere with work, I'd like to say I'd be happy to see you there. The wine at Bert's isn't the most exquisite, but I'll make sure a case from our stock is delivered.”

Pulse racing ahead of his heart's capabilities, George swallows thickly, not knowing where to find the answer.

“He's free this weekend,” Logan rounds on his figure, hurrying from the entrance to his turn to make rounds. “I'm on duty Friday, have you forgotten?”

No, he'd absolutely seen the schedule, and this Friday was George's, but Logan winks at him and disappears into the pile of huddled white coats, hurrying them back to work.

“Well, then,” Lewis cleared his throat, viewing him like a tangled mechanism of an armored car gears. “I'll see you there, I suppose?”

The man nods at him with his chin knowing exactly the angle and duration in which it should linger, leaving George and allowing him to finally fall back into his chair, exhaling heavily.

“A whole Major, Georgie!” Alex slams a palm on the table, scaring the hell out of him. “Bringing you flowers and claiming his rights in front of this bunch of silly young Alphas, huh? Oh, I'll lend you my tweed pants for Friday and you will undo two buttons of your shirt, you hear me?”

#gewis fic #fic game #asks #tw war #tw mentions of blood #tw mentions of injuries #tw air raid alarm

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laughroditee · 5 days ago

Text

🟡 "Hither, Hither / Do Not Come Near"

Hither, hither, love! Let us feed and feed! –John Keats, “Hither, Hither, Love”

Characters: cryptid!König, gender neutral!reader Location: a (fictional) mountain with forest and caves in Austria. Inspired by the "lamp eyes" in this (second) image by toxooz CW: you are being hunted, pissing (non-kinky) as intimidation, luring, fear, anxiety, dread, inaccurate battery drainage, inaccurate forestry regulations (don’t leave your fire burning while you sleep), inaccurate camping regulations for Austria (basically don't do anything Reader does), profanity Word Count: 2276 AO3 link Mood Music:

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The sunlight filters through the trees as you hike the trail up the mountain, taking in all the natural beauty that Austria has to offer. The rich, woodsy scents of earth, spruce, and pine surround you, the evergreen needles muffling your footfalls as you walk. Green carpets of rolling grass are dotted with blue and purple, yellow and white, and even little trumpets lining the trail to herald your arrival.

It’s like The Sound of Fucking Music over here, the sheer splendor of your surroundings making you feel like you made the best decision of your life to do this hike. You'd researched what trail to pick and what to take with you. You’d planned on this for months, and honestly, you couldn't have picked a better day for it: three days, two nights, just you and Mother Nature. Everything was perfect.

Pulling out your instant film camera, you take a selfie to remember this perfect day by. Maybe you'll even take selfies all the way up the mountain just to document your journey. You had enough film packs for it, and this felt like the kind of thing that needed documentation, so why not?

You pose and aim the camera at yourself, looking in the little mirror attachment you'd bought for this purpose, and take your picture, the flash going off in your face. The camera's motor whirs as it spits out your first instant exposure, and after collecting it, you continue on your hike.

You repeat this pattern every half hour or so or any time you find something particularly interesting or lovely, stopping to take pictures and/or selfies and reloading your camera's film pack every ten exposures. Soon enough, you notice the sky changing colors and decide you’d be wise to find a good place to make camp for the night.

Under a small copse of trees, you set up your tent on a bed of pine needles, driving the tent spikes into the ground with a stone you find at the site. After building a small fire a safe distance from your tent and any trees, you start cooking your dinner, taking out your instant camera and the stack of photos from your hike.

You take one more selfie before you lose the light completely, snapping the picture with a blinding flash that leaves you blinking. You take your newest photo and lay it on your knee, leaning over to stir your dinner in the pot as it's heating, waiting for the shot to develop.

After collecting your dinner, you look at the developing selfie and notice something strange in the background: two bright dots to the right of your head set in a swath of darkness. You squint, rubbing the exposure with your thumb despite knowing you’re not supposed to touch it. Maybe something was wrong with it, something on the exposure itself that kept the light from hitting the paper in those spots, resulting in blank areas.

As the photo develops further and the image takes form, you look closer at those two bright dots — a yellow-green now — and your first thought is that they are very much like eyes, staring at you from the shadows of the forest.

A chill runs through you. You turn, sweeping the trail with your flashlight, but you see nothing, just bushes and trees; hear nothing but crickets and other small creatures. Your flashlight flickers slightly, and you turn back to your dinner and your warm, cozy fire, unable to get quite as cozy as you were a moment ago.

How absurd. It was probably nothing; just a weird fluke. You continue your meal and look through the stack of photos from the day, carding through pictures of beautiful landscapes and flowers, stopping when you come to your next-most-recent selfie. You’d found a few edible berries on the trail and decided to take a picture of yourself, your mouth stained red by their juices.

You’re about to move on to the next photo when you see them: those two dots — those eyes — in the shadows again, further away than in your most recent selfie.

Your heart stutters. What is this?

As you arrange your pictures chronologically, you are struck by a chilling discovery. In each selfie, two bright lights — two glowing eyes — can be seen somewhere in the background behind you, hidden in a large, dark shape or the shadows of the trees. You card through the photos, heart beating hard, thumb sliding over each one frantically, and they're there in each one, down to your first at the base of the mountain, watching. Following. Getting closer and closer to you each time you take a selfie.

It's probably just an animal. A bear or something, judging by how tall it seems as it peeks around trees and through the thick brush. Its form is never clear, just a silhouette with those bright eyes looming in the darkness, staring at you.

You shiver.

Well, if it is an animal, you should probably keep the fire going to drive it away tonight. Granted, you know you shouldn't leave the fire burning all night unattended, but the idea of being left in the dark makes your skin crawl, and everyone knows animals hate light, right? Remember our ancestors, the cavemen? Yeah. Just an animal. It'll be fine.

So you throw some more logs on the fire, wash your dishes, and bury the water in a hole you dug to cover the smell of food. Then you get into your tent, zipping it up all the way. So much for a fresh breeze, but at least in this shelter, you feel some sort of safety, some separation between you and the unknown.

Your flashlight still flickers, and you decide to change the batteries now instead of later because you intend to leave it on all night. Not that you're scared or anything; it's just that extra light means extra animal deterrent, right? That's how that works, right?

Sleep does not come easily, and you toss and turn in your sleeping bag, eyes jolting open at the slightest sound of nature outside (which, surprisingly, is everywhere — why did you think this was a good idea?).

