#mans is just running a business but the risks are all too real

[sitepathos]

Hello (⁠＠⁠°⁠▽⁠°⁠＠ )

What if MC in Gold to mold did kill the kidnappers somehow , and called Alfred all shocked that he just killed ! ?

And now he decided to not wait for his graduation , and just leave, and live in his mother's house.

Thanks for your time (⁠^⁠^⁠)

You were in an extraordinary amount of pain.

The leader of your kidnappers was quite thorough in inflicting pain on you; one eye is swollen shut, your nose is busted, several bones feel broken, and you’re fairly sure you have a concussion (though since you’ve never had one, you’re not entirely sure if it’s a concussion or just a really bad head wound).

“I think he’s had enough, man,” one of the other two men say.

“Yeah,” he says, huffing from the beating he gave you. “You’re right.”

Even while in a world of pain, you can still think about caused it: Bruce Fucking Wayne and his collection of bastards. They spend every night running around Gotham and beating the hell out of thugs and Arkham’s escaped patients, so you would think that they would take the call seriously if only for the sole reason of hunting down ransomers and putting the behind bars.

But no, he’s too busy looking for his psychotic boyfriend to spare this another thought.

And while you’ve always assumed they forgot you existed, that phone call silenced all doubts. They said that no one was missing from the manor and all of Bruce’s kids were with him. And the fact they laughed at your kidnapper, causing him to take his anger out on you.

You would cry about being forgotten by your “family,” but you’re too busy crying from the beating you just took.

“Let’s just take what he has on him and go,” the third one chimes in. He motions to you. “What do we do with him?”

“Well, since he didn’t give us a number to call,” he snarls, pulling out a gun from his pocket and aims it at you. “I doubt he has anyone who’ll miss him.”

You freeze at the sight of the gun. Is this really how you die? Being shot by some lowlifes in some dirty cabin in the middle of the woods?

“What do we do about the body?”

“The fuck do you think,” he shouts at his cohort, turning towards the man behind him. “There’s the pit a ways from here! We’ll toss him in there!”

The two man fall into a shouting match and as they hurl insults, you notice something: the ropes binding you to the chair are loose, most likely due to the man beating you with the pipe. You start to shuffle around, moving your body around as best as you can with your condition, and finally, you feel the rope become slack.

The man with the gun is still busy yelling with his friend, so you take advantage of the distraction and strike, lunging from the chair and kicking the man in the balls as hard as you can. He howls in pain and drops his gun to cradle his wounded manhood, where you quickly scoop it up and point it at the men, who stare at you in shock (with the leader still having a pained expression).

“No one move,” you say, your heart pounding in your chest at the development.

You look down at the weapon in your hands. This is the first time you’ve ever held a gun and by god is it terrifying. You have a real gun in your hands and may probably have to use it, meaning you killed another person.

“Alright, kid,” one of the other men say. “Just put the gun down and we’ll let you go.”

That’s a load of bullshit and you both know it. You’ve seen their faces and they can’t risk you going to the police and reporting them. Plus, after hurting their leader and holding them at gun point is something they won’t let go.

The leader proved you right by lunging for you and in a panic, you fire the gun without properly aiming it. He falls to the ground and doesn’t get up; upon inspection of him, you realize that you somehow managed to shoot him in the head, guaranteeing a death blow.

The three of you just stand where you are, staring at the body of the man lying on the floor. Right now, the the gunshot rings in your head, making it hard to hear anything and your right arm, the one holding the gun, feels like it’s made of lead and you have to fight to keep it upright.

Holy shit, you just killed a man. Granted, he was going to kill you, but he’s a piece of shit while you’re a good person. For fuck’s sake, you’ve never fired a gun outside of a video game before and now you just shot a man in the head!

The other two break out of their stupor and go to rush you. You quickly react by aiming the gun at the one of the men and shooting, the bullet hitting him on the chest, making him fall to the ground with a yelp.

You go for the last man, but he grabs the gun and you fight back as strong as you can, causing the two of you to fall to the floor and wrestle over control of the weapon. Right now, you feel adrenaline pumping throughout your body and you gain the extra strength to flip the gun ever so slightly towards the man and in the struggle, you pull the trigger.