It isn't until just after midnight that you hear it: a whistle. You try to convince yourself that it's only something that sounds like a whistle, like the wind or a bird, and you nearly make your case until the next one sounds with a little bend in it. A little wheee-oooo in the pitch black of the forest, as if someone were pursing their lips, beckoning, just for you.

You hate it. Instantly, your heart pounds, your ears straining for voices or footsteps; maybe it's another camper hiking this trail, too, and needs shelter. But if that were the case, did they have to be so fucking creepy about it? You try to control your breathing, listening for anything other than the creak of the trees above you, but still, you hear nothing. It isn't until the sky starts to turn grey that you feel safe enough to sleep; dawn is on its way.

When morning arrives – too quickly – you're more than happy to get up and break down your camp despite your lack of sleep, deciding that you'll eat your breakfast on the trail instead of at a leisurely pace like you'd planned. No. The time for leisure has gone. Judging by the map, you are now closer to the exit of the trail than you are to the entrance, so you decide, uneasily, to keep going forward.

As you hike, you don't dare waste time with selfies; you're too scared you’ll find more of those glowing yellow-green eyes in the background. Or worse, find the owner of said eyes. Thinking back to your childhood cat, you know a lot of animals have eyeshine, which helps them to see better in the dark. They reflect light and make it look like the eyes glow or some shit, especially in photos, making them look like little demons. You recall that many predators seem to have them and then quickly wipe that little factoid from your mind.

You busy yourself with nature facts for a while, reciting aloud the names of the plants and forageable berries you see along the way. By the time you find your next spot for camp, you are completely exhausted, not only from the hike or your poor sleep the night before but from the anxiety of constantly looking over your shoulder.

Instead of pitching your tent right away, you spend most of the time before sunset looking for firewood and building an even bigger fire than the night before. No whistling bears or campers or whatever the fuck were going to come near your tent tonight.

The fire blazes hot and high as you sit before it, huddled in a blanket with your flashlight and cup of dried food — no smells of cooking tonight to lure hungry animals or hikers, for that matter.

Immediately, your mind goes back to the whistle, its testing, beckoning nature making the inside of your skull itch with unease. Maybe it was one of those birds that mimic human sounds that happened to be around at night. Surely, there were birds like that, right? It's probably a bunch of things together and not just one thing. Just a coincidence. That's the only conclusion you can come to. Because the alternative — the one that claws at the inside of your head and tells you that something, or someone, is out there — that just can't be.

After dinner, you stoke the fire, load it up with a couple more logs, and retreat to your tent, burrowing into the sleeping bag with your flashlight propped up in the center to illuminate your sleeping area. Exhausted from the lack of sleep the night before, you drift off thankfully quickly, only to be awakened sometime later.

The night seems hauntingly quiet, as if nature itself senses something is wrong. Leaves rustle from a distance away, and you hear the movement of a creature outside, the fire and your flimsy fabric shelter the only things between it and you. Your flashlight, stalwart watchman of the tent, starts to flicker, the set of batteries you'd put in it reaching the end of their lifespan, and that's when you hear it.

Wheee-oooo.

Your heart stops at the sound of the whistle, and you hold your breath, hoping that if you’re just quiet enough, just pretend that you’re sleeping, that whatever — whoever it is will just go away and leave you alone.

Thud, thud, thud, thud….

Are those footsteps?

The sound comes closer, twigs snapping under the weight of this person, this creature, and you scramble for your flashlight, slapping it, begging the light to stay on, to stay steady. A third thwack, and it's clear that your attempts at resuscitation are failing, and the batteries finally die, leaving you and your tent protected only by the dancing light of the fire outside. You curse under your breath, diving for your old set of batteries that you’d removed yesterday. Screwing off the top of your flashlight, you fling the dead batteries out and, with shaky hands, slide the old batteries in as, in the background, you hear the sound of water pouring and a sudden hissing.

This gives you enough pause to look at the silhouettes projected on the fabric of your tent: at how the flames of your fire — your precious sentinel — quiver, cower, and die.

The smell hits you then, the stench alerting you to the fact that this was not water putting out your fire, but in fact, someone was pissing on it to put it out. The heavy, acrid smell of boiling urine invades your nostrils, making you gag.

You refocus your efforts on threading the cap of your flashlight back on the barrel, your shaking, frantic hands making the threads skip until marvelously, mercifully, you screw the cap on, and the flashlight flickers to life just as your fire dies.

The growl that sounds from outside and the heavy thud-thud of footfalls that draw closer to your tent sound much closer to something human than animal, and you have to wonder who in the world you managed to piss off to make them stalk you so far up a mountain and into the woods at this hour of the night.

Suddenly, the tent lurches, and you scream as whoever is outside rips the stakes from the ground and yanks the entire thing toward them. You are engulfed in a polyester death shroud, scrambling for your pack and waving your flashlight around blindly.

You need your knife — anything to protect yourself at this point, but as the creature rips the tent open like it was made of paper, all you can grab is your camera. You point it at him and press the button, the flash lighting up the night like an atom bomb, and he snarls, stumbling back, blinded.

A split second is all you get to see him. The man is bigger than any person you've ever seen in your life, dressed in black and wearing a black cloth over his head.

You run. You don't have time to look for shoes. You don't have time to look for your knife. You just clutch your camera and run, hoping that you can find a place to hide.

They don't tell you that the forest floor is not good for running barefoot on. They don't tell you how modern human feet just aren't made for it anymore. But you know from all the twigs and branches cutting into the soles of your feet that you are fighting a losing battle. That you are prey and your hunter is going to get you.

You can hear him running after you, those heavy footfalls sounding like the thunder of ten thousand angry gods, and despite your head start, you know he'll catch up to you on those long legs of his.

When you spot a cave, your prehistoric animal brain cries, "safe!", "home!" and like a fool, you listen, running inside, losing all light as you slip into the pitch black of Mother Earth.

Feeling blindly for the wall, you move slowly and hear him enter the cave, a low growl sounding out like echolocation.

You know he hates the light. Your camera has nine exposures left. A sound to your left has you pointing the camera in that direction and pressing the button. Light floods the cave, burning its landscape into your retinas, his dark shape a retreating blur.

Eight.

You have to find the way back out. Coming in here was a bad idea. He clearly has an advantage over you, being able to see in the dark. You’ll have to burn through your exposures to get back out. Gravel grates to your right, and you take another picture, blinding both him and yourself, the exposure falling uselessly to the cave floor. Absently, you wonder if people will ever find them.

Seven.

Will people even find your body?

Light blazes through the cave again, and you can move toward the exit, cursing as pain lances into your sole from stepping on a sharp rock.

Six.

You can tell you're bleeding from how the dirt sticks to your foot and from the snarl you hear behind you: the predator scenting his prey. The next flash exposes his dark shape behind a stalagmite, and you rush in the opposite direction.

Five.

The click of the shutter echoes in the cave as the camera flashes again, your brain trying to memorize the location of obstacles.

Four.

His roar reverberates in the cave, shaking the very air around you and has you screaming, snapping your camera beside you.

Three.

You hear him stumble in frustration and are convinced you actually got him good that time, and you snap again for good measure.

Two.

You move faster toward the exit. You can actually see the outside world now, so close, but still so far. You blow an exposure behind you to stall him further.

One.

A breeze from outside blows across the cave mouth, and you can almost taste it if not for the wall you just ran into.

Zero.

Only it’s not a wall.

His reflective eyes blaze as he looks down at you. The hood-like structure on his face parts down the middle like a pair of bat wings, the exposed red maw lined with dozens of razor-sharp teeth. His jaw opens far wider than anything you've ever seen or ever will, and then your light goes out.

author's note- this was on loop as I was writing:

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kekaki-cupcakes · 10 months ago

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Heyyy can you please write something for Nico x male reader where Nico has seen reader around camp and reader is friendly and always laughing and talking with everyone. And Nico develops a crush on reader and eventually he decides to confess to reader when he sees them in the woods. Fluffy mainly but like a little spicey at the end if u do that stuff? :)

hey there bestie, let's pretend it hasn't been two months. this fic is also for @golden-boy-muda 's request for nico x transmasc reader <3

I couldn't find an idea in my empty ol head for this request but then I was looking for old oil painting wallpapers for my phone and now you have this incredibly sappy 3.2k of art references [I advise you keep another tab open for cross-referencing if you want the fUlL eXpErIeNcE]

Oil on Canvas--- Nico di Angelo x transmasc reader [3.2k] »»————-　★　————-««

Nico definitely isn’t a stalker, he understands boundaries [once Jason explains them to him, of course], but he might have a bit of a staring problem.

Sometimes he’s just eating gluten free waffles with Hazel in the dining pavilion and ends up watching you shove your siblings around and plait your little sister's hair so it doesn’t get in her face when she goes Pegasus riding.

He spooned some blueberries onto his plate.

It’s not his fault.

It’s yours, if anything. What is he supposed to do apart from feel like there’s moths beneath his ribcage when you pose, your nose scrunched, up for photos with Drew’s polaroid camera that’s covered with inappropriate stickers?

Hazel elbowed him meaningfully in the side when he couldn’t help but grin because Holy Hades, a single person shouldn’t be able to look that much like the painting Ophelia [by friedrich heyser, to be specific], just because they wore a green camp shirt and a pearl necklace.

Maybe it was his fault that he was comparing you to beautiful paintings.

He scooped the blueberries onto his half eaten waffle and reached for the maple syrup Hazel had finished drowning her breakfast in.

The Stoll brother’s mortal mum had sent a stack of paintings from art galleries all over the world last Christmas, and they’d let him pick out a few of the older more poetic ones that didn’t have enough blood and guts for their taste.

Now the oil paintings of lakes and birds and crying angels and… mainly cats, actually, hung around the dark walled Cabin he slept in.

Your laugh when you threw strawberries at Kayla and Austin while they worked in the infirmary reminded him of Angel [carl von marr, of course] and he felt like Chat a difficult catch [charles van den eycken] when you walked right past him without even glancing back.

So he’d made peace with watching from afar how you would forget daily to put sunscreen on but somehow always remembered to wear this pair of white crocheted gloves that looked like cat paws.

On a completely irrelevant note, Nico was learning to crochet.

Hazel made eye contact with him again when he looked from you to her, and he plugged his ears and glared before she started kicking him in the shins and begging him to pluck up the courage to walk over and even just make eye contact.

Not that he didn’t want to.

He may have lined up in his catalog of daydreams, this scenario where you both went down to the beach. Any beach, really. You’d collect shells and eat popcorn and grapes and lemonade and squish sand between your toes and pick up crabs with him.

PROMENADE ON THE BEACH [Charles Atamian, obviously].

There was another scenario where he’d take you to the farmers market. It had the biggest bouquets of flowers, and rows upon rows of fruits and vegetables and incense and beaded jewelry.

When he was laying in bed underneath the fluffy zebra patterned duvets that Piper forced him to use, mainly because they matched the dark reds of the cushions and browns of the bookshelves and antique lamps in the cabin so well, you were walking down the rows of little stores with him.

You were holding his hand with those soft cat paw gloves and you liked the feel of his rings [he’d read that people liked rings in a book, somewhere] and you’d filled the Studio Ghibli tote bag you had with berries.

He’d watched most of the movies after he saw your bag. He liked Arriety the best.

Clarisse stomped past the Hades table, leaving bloody footprints no one asked about, and smacked him in the back of his head. Nico went back to eating his waffles and daydreaming about your smile.

In the farmers market you would sniff candles and never buy them because Hazel had far too many for all of her spells and the such that he would never run out. And what was Hazel’s was his and what was his was hers, meaning that what was Hazel’s was yours.

Because Nico would give everything he owned, even his favorite jacket, for you to look his way.

And he would buy you flowers, whichever were your favorite.

Maybe the ones from the painting Hazel forced him to take because ‘you can’t just not hang a painting that literally is you, Neeks’.

Italian Girl with Flowers. Joaquin Sorolla. 1886.

He didn’t see the resemblance.

But it didn’t really matter, because he’d get to watch you looking at all the cool things for sale and then he’d take you to the best gelato he’d found so far [he was making a list] or just use the shadows, and take you to a proper gelato shop. Whatever you wanted to do, really.

Nico blinked. He huffed, mainly at himself, and stabbed his waffle. It fell apart on the fork.

“Why’re you angry?”

He looked up from his plate, to Hazel. She was sitting opposite him with a mustache made of orange juice. “...I’m not.”

“You’re not supposed to be pushing down your emotions, remember?” she said sternly, and started picking the green bits off a strawberry. She was eating as many berries as she could, since she wasn’t allowed lollies anymore. The perks of braces.

Nico looked away. “I’m fine.”

“You’re thinking about the cat glove girl, aren’t you?” she asked with a smirk.

“Cat glove boy, remember?” he muttered, and took a bite of his waffle, wiping squished blueberries off his chin.

Hazel’s golden eyes widened, “Oh yeah. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize to me,” he said, and was grateful for the excuse to peek your way. You were eating toast. Very pretty-ily. He felt his face heat up.