The bang fills the room, once again deafening you, and the man falls on top of you, pinning you to the ground. You use what little strength you have to flip the man on you and when you do, you find a bullet hole in the man’s chest, specifically on his left side, blood pooling from the wound and staining his shirt.

You look at your hands and upon seeing them covered in blood, you scream. A few hours ago, this day was awful because you lost a job you loved and now, it’s gone to rivaling the day you lost your Momma; you’ve never even held a gun before and not only have you, but now three men lie dead thanks to you, their blood literally on your hands.

“Oh my god,” you shout, tears streaming from your eyes like a waterfall.

Seeing the bodies causes your lunch to churn and before you can help it, you empty your stomach contents over the floor, mixing in with the blood, making you even more sick at the disgusting sight and empty everything you have in your stomach and more.

Finally, you stop puking and somehow manage to crawl over to your bag and pocket your Momma’s pen the had fallen next to it. At least your most treasured possession is safe, so at least something went your way tonight.

You unzip your bag and put it in and fish out your phone, powering it up. An eternity passes before it finally turns on, just in time for it to ring, revealing Alfred on your screen.

You sob seeing the picture of the man, wishing he was here right now. Knowing him, he would’ve come in guns blazing and gone John Wick on them, killing them and sparing you the burden of having taken three lives tonight.

“Master Y/N,” the man says when you answer it. Based on his tone, he sounds a little pissed off, probably because he’s tried calling you and since you’ve been kidnapped, you weren’t able to answer his calls.

“Alfred,” you sob back, the dam breaking upon hearing the man’s voice.

“Are you alright,” he quickly responds, his tone now worried and concerned.

“No,” you cry out. “It’s horrible!”

“Where are you? Are you home?”

“No, I’m in the woods. In some cabin.” You want to tell him everything that’s happened to you, but you’re exhausted and all you have the energy to do is cry.

“Can you make it home?”

“Maybe. I don’t know.”

“Do whatever it takes to get back home, Master Y/N. I’m on my way back, now. I’ll be back soon.”

“Don’t go,” you cry, not wanting to be left alone, even if he’s just on the phone.

“I won’t,” he reassures you. “I’ll be on the phone as long as I can. I’ll message Master Bruce and have him—“

“No,” you exclaim, using a chunk of your reserve energy to show you want nothing to do with that man. “This is his fault! His fault!”

“Alright,” he says, his tone one that you would use when trying to calm down a startled animal. “Alright. I won’t. Can you make it home on your own?”

“I think so,” you say as you get your feet, throwing your bag over your shoulder before walking towards the door.

It took you two and a half hours to walk from the cabin to Wayne Manor; it probably would’ve taken you half of that, but in your condition, it’s a miracle you’re walking at all. True to his word, Alfred remained on the phone with you, reassuring you that everything would be alright and that he would be home soon.

Apparently, the man is former Special Forces for the SAS and had many favors with both former and current military, one of which he used to get his hands on a military jet that could make the journey back to Gotham in a fraction of the time it takes planes.

Fuck, you should’ve given that asshole Alfred’s number. Then none of this would’ve happened and you could be back in your room and in your bed, trying to forget this night ever happened.

Finally, after walking down the mile long driveway and your way up the stairs and the multiple hallways to your room.

“Master Y/N, I just landed in the years,” Alfred reports as you open your door and fall onto the warn out carpet of your room. “Where are you?”

“My room,” you mutter.

“I’ll be up there in a minute.”

As much as you don’t want to go without the man’s voice, you know that he’ll run up here as fast as possible and be here in a few seconds, so you just hum an affirmative and the call ends. As you expect, you hear running in just a few seconds of the call ending and when you manage to turn you body to face the door, your savior comes to a stop at your open doorway.

“My god,” the man says before kneeling down to you. “Master Y/N. What on earth happened to you?”

You thought you had reached your limit, but seeing Alfred here, what little strength you had finally drains from you and you start bawling your eyes out. The butler holds you tight and you cry even harder.

“I killed three men,” you sob.

“What.” The man pulls you back to face him, but he still keeps a firm, but gentle hold on you. “You killed someone?”

The look on the man’s face makes you fell even worse and you cry even more.

“They kidnapped me,” you say as best as you can. “They tried to ransom me and they were gonna kill me! I got free, we fought, and I killed them!”

“What about Master Bruce? Don’t tell me you didn’t try to get him to help you?”