Hazel perked up, a mischievous grin he didn’t appreciate on her face. “Okay! I’ll go apologize to your boyfriend then-”

Nico stared at her. Why was she like this? She actually went to stand up, and then he yanked her sleeve, pulling her back down to the table. “No! Don’t just… you can’t… stop!”

“You didn’t deny that he’s your boyfriend,” Jason chuckled, sitting down next to Hazel.

“I hate you all,” Nico said.

It was torture.

He felt like Sleepy time potion [Vanessa Stockhard], stuck in the middle of your loveliness, unable to do anything except stare and hope that his face wasn’t too as red as the mushroom he was sitting on.

In the painting.

Not in real life.

Obviously.

»»————-　★　————-««

Nico stared down at the hat in his lap.

He’d done it. He’d actually finished one of the hundreds of projects he’d started in Piper’s efforts to find him a hobby that wasn’t sitting on the fences of cemeteries or standing in line at Mcdonalds.

He had lots of other hobbies, he just… couldn’t come up with them when she was arguing with him.

So they’d gone through writing, painting, records, sleeping, which he excelled in, and then crocheting. None had lasted very long, but he may have had an idea half way through trying to stab Piper with the crocheting stick.

And now he had a white bucket hat with cat ears.

He threw it to the end of his bed, and hid underneath his duvet. Fuck.

Repose. Malcolm Liepke. 1953.

What on Olympus was he supposed to do about the way he wanted to hold you so badly he felt like throwing up and tearing his hair out?

He lay underneath in the pocket of stuffy darkness for a moment, before sitting up, untangling his blankets and teddies from him, and then standing. He may have just had the greatest idea anyone had ever thought of before.

Hazel was still in the shower, singing, most likely, so he grabbed his jacket from the coat rack that was actually just a skeleton, and then stomped out of his cabin, the stupid hat in his fist.

His heart was beating wildly. Stupid heart.

The Wedding Dress. Fred Ellwell. 1911.

He rubbed his face and groaned at the sky. The stars were just peeking out, but it was still pink and yellow, and the sun hadn’t dipped yet. It was hidden by the trees he was trudging through, though.

Fuck.

His chest was hurting.

Nico scrunched up the stupid perfect crocheted hat that just had to stupidly perfectly match your stupid perfect cat gloves because Nico was stupidly perfectly obsessed with you.

You, who was stupidly perfect.

Fuck.

Psyche Weeping. Kinuko Y Craft. 1995.

He trod on twigs that broke underneath his boots and weaved through the tree’s that slowly became more and more laden with hanging pendants and wind chimes and ruins carved into the bark.

He stepped over a thin stream. A frog croaked at him like it was dying. As if it could ever feel like it was dying. As if it could ever fall in love.

Nico groaned at the sky again.

“Just let it all out.”

He turned, and glared. “Do you mind?”

“Yes, actually,” Lou Ellen said, raising a purple eyebrow. It matched the undersides of her curly hair. She pointed to the cabin concealed in shadows and moss and stones behind her. “This is my house. And you are yelling very loudly.”

“I’m not yelling,” Nico argued. “I’m groaning.”

She stared at him for a second. She rolled her eyes. “Just come in, what do you need?”

“I need a spell. Or a charm. Or hex,” Nico said, following her through the wooden double doors. A wind chime tinkled even though the air was still. There were a few bunks lined up against the wall to one side. “Or a magic thing. I don’t care which one.”

The rest of the cabin was filled with small coffin shaped pet beds and empty pink soda cans and voodoo dolls hanging from the roof and rugs with cats wearing strawberry hats on the fluffy material and misty crystal balls.

Lou Ellen lent back on a desk stacked high with papers and paperweights that were actually jars filled with things. “Okay. I have three rules. I don’t kill people, and I don’t make people fall in love.”

“...And?”

“I’ll break both if it’ll be fun?”

Nico frowned. “No. Aren’t you supposed to say you won’t bring people back from the dead? That’s always the third rule.”

She squinted at him. “Uh…no. I send those people to you.”

Nico squinted back at her, sticking his tongue out. He fiddled with the stupid perfect hat and looked around. There was just more creepy things and stuffed animals. “Whatever. I need your help.”

“With what?”

“I need you to… like,” Nico started. He sighed. He looked away.

This was awful.

He was not about to admit that he might be in love, even if it was to reverse the feelings in the first place with whatever heart ripping out brain altering magic was necessary.

The Apollo cabin would find out through the witch in less than thirty seconds. He would never live it down.

Nico groaned again. “Oh for fucks sake, do you need me to fic your voicebox or something?” Lou Ellen hissed.

Nico glared at her. He groaned again, and then whirled around and stomped out of the weird mossy mushroom cabin. “Nevermind!”

“Fine! Have it your way!...weird little emo.”

Nico glared at the frog croaking at him, and kept walking through the forest.

He followed the little stream through the woods until he could hear wind chimes or Taylor Swift’s latest album anymore.

The little stream widened into a proper stream, filled with a lot more frogs. Why were there so many frogs? He nearly stood on a green one leaping across the path. Stupid frog.

Nico stuffed his hands into his pockets, along with the hat. He was tempted to just toss it into the river. Then he wouldn’t have to deal with all of the silly feelings that felt like the biggest things in the world to him and his silly head full of thoughts about your lips.

Maybe the frogs could use the hat as a home.

“Here froggie… Come here… I said, come here... No I am not taking a tone with you!”

Nico froze.

Fuck. He took a deep breath, probably too loudly. He glanced to the side.

Of course you were catching frogs, knee deep in a river.

You looked over, making eye contact, and Nico realized the moths underneath his ribcage were turning into bats. You squinted at him, hands on your hips, while water swirled around and leaves drifted from the trees above. A bucket was wedged between two rocks next to you.

A frog jumped out of it and landed near your leg, on a lillypad.

“Look Albert,” you said, turning to the frog. “It’s a little Victorian ghost.”

“...I’m Italian,” Nico said quietly. He stared at you. He couldn’t help it. Wow. Fuck. Leo was right. He really was pathetic. “And I’m not a ghost.”

“Okay, Victorian ghost.”

Nico stared at you. Fuck.

After that exchange, he should be able to hate you. Right? Right. He now resented you, and the moths turned bats would stop clawing at his chest and he would go back to having a normal life.

Right?

Wrong.

You squinted at Nico, and then slowly turned to Albert. “I think the cute Victorian ghost is having a stroke.”