“I did! But he said all his children were with him and they all laughed and he did this to me!”

“Oh, my boy.” The look on Alfred’s face makes you feel even worse. He looks horrified, and shocked, and angry, and disappointed all at once. “My dear, sweet boy.”

“I’m going home,” you say, standing up and making your way to your dresser.

“What do you mean, Master Y/N? You made it back home, already.”

“No,” you exclaim, looking back at the man. “Home isn’t here! Home is Goodsprings!”

“But Master Y/N—“

“I almost died, Alfred! The one time I ask Bruce for help, and he nearly gets me killed! He proved that he doesn’t care about me, so I don’t care about him!”

“Master Y/N, I understand how you feel. Believe me, I plan on having firm words with all of them as soon as I see them, but you’re in no condition to be going anywhere. You need urgent medical attention! It’s nothing short of a miracle that you’re able to stand, let alone walk all the way here from Gotham Woods!”

You want to argue, really, you do, but you know Alfred’s right. You have so many injuries that you’ll probably die before the bus even leaves Gotham.

“Please, Master Y/N,”. He pleads, taking your hands into his. “Let me take you to the hospital.”

You nod and the man guides you to the garage, taking one of Bruce’s many fancy cars, and slams on the gas, pushing the engine to its limits.

“Mr. Pennyworth?”

Alfred looks up at the nurse in front of him.

“How is he,” he asks, standing up.

“He’s in pretty bad shape and it was touch and go at parts, but the doctors were able to stabilize him.”

“Oh thank god,” he says, holding back a few tears. “Thank you so much. Can I see him?”

“They still have him for tests and scans, but he’ll be done and in a room in about ten minutes. You can wait in his room if you wish.”

He gives the nurse his thanks and walks round your room. It’s absolutely appalling that it takes you getting kidnapped and almost dying to get a decent room. He should’ve tried more to get your a proper room, but after Master Damian joined the family, you insisted on staying as far away from the rest of the family as possible, especially from your brother.

He had hoped that they would finally see reason and realize that you’re a part of this family and should be treated as such, but the time for waiting is long over.

He kicks himself for leaving; he knew he was the only one you could rely on in this damn city and he had to go and leave you, endangering you just to walk around the cloudy streets of his hometown.

“Enough is enough,” he says, taking out his phone and patching it into the Bat comm channel. While he intends on giving all of them a long and stern lecture (while he was waiting for an update on your condition, he accessed the manor’s phone logs and listened to the ransom call and needless to say, it only made him angrier at them) , he knows that the important thing is at least one of them being here and supporting you.

“Alfred,” Bruce asks, clearly confused. “Is everything alright?”

“No it is not, Master Bruce,” he says in a stern tone he only reserves for when they mess up really badly. “I am absolutely disappointed and disgusted by all of you.”

“Allie,” Dick shines in, clearly upset and concerned. “What did we do?”

“It’s about what you didn’t do, Master Dick. Do any of you know where Master Y/N is right now?”

“Y/N,” Tim asks. “He’s… at the manor?”

“No, he’s currently in Gotham General’s Intensive Care Unit.” The channel fills with various gasps. “For years, you ignore the poor boy and the one time he reaches out to you, you prove you don’t see him as family. That ransom call you received? The one you said no one was missing? They were talking about him!”

They say nothing, but Alfred’s known all of them for years ad he knows that right now, they’re all feeling bad about themselves right now.

Good. After all they’ve put you through, they deserve to feel like the scum of the earth.

“He managed to break free and was forced to kill his kidnappers,” he continues.

“He killed someone,” Bruce interjects, but he continues as if his foolish master said nothing.

“He managed to call me and I was able to get ahold of a jet and come home. Imagine my surprise when I saw him beaten, covered in blood, and barely able to move. The doctors weren’t sure if he’d make it.”

“I,” Bruce spits out before falling silent.

“You have five minutes to get here, Master Bruce. And if you’re not, I will come looking for you and you’ll be in the hospital room next to his after I’m done with you.”

“I’m on my way,” he responds, dejected. “I’ll be there soon.”

“Me too,” Dick quickly adds.

“I will come as well,” Damian adds.

“This conversation is far from over, I promise you all that.”

And with that, he ends the call. As he pockets his phone, you’re wheeled into the room by an orderly.

“The docs gave him a ton of painkillers, so he’ll be out for a while,” the man explains as he locks your bed into place.

Alfred thanks the man who nods and leaves. He walks over to your side and takes in the sight of you covered in more bandages than a mummy.

“My sweet boy,” he says, taking your hand into his.

After today, things will change. No longer will you be the forgotten child of Bruce Wayne, but the firstborn he would move the mountains and the stars to make happy. You’ll no longer sleep in a guest room on the far side of the manor, far from the rest of the residents, but sleep in a proper bedroom as befitting your status. And yo’ll no longer tiptoe around the house, afraid of making even the tiniest bit of noise for fear of attracting attention, but you’ll join in on your siblings’ roughhousing and merry-making.

It’s then Bruce, Dick, and Damian walk in, dressed in civilian clothing, and when they see you, he knows they feel guilt.

“So nice of you to join us,” he says, his tone so cold it could give Mr. Freeze frostbite.

Oh yes, things will change.

[zara-renata]

Good Boy | masterlist | ao3

@wearysparrows and i were talking this morning about dogs and work was really slow, so i just... wrote dog!sylus all day today. @leaderincrows is bursting with ideas for dog!sylus, but I only managed to fit some of them in this time (i'm so sorry, i hope you like anyway!). Maybe there needs to be more dog!sylus, i don't know. So voilà, I present you my very stupid take on the trope -> After a stray dog gets injured helping you in a fight against Wanderers, you take it home with you. Then one day, you wake up and find a man in your bed instead of your beloved dog. sylus x gn reader, sylus x mc. sylus acts like a real dog for 2/3ds of the fic. nsfw, there's penetrative sex, not with dog!sylus but with human!sylus (sylus penetrating), oral for both you and sylus, as a treat. Minor doggy injury, but he's fine. fluff, banter, teasing.

The snow is falling. Fat flakes, thick. The world is still, all sounds muffled under the blanket of snow covering the ground. 

The blood is bright on the snow, against the white. 

Your chest heaves as you stare down at the huge, beautiful dog. Wolf? You’re not sure. You’ve never been able to have a pet, never spent much time with animals. Wolf hybrids are outlawed within Linkon City limits, so you think it’s most likely that the injured animal before you is some kind of large shepherd dog. An albino, going by its red eyes, its long, silky looking thick coat of white fur, blending in with the snow.

Except for the blood.

Your Hunter’s watch alerted you to metaflux fluctuations while you were out with friends, in a park near the restaurant where you were having dinner. They stared, wide-eyed, as you stood up right as the main course arrived. 

“Duty calls,” you said.

Tara looked worried. “Why don’t you call for backup?”

You shook your head. “It’s not that big of a fluctuation. Xav’s sleeping, I’m not gonna wake him up for this.”

She glanced around at the group, gaze lingering on the guy whom she was trying to set you up with. “Okay…” she said, grimacing.

You knew you were going to get an earful for interrupting the blind date that Tara had arranged but you didn’t know you were attending when you arrived, in order to fight Wanderers. It was your night off too, after all. 

The guy seemed nice. Handsome. You just… felt nothing when you looked at him, when you listened to his small talk. You’d rather be out in the snow, risking your life.

Yeah, Tara might be right. There might be something wrong with you.

You were just bored, otherwise.

Without the adrenaline. The rush. The sense of accomplishment.

Most men you met just didn’t get it.

None of the men you met ever made your heart race, the way doing your job made it race.

Now, here you are. In the hushed, falling snow, staring down at the dog that just saved your ass from a surprise second Wanderer, while you were busy putting down the first.

The dog received a nasty swipe to its belly as a reward for its efforts.

It’s lying in the snow, curled in on itself, licking, licking.

You tuck your Deepspace Hunter standard issue firearms into your holsters, barrels still smoking in the cold. Crouch down into the snow, your boots crunching.

“Hey, buddy,” you say softly. One of the dog’s pretty, huge, pointy ears flicks in your direction, but it remains focused on tending its wound, its long tongue pink, its breath puffing in the frigid air.

You inch closer, waiting for a sign of defensive aggression, but the dog seems content to let you approach.

Finally, you’re crouched next to it. You lift your hand, and it lifts its head. It stares at you with its strange, bright red eyes. Bright, like the blood on the snow.