Nico blinked once, gulped, and then marched forward through the cold water and frogs, his shoes squelching loudly. Gods. This was so embarrassing. But you thought he was cute, even if you also thought he was a dead english boy, so he would be content with dying from embarrassment.

He shoved the stupid perfect hat into your stupid perfect hands.

And then left in about 0.3 seconds.

»»————-　★　————-««

You stared down at your pancakes. Why were they so gray looking? Had someone poisoned them? You figured that it would be a pretty good way to die, and tipped extra maple syrup onto them before you dug in.

To counterbalance the poison, of course.

You scratched at the mosquito bite underneath the strap of your binder. It had flowers embroidered into it. Your binder. Not the mosquito bite.

One of your siblings across from you kicked at your shin, probably on purpose, but you continued to eat your odd tasting pancakes and picked blueberry grit off your white cat paw gloves. They were your favorite gloves.

They also matched your new hat. The new hat that the cute Victorian but actually Italian ghost boy had given you before he teleported away with whatever dark magic he had stored in all that goth-ness.

You tossed a blueberry at Clarisse when she walked past and tried to bash you over the head.

She wasn’t allowed to ruin your new hat.

You turned to see her flicking the blueberry over at someone else, and your eyes flicked past that too. Now way. You stood up, but you’d lost sight of the mess of dark hair when the Hermes cabin barrelled past.

You clambered onto your seat and stood up there. “Oi! Victorian ghost hat boy!”

The dining pavilion went quiet pretty quickly, and everyone turned to the cute guy with a skeleton hoodie and wide eyes. He pointed at himself when you pointed at him, and then went pink.

Clarisse stuck her arm out so you didn’t faceplant when you jumped down from your seat, and you held onto your new hat as you traipsed across the cracked floor.

You’d never figured out how that crack had got there. But there were bigger mysteries.

Like this cute goth.

His face just pinker when you grabbed his sleeve and tried to tug him out of the entire camp’s curious eyes. A dark skinned girl with a lot of butterfly clips and a Steven Universe t-shirt sent a thumbs up in your direction.

It was only when you were standing by the low burning fire pit in a patch of daisies did you realize you hadn’t really planned far enough ahead.

You took off the cat-ear hat and looked down at it. “...Uhm…”

“Sorry,” the goth said quickly, and when you made eye contact he looked away even quicker. “It’s creepy. Boundaries and stuff, I just… saw your gloves.”

“It’s not creepy,” you argued, putting the hat back on with a grin. He was really cute when he blushed. “I mean, I don’t even know your name, and I have no idea who you are but your eyeliner is really really great and… Holy Hades if you smile like that again can I… please kiss you?”

The goth with no name stared at you, and then nodded about ten times too many. “Yes please. But, uh.. If you’re gonna kiss me, please, maybe don’t get my dad involved.”

“...Wut?”

»»————-　★　————-««

Nico could feel his cheeks growing hotter.

Not because of the sun, specifically, but it was hot and bright in the woods. He’d worn sunscreen though. And forced you to put it on too, once he’d found watermelon scented sunscreen, because you refused to smell gross no matter how sunburnt you would get anyways.

His face was hot and red because of you.

You, who was stupidly perfect and also possibly kind of Nico’s stupidly perfect boyfriend.

“Psst, Victorian ghost boy,” you said with a sing-song voice, quietly, and waved your hand in front of his eyes with your pink, blue, and white painted nails. He blinked. You smiled. “You zoned out again.”

“Sorry,” Nico said, and pulled a daisy out of the ground. He handed it over. “I was thinking about you.”

He hadn’t realized the effect that saying that would have on you, but it was worth it when you opened and closed your mouth like one of the frogs you kept as pets.

“I.. well, what were you thinking about?”

Nico had played his cards right. He smirked, and you shuffled forwards on the checked picnic blanket Piper had stolen from Drew, who’d probably nicked it from poor unsuspecting Demeter or Iris kid. You knocked over the basket of strawberries too, and then took your bucket hat off and stuffed it in your lap with a grin.

He tilted his head down. You were both following a very well rehearsed script. “...Kissing you?”

You launched yourself forwards then with a laugh, your cat-paw gloved hands landing on either side of his waist and probably squishing some of those strawberries at the same time.

The sun reflected in your eyes and Nico held the sides of your face as he pressed his lips to yours.

You kissed back, and once you both stopped smiling widely, you could kiss back.

Properly.

He scratched his fingernails, the ones you’d painted rainbow that afternoon after catching more frogs and complaining about sunscreen, along your jaw when you bit down on his bottom lip.

Not as a complaint, certainly not, and you knew that too because you just sat back on your knees between Nico’s lap and tilted your head to fit deeper against Nico’s bruised lips.

The ones that hadn’t had a single day off since you jumped up in the middle of breakfast with your gluten free waffles you hadn’t realized were gluten free until he had explained it to you later.

It was intensely crazily unbearably romantic but it also meant whatever cold one of you managed to catch, the other would come down with only minutes later.

And Nico felt like that smug little cat from Julie Manet’s Auguste Renoir.

»»————-　★　————-««

#pjo fandom #nico #nico pjo #nico di angelo #pjo #percy jackon and the olympians #heroes of olympus #percy jackson #nico di angelo x reader #nico x reader #nico di angelo pjo #pjo hoo toa #hoo #nico di angelo x you #nico di angelo reader #nico di angelo x transmasc reader #lou ellen #lou ellen pjo

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mobiloitteinc02 · 1 year ago

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talentelgia · 2 years ago

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porcelainseashore · 9 months ago

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Into the Ether (2)

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Vampire! Toreador! Leon Kennedy x Fem! Reader

Summary: At the all-night events cafe you run, you’ve become acquainted with an elusive patron, Leon, though you can never remember the last moments of your interactions together. After a harrowing encounter, a love-hate relationship develops between the two of you as you grapple with your newfound status in a world of darkness and investigate the reasons behind the untimely attacks.

Content & Warnings: 18+ Resident Evil x Vampire: The Masquerade crossover, horror, mystery, romance, slow burn, strangers to enemies to lovers, angst, fluff, eventual smut, swearing, smoking, alcohol, drug references, non consensual blood drinking, blood bond, vampire turning, violence, injury, mild gore, torture, religious themes, minor character death, RE ensemble, VtM concepts.

Taglist: @admirxation @angelstargel ❤️‍🔥

AO3 Link

Chapter 2: Dead City Blues

Eight years ago…

Claire rapped loudly on an inconspicuous black steel door, one among many within a dreary, gray slab building. The sound echoed off the concrete walls, but there was no answer.

“Fuck,” she muttered under her breath, checking the address written down in marker on the palm of her hand again. Yeah, this was the place, alright.

Banging on the door a second time for good measure, she whipped her head from side to side, skittishly surveying her surroundings while she tapped her foot on the ground impatiently. After what had recently happened, she was on edge, wanting to make sure she hadn’t been followed. Unfortunately, she was met with nothing but silence.

Where the hell was this guy? Trying the door handle, she rattled it and it clicked open, unlocked. Gingerly, she took a step inside, closing the door behind her. Well, she didn’t come all the way here for nothing. Might as well snoop around and see what she could find.

On the other end of the room stood a work desk overflowing with papers, some neatly stacked in piles, others scattered across its surface which was haphazardly littered with sticky notes. The desk lamp shone brightly, illuminating the dust motes circling lazily in the air, and a laptop lay open beneath it, the text cursor blinking on a blank document, seemingly mocking her. Next to the desk were a bunch of filing cabinets with some of its drawers open, as if someone had been rummaging through them but had left in a hurry. There was a worn leather couch to the side, along with a large potted plant and a couple of cushioned chairs. For clients, she presumed.

The laminated wooden floors creaked underfoot as she moved forwards cautiously. She sensed that she wasn’t alone, but wherever she looked, there was not a single soul in sight. Everything was completely still. Too still, she thought, playing with the rings on her fingers nervously. This wasn’t her territory. She was risking her undead skin, but there was no other choice.

“You have some balls, showing your face here,” a voice from the shadows taunted.

With a jerk, Claire pivoted sharply to confront the source of the disturbance, leaping backwards as she bared her fangs and hissed aggressively.

The voice tutted, “Defiant brat.” A man with dirty blonde hair and icy blue eyes appeared from the corner of the room. “You Anarchs really live up to your name.”

Her brows furrowed in confusion. “Leon Kennedy?” she questioned, the name spilling out from her mouth like a foreign object. However, she regained her composure, relaxing her stance as she smirked, unable to resist another one of her sassy comebacks that often got her into trouble. “Tell me, Camarilla pretty boy, how’s it like being the Prince’s lapdog?”

With blinding speed, Leon raced in front of her, holding her neck in a vice-like grip as her feet lifted off the ground. “You have ten seconds to explain before I rip your fucking throat out!” he snarled, while she choked and sputtered, struggling to break free from his grasp.

Summoning her strength, she tucked her chin, raising her arms up before using the momentum to swing her hips to one side, while simultaneously slamming her elbows into his forearm. A deep growl escaped his lips as he let her drop to the ground. “I need… your help,” she coughed violently. “My brother…”

He squatted down beside her, eyeing her with barely masked contempt. “And why should I help a filthy lick like you?”

“Please,” she begged, even though groveling in this manner made the hairs on the back of her neck stand. “They said you were one of the best. That you’d know how to find even those who don’t want to be found.” Tears lined her lashes as she looked away in humiliation, willing them not to fall.

His features softened in reflex action, as he saw brief vignettes of the past flash before his eyes of people coming to him for help, and the despair seeping through their pores. Their silhouettes morphed with Claire’s, blurring reality with fiction. It was inherent in him to help others. He hadn’t forgotten it, even though he was no longer human.

“Fine,” he managed to make out through gritted teeth. “I only take payment upfront though.” Reaching his hand out towards her, he helped her to her feet, as she dusted off her red leather jacket.

“Yeah, about that…” she scratched the back of her head sheepishly.

“Let me guess, you’re not exactly rolling in riches, are you?” he sighed, his expression drooping suddenly in weariness.

Claire bit her tongue, trying to hold back on making another snarky remark about the elitist Camarilla sect and its bullshit Ivory Tower. Leon cocked his head, staring at her curiously, unveiling his fangs deliberately like a shark. Shit, maybe he was one of those Kindred who could read minds.

“Look, wait—” she raised her hands in front of him as though placating a raging bull. “If you find him, Chris…” There was a long, pregnant pause, as she shuffled her feet anxiously. “I’ll owe you a life boon,” she breathed, sealing her fate.

A life boon. She must be completely desperate, he thought. He’d never been owed one before, seeing as how he was just another mundane neonate in the underworld of upper class Kindred, which meant that he’d graduated from being a fledgling under the wing of his sire without fucking up. He was good enough to be considered a cog in the machine for his elders to use like a pawn in their silly games. But for the past 15 years, give and take, of his unlife, he always played by the rules, or around them, never going beyond the point of no return.

Life boons were rare in these nights and he wasn’t about to say no, but at the same time there was that nagging conscience within him that wondered if he was taking advantage of her. No, the Kindred world worked differently from the Kine’s… well, actually they were pretty similar, but— he shook his head to snap out of it before he could sink deeper into the rabbit hole.

Clearing his throat, he extended his hand again, offering it to her. “You got yourself a deal then, uh, miss…?”

“Claire.” She grabbed his hand and shook it firmly, nodding tersely at him. “Claire Redfield.”

“Right, Claire, tell me everything you know so far.” He gestured towards a pair of seats near his desk.

After he had gathered all the information he needed, he sent her off to the door like the gentleman he had been raised to be. Before heading out, she turned around, unclasping the silvery chain that hung around her neck. Attached to it was a matching pewter feather and a robin’s egg blue gemstone set within it.

“Take this.” She released it in his hand. “Show it to Chris and he’ll know I sent you.”

With that, she disappeared into the cool, dead of night.

The next time they saw each other was a week later, inside an abandoned motel. There was trash strewn across the entire floor and an overhead light buzzed and flickered.The plaster had been torn apart from the ceiling board and loose cables hung from its opening.

A gruff, bulky man leaned against Leon’s shoulder which acted like a makeshift crutch, as Leon steadied him with a firm grip, half-carrying and half-guiding him to a soiled mattress in the middle of a room. The man patted Leon’s arm, indicating that he wanted to take a break. He slid down against the wall, resting in a sitting position on the mattress. His clothes were caked with mud and half of his face had been severely burnt, as charred black flesh curled at its edges. There was a gaping bullet hole in his thigh, and rusty colored blood soaked through his tactical pants.

Apart from the scratching and scampering of rodents, the place was silent. Though the uncanny peace was disrupted just a split second later, when a screech could be heard from the other end of the room. “Chris!”

In a blink of an eye, Claire dashed forward and knelt in front of her brother, grasping both of his shoulders as tears streamed down her face.