It sniffs your hand, nostrils flaring, and then lowers its head. As if deigning to allow you to pet it.

You stroke your fingers along its long snout, along its cheek. It huffs, closes its eyes.

“Can I see your tummy?” you ask, running your hand from its snout, down its shoulder, to rest on its side.

It lets you. Watches your hand, and then licks it.

You lean further, letting your hand rest on its leg. “I’m going to lift your leg now, take a look at your belly,” you inform it. It doesn’t move, so you take a chance, and do as you promised. 

The dog lets you.

Lifting the dog’s leg, you see it’s a boy, unneutered. You’re surprised. Most pets, unless they’re registered for breeding or are show animals, are required to be neutered or spayed in Linkon City. You wonder if he’s a stray. 

But your attention is caught by the long, shallow gash along his lower belly, where his thick, luxurious fur is the most thin. It’s not deep, but it’s bleeding quite a bit.

“You need to see a vet, buddy,” you tell the dog.

He growls, low in his throat. You still your hand, thinking maybe he changed his mind about you touching him. You lift your hand, but then he nudges it, butting it with his nose, as if demanding that you continue caressing him.

You laugh. “Okay. Okay.” You resume petting him. 

He’s not wearing a collar. There’s no way for you to know if he’s a stray, or has an owner to call, who can help come and collect him, to care for him. Based on how beautiful and healthy he looks, you doubt he’s a stray. But you can’t just leave him here.

You stroke his fur, while slowly reaching into your coat pocket for your phone.

You make a call. The answer is swift. A bit exasperated. You can imagine the man on the other end pinching his nose, nudging his glasses aside as he does so, long-suffering from yet another strange request from you.

“You do realize that I’m a cardiac surgeon, and not a veterinarian.”

You humor him. “Yes, yes. I will make it up to you, I promise.”

There is silence on the line. Then his soft, soothing voice. “There is a new bakery that recently opened. They specialize in macha desserts.”

He knows you hate macha. This is his way of punishing you.

You smile. “I’ll treat you. Come quickly.”

“I will.”

The dog’s eyes never leave yours, the whole time you’re on the phone.

Zayne is as good as his word.

He arrives quickly, striding through the thick snowfall, at home in the frigid cold, seemingly unbothered with his handsome wool coat only partially buttoned, his scarf hanging loosely around his neck.

The dog watches him, with his strange, strange eyes, but doesn’t act defensive. As if he knows that this man is here to help.

Zayne couches down next to you. Sighs.

“What happened?”

“Wanderer claws. No poison, or venom. Just the nasty gash there.” You gesture at the bleeding wound, the white fur crimson now, matted.

“Has he shown any signs of aggression?” 

You shake your head.

“All right, but that’s no guarantee he won’t react when I start working. I’ll sedate him.”

The dog growls, narrows his eyes. You have the funny feeling again that he can understand everything that’s happening to him, what you’re saying.

“I’ll hold his snout,” you blurt. 

Zayne frowns, slightly. “He could bite you. He could have an infectious disease. Absolutely not.”

You turn to the dog. “Focus on me, okay buddy? Dr. Zayne is gonna fix you right up. It might hurt, but you can handle it, right? You’re such a good boy.” You speak low, soft, soothingly. The dog’s ears swivel, flick. He whines when you say Good boy. He inches forward, painfully, in the snow to get closer to you. You rest your hands on either side of his big jaws, stare into his eyes. “Do it,” you tell Zayne. “Please.

All you hear is his frosty silence, before a resigned sigh.

The dog whimpers, but doesn’t snap, or otherwise react, as Zayne cleans his wound, stitches him up. As he wraps the clean bandages around the wound, covering the bloody, matted fur. The dog just looks into your eyes, panting, shows no sign of reacting poorly to the pain.

When it’s over, the dog closes his eyes. You run your hands from his muzzle down his neck, back through his thick fur.

“Good boy,” you say, again, softly. His long, fuzzy tail thumps weakly in the snow in response.

“He’ll need antibiotics. You’ll need to arrange for an actual vet for that.”

You nod. “Thanks.” Then pause. Grimace. “I need one more favor.”

Zayne stares at you, lovely hazel eyes flashing behind his glasses. “Do I even want to know?”