“Some FIRSTLIGHT agents got him real bad, but he managed to get out of the thick of it,” Leon explained. “They were searching for him, so he was stuck there for a while.”

Chris brushed his sooty fingers against his sister’s cheek, leaving charcoal marks in their wake. “Don’t worry, we got them back,” he rasped, shifting his gaze between Leon and him, as he grimaced through the pain.

“Shhh, don’t speak.” She brought a finger to his lips, trying to hush him. “Fucking SI bastards,” she seethed.

The Second Inquisition. The bane of every Kindred’s existence. They targeted everyone indiscriminately, regardless of sect, and had been around in one form or another since the beginning of time. Today, they were a conglomeration of intelligence agencies who made it their life mission to eradicate the undead. Apparently, even the Vatican was involved, Leon scoffed at his internal monologue, before directing his attention back at Claire. “Your brother’s had a blood bag, he’ll need—”

“Shit’s fucking disgusting, 10 out of 10 would not recommend,” Chris warned hoarsely, before erupting into a coughing fit.

Claire groaned, shaking her head in exasperation. “I swear, it’s like talking to a brick wall with this one.”

Leon peered around the room, double-checking to ensure that no one else was there. He shouldn’t stay any longer than necessary. “Since my job here is done, I’ll take my leave,” he said, stuffing his hands into his pockets, as he turned towards the exit sign.

“Leon?” Claire called out and he looked back at her in puzzlement. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but… thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.” He shrugged, flipping his bangs away from his face.

“I owe you,” she declared, her serious demeanor reflecting the sincerity of her words.

Chris glanced between the two of them. “We owe you,” he chimed in.

━━━━━━━━━━━

Present day…

Jasmine incense and fruity puffs of shisha smoke wafted throughout the room he had just entered. Translucent red silk sheets draped around the ceiling and the side walls, giving off the illusion of being in the hull of a ship, as well as a false sense of security. The beaded curtain he passed through made a tinkling sound as the pearls clacked lightly together, alerting others to his presence. This was a place where gossip was woven, secrets were spilled and deals were made. Leon knew this all too well, especially since he had his share of many such dealings with his sire in the past.

He was in luck today. Apart from her, there were only ghouls here, ordinary humans whom she recruited into her service and imbued with her strength. One of them nodded at him in acknowledgment, offering him a cordial glass filled with claret liquid. “Our finest.”

Clearly, they had anticipated his arrival. How nice of his sire to inform them, he ruminated sarcastically. Taking the glass from her, he swirled it, noting how smoothly it strained down the sides before sniffing the rim faintly.

“We also have live vessels, if you prefer,” she suggested.

He frowned slightly, signaling with a subtle hand wave to decline her proposal as he drank from his glass. She backed off, allowing him to walk past towards a majestic set of marble doors, lavishly decorated with ornaments and intricate figures carved into them. Tracing an outline of a distorted face of a child with his finger, he recalled how in his early years, he’d been so enraptured by everything in this godforsaken place, and most of all, her. He lifted the aged bronze knocker, tapping it twice before pushing open the double doors.

And there he saw her, in all her terrible glory, basking like a queen in an elegant kimono robe on her opulent, plush bed, adorned with a velvet headboard and its frame crafted from the finest woods. Every inch of it was covered in luxurious fabrics, from the embroidered duvet to the pile of sumptuously soft pillows. Kneeling beside her on the ground was a half naked ghoul, lapping hungrily at the crimson fluid flowing from her wrist. A blood-stained dagger lay on the bedside table.

Ada caught Leon’s gaze and smirked at him.

“That’s enough for now,” she commanded, and immediately, the ghoul straightened himself, averting his eyes as he retreated from the pair of them.

The gash on her wrist closed up on its own. “Just the monthly top up.”

Leon made a face at her elaboration; the betrayal and hurt were still raw in his memory, as if they had only occurred yesterday.

“Oh, don’t be so sour, Leon,” she laughed. “You can’t possibly be still hung up about that?”

“You used me, Ada,” he simmered. Despite the infrequency of their meetings in the recent years spent apart, she knew how to push his buttons. “So, I’m sorry if it’s a little hard for me to act like nothing ever happened between us.”

She let out an irritated sigh. “You sound like a child throwing a tantrum right now,” she retorted, picking at her nails in growing boredom. “And tell me, which sire doesn’t use their own progeny?”

He clenched his fists in anger but held his tongue. This wasn’t the hill he wanted to die on. He reminded himself of the purpose of his visit and chose not to let her snide comments ruffle him.

“Good boy,” she cooed approvingly. “I see you haven’t lost all of your manners. Blood bond, or no blood bond.”

He winced at the term, as a sudden wave of nostalgia, combined with ensuing nausea, hit him. The visions were so vivid:

“Do you love me?” She stroked the side of his cheek tenderly as he lay naked and panting on top of her pale breasts.

“Yes, yes, of course,” he fawned.

“Prove it.”

Cradling her hand, he brought the underside of her wrist to his lips. “I’ll do anything! Say the word and I’ll die for you, a thousand times over.”

“Then drink, my love.” Her eyes glowed violet as her mouth shaped into a cruel, yet alluring smile.

And he sank his teeth into her, like a good little boy.

Back then, she only needed to say “Jump,” and he would ask, “How high?” without realizing that drinking from her so often would result in a nearly unbreakable blood bond. He committed despicable acts in her name, things he would rather scrub from his mind and forget about, but they continued to haunt him.

When he lost his shine and the appeal of being something new, she discarded him like yesterday's newspaper, chasing after the next high she could find. The problem with the bond was that he was obsessed with her, often breaking out into insanely jealous fits that tormented him for days when she took on a new lover. He had almost killed one of them, which, in turn, could have resulted in his Final Death at the hands of the Prince, had he been successful. Time away from her was all it took for the bond to wear off, though it was not without its difficulties. He whined like a lovesick puppy during the moments he was alone, rotting like waste on the stone cold floor. His vulnerability was like a disease; he hated every bit of it and swore never to descend to such a state.

When he returned to the Court like a new man after an agonizing period of being weaned off the bond, he suddenly found himself no longer in vogue and stumbling his way through the dark, seeing as how it was always his sire who called the shots around town. In a twisted turn of events, he ironically ended up falling back on the career he had originally given up to be with her, in order to be of use to the Camarilla, or polite vampire society, if you will.

And then, there was the vessel business. To keep up with the expectations and obligations impressed upon him due to their formal relationship as sire and childe, he continued to bring her the vessels she requested. The only requirement was for them to be of ‘exquisite taste’ and he obliged whenever he could, though this time, he put in just the bare minimum to get by. Yet, some part of him still cared for her, in spite of what she had done, even if he would never let himself admit that.

Coming back to his senses, his eyes adjusted to the scene before him. Leaning back on her bed and propped up by the pillows, Ada patted the empty side next to her, inviting him to take a seat, and he followed her lead.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Negotiating was never one of his strong suits, especially not with Ada, but he had to try. He gulped the rest of the liquid down, fiddling with the glass in his hand. “Ada, since I joined you, you know I’ve never asked you for anything…”

She cast him a prolonged sideways glance. “You’ve piqued my curiosity. Go on.”

“I want to Embrace one of my own.” The words tumbled out of his mouth in a rush. Better to get it done and over with.

“You? Becoming a sire?” she snorted in disbelief before bursting into giggles. “I mean, you’ve always been a bit of a mommy’s boy, haven’t you?”

“I can handle it,” he responded curtly with a cold and unbroken stare.

“Hmph.” Pulling herself into a seated position against the headrest, she folded her arms and turned to face him. “I have to say though, this is even more interesting than when you joined the Anarchs.”

A disgruntled noise escaped his throat. “I didn’t join the Anarchs—”

“No matter.” She raised a hand to silence him. “Wesker seems to think it useful of you to be our unofficial emissary. And what the Prince says, goes, after all.” A sly grin spread across her cheeks, barely concealing her fangs.

Clearing her throat, she continued her line of questioning. “So, who is this prospective childe?”

“One of the owners of Café Noir on Blake Street, just east of Circular River,” he mentioned, racking his brains for any viable excuse to make you sound like the best possible candidate for the Clan of the Rose, the Toreador. His and Ada’s clan. Like sire, like childe.

There were some who thought of them as divas and perverts, but these Kindred were wrong — they were so much more than that. Passion and obsession were their greatest strengths. They could make or break minds with it, crushing you until you were nothing but a tiny speck on the Earth, to be shunned and forgotten. Everyone had something to bring to the table, and let’s just say what counts as an art has always been a purely subjective matter.

“I was tipped off that the Anarchs are looking for ways to claim the area as their domain,” he explained further. “She’ll give us the edge we need to prevent that.”

“Anything else?” she probed.

“She’s young, idealistic—”

“A lot like yourself, back in the day.” A rueful laugh escaped her lips.

Leon continued forward without missing a beat, he needed to convince her without letting her statement get to him. “Hot-blooded, but not to the extreme like those Brujahs, just the right amount of fight in her. I’m sure you’ve heard of the events they’ve hosted over there—”

“Ah, yes,” she nodded. “Very underground and avant-garde.” There was a twinge of dismissiveness in the way she said it.

“Yet pandering to the people,” he added quickly, attempting to cram in even more noteworthy achievements he had recognized in you. “Well, you can’t deny that she can stir quite a crowd—”

“You’re in love with her, aren’t you?” Ada interrupted him for the third time in a row, and he was struggling to maintain his composure in response to her accusation. “How predictable.”

“That’s besides the point,” he snapped, turning away from her to avoid her mocking scrutiny.

She tutted, stretching herself out leisurely like a cat who had a mouse trapped between its claws. “The real question is, why don’t you ask the Prince yourself?”

“You know why,” he muttered, still unable to look her in the eyes.

“Say it.”

Swallowing his pride, he pursed his lips before speaking. “I’m just a simple whelp. But you, as an esteemed Harpy, know how to please him.”

“Very good.” She reached out and ran her lithe fingers through his silken locks of hair as he shuddered at her touch. “Just like I taught you.”

Curling her fingers under his chin, she turned his face back towards her. “You know this won’t come for free…”

“I am well aware.”

The look of determination in his eyes nearly startled her. She hadn’t seen that fire in him for a while. “Sometimes, you surprise me,” she admitted. “No wonder I keep you around.”

“Do we have a deal?” he pressed, trying to keep the conversation on track.

“If I were you, I’d be careful what I wished for.” She trailed one of her taloned nails along his bottom lip. “In any case, I’m counting this as a major boon, so you better be ready to pull your weight when the time comes.”

She was always playing games. With him. With everyone. It was what she thrived on. But his choices were limited. “Have I ever failed you?”

“Don’t make it the first,” she warned, a gleam of danger flashing across her eyes. “Well, come then, kiss me.”

Suppressing his reluctance, he leaned forward and pressed his lips against hers as she asked, submitting to her entirely as the deal was sealed.

━━━━━━━━━━━

“Leon?” he heard you call out from behind the bar the minute he’d stepped through the entrance. You looked like you had seen a ghost.

It had been a while since he had returned, but there were other more urgent matters he had to attend to in the meantime. Did you miss him? Was this what it was all about? He strolled over, watching you chew your lip apprehensively.

He tried to place his hand on your shoulder in concern, but you shrank away from him like a wilted flower. There was a pang in his chest. He didn’t know how you had the power to unintentionally hurt him in this way. “Is something wrong?”

You were trembling so badly, the cup you were holding rattled noisily against its saucer. “What did you do to me back then?”

A pained realization swept across his face. You had remembered the last words he had said this time, waking up confused to find yourself unsullied, not a hair out of place, wondering what on earth he meant by his remark. God, he wanted to hold you now and beg for your forgiveness, but it was too late.

“You know, I liked you…” Your mouth had contorted in anguish. “If you wanted something, you could’ve just asked.”

“Please, I can explain,” he pleaded, finding himself on the opposite end of the table for once. “I swear, I won’t do anything to harm you. I just need you to trust me, please.”

Your forehead creased as you pondered your next move, eyeing the man in front of you with suspicion. He seemed so earnest and had treated you with nothing but kindness before. Yet, beneath the surface, there lurked a predatory nature intrinsic to him. Although it scared you, you found this side to him fascinating, and it drew you in at the same time.

Finally, you came to a decision. “Patrick?” you motioned towards your curly-haired brunette colleague while not once shifting your gaze from Leon. “I’m gonna take the night off and spend some time with this gentleman here.”

Sliding Leon’s business card along the counter towards him, you made sure to talk loud enough for the blonde man to hear it. “If you don’t see me in the next day or two, you know what to do.”

You tried to laugh it off as a half-serious joke, just so they wouldn’t worry… too much. And with that, you grabbed your jacket and headed off into the night with him.

#leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x you #leon kennedy #leon kennedy smut #leon kennedy angst #leon kennedy fluff #resident evil #vampire au #vampire the masquerade #vtm #crossover #fic: into the ether #porcelainscribbles

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