“I came here on my motorcycle, and I want to take him home. Make sure he recovers okay. Find his owner, hopefully.”

Zayne immediately understands what you’re asking and frowns again, more deeply. “No.”

“Pretty, pretty please?” You’re not above begging, wheedling like when you were children.

“The upholstery in my car cannot handle all that—” he waves a scarred hand at the lustrous, incredibly thick fur of the dog, and his long, sharp looking nails.

“I’ll pay for any detailing or damage your car might need, along with the macha bakery!” you offer, desperate. You don’t think any cab in the city will accept your not-wolf as a passenger.

Zayne stares down at the dog. His shoulders sag a bit.

“On one condition.”

You perk up. “Anything.”

“Take my scarf. You’re not even wearing a proper winter coat,” he scolds, sounding infinitely exhausted with your inability to properly take care of yourself. He turns to you, lifting the scarf from his neck and wrapping it gently around yours. It’s warm around your neck, and smells good. “How you think you’ll care for a pet, as well as yourself, is beyond me,” he grumbles. He looks down at the dog. “Come.”

The dog just stares at him. Leans further back in the snow.

“Come, now,” Zayne tries again. Cold, imperious.

“I don’t know if he can walk,” you begin, but Zayne shakes his head.

“His side is injured, not his legs. He can walk.” 

You glance uncertainly at the dog, whose ears are now flattened back against his head. He’s panting heavily, where before he wasn’t. He looks miserable.

You steel your spine. “Okay, I’ll carry him to your car.”

Zayne pinches his nose again, knocking his glasses a little. “No, I’ll carry him.”

He kneels, lifts the dog with a grunt.

You swear the dog looks smug as he rests his head on Zayne’s shoulder, ears pricked up and swiveling again. He watches you as you trail behind them both in the snow to Zayne’s fancy car.

You’re going to have to add Zayne’s drycleaning to the bill of what you owe him.

You thank Zayne, return to the restaurant.

You offer your excuses to your disappointed-looking blind date. You don’t have the heart to refuse to give him your number.

Finally, you make your escape. Break the speed limit to get home before Zayne and your… not wolf.

Zayne carries the dog into your place, sets him down on your living room rug.

He looks down at his fur-covered coat when he’s done, expression unimpressed.

“Bill me,” you say, trying to sound cheerful, as if you’re not already deducting the accumulated costs from your bank account and wincing internally. 

Expensive fucking dog, and you’ve only had him for an hour.

“Do you want to stay? Have something to drink?” you ask, the least you can offer after your doctor’s excessive generosity tonight, even if you now owe him.

He shakes his head. “I have to return to the hospital. But thank you.” He stares down at the dog, who is now sitting on his haunches just fine, breathing normally. His ears are straight up, swiveling, swiveling. “Are you going to be okay?” he asks, absently.

You tilt your head. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

He keeps staring at the dog. “There’s something…” his voice trails off. He shakes his head, seems to shake off his thoughts. “Nevermind. Call me, if you need anything.”

“Thank you, again. Let me know when you’re free soon, I’ll clear my schedule for macha,” you say, cheerfully, despite the fact that you hate it terribly. He nods, makes his way to your front door.

“Oh, do you want your scarf?” you ask, suddenly remembering that he insisted you wear it. You begin unwrapping it from your neck. 

He pauses at the door. “No. Keep it, for now. You can return it when we meet again,” he says, strangely. As if he’s actually saying something else. Like it’s insurance to see you again, when he’s your doctor. Of course you'll see him again.

You thank him quietly, and then he’s gone. You hang the scarf carefully on one of the pegs in the wall of your hallway.

You return to the living room and stare at your new friend, who still sits on his haunches, watching you attentively.

“Hey, Buddy. I don’t have anything for a dog. No food, no leash. I’m going to have to go to the supermarket and pick up some stuff for you.”

The dog just listens, watches. You frown. “Okay. I’m going to go now. Don’t eat my shoes.”

You turn, walk to the door. You put your boots back on, and as you do so, you feel a cold nose nudging the back of your bent neck. You shiver.

“Hey,” you say, turning. The dog has followed you to your hallway. You hate thinking of him as ‘the dog.’ 

“Do you have a name?” you wonder out loud.

The dog whines, a little, tilting his head. “I bet you have some regal name. You seem like a very expensive dog, with a rich owner.”

The dog just huffs.

“Maximus,” you say. Trying it out. He lowers his head, bumps your shoulder with his snout. You laugh. “Okay, not Maximus. Uum.” You think. “Charles?”

The dog growls. 

“Okay, okay.” You try again.“Sherman.” 

The dog actually takes a step back, growls more deeply. You laugh even louder. “I should call you Sherman as punishment for being so picky.” He looks unimpressed, bored. But his ears are pressed back against his head. His tail is thumping the floor in agitation.

You can’t bear to see him so put out, so you decide against calling him Sherman even as a joke.

You stare at him thoughtfully. He’s so beautiful, with his soft, long fur. It almost has a pearl sheen, in the subtle lighting of your hallway.

Finally, a name comes to you. You don’t know why, but you say, “Sylus.” A name that you’ve never known anyone to have before. Not anyone you’ve ever met, anywhere, anyway.

His ears flick forward. He approaches you again. Rests his head on your shoulder.

“Oh, we like Sylus?” you tease him, and he lets his tongue loll out, leaves a wet swipe on your ear. You laugh, pushing his head away. “Sylus it is.”

He watches as you finish tying your boots.

As you shrug back into your coat. As you walk out the door. 

He’s there when you return. Sitting patiently, in the same position. As if he was waiting for you to come home the entire time. His tail wags eagerly.

You dump all the shit you bought for him on the hallway floor.

“You’re already the most expensive thing I’ve acquired in a long, long time,” you grouse at him.

You unlace, kick off your boots. Hang up your coat.

You don’t notice that Zayne’s scarf is no longer hanging on the peg in the hall.

You take the huge bag of dog food to the kitchen. He follows you, head low, watching every move you make. You hum, taking a bowl from your cupboard, scoop out some of his food, set it and another bowl filled with water next to your kitchen island.

When you turn, you find him staring at you, ears swiveled toward you.

You stop humming.

He takes a step forward, nudges your thigh. He’s so big, he comes up to your waist. “What do you need, baby?” You run your hands through his fur. You don’t know where the term of endearment came from. It’s just, despite his size, the fact that he looks like an alpha predator, something about him screams ‘big baby’ to you. In the same way you knew that he wouldn’t bite you as Zayne tended to his wound.

You just know. 

Like you know his name should be Sylus.

This dog is making you insane.

He whines softly. Lets out a little ‘awooo.’

You stare at him. He does it again. A sad little, awooo. Then he nudges your hip with his nose.

You suddenly understand that he wants you to keep humming.

You start humming again, and he looks incredibly satisfied. He sits back on his butt, tail thumping on your floor.

From that day on, you hum, every time you’re home. You decide that the next time you have to leave him, you’ll leave music on for him to listen to you while you’re gone.

You have no idea what you’re going to do with such a big dog if you can’t figure out who owns him, but you’re going to keep him if no one else will. Already, the thought of parting from him hurts your heart in a way that shocks you.

Even as he turns his nose up at the dry food you bought him.

Even as he only eats meat leftovers from takeout from the night before.

Even as he lets you bathe him, docilely sitting in your small shower, but then once he’s out of the cabin, he stares you directly in the eyes even as you say No!!!! and he shakes his body, his soaking wet fur, so hard that the entire room and everything in it, including you, is soaked.

You stand, shellshocked, dripping onto your little, soaked bathroom rug.

“Sylus,” you say. Glaring at him. He sits back on his butt. He doesn’t avoid your gaze, like other dogs. He stares right back at you.

You strip out of your clothes, leave them in a sad little pile on the floor. Naked, you kneel down, take a towel and gently rub him down. He licks your arm, your hand. As if to say he’s sorry. You don’t believe it for a second.

When he’s towel dry, you take out your blow dryer.

His eyes close halfway in hypnotized pleasure as you slowly, diligently brush him with the new doggy brush you bought and dry him with the dryer set to low.

When you’re done, he’s so fluffy, his coat so shiny. You want to bury your face in him. You check his stitches. They look fine, even after the shower.

But you’re still naked, and soaked. You shoo him from the bathroom, step into the shower. Wait for the water to warm up again.

You wash your hair, let the water beat down on your sore shoulders. With your job, something is always sore.

However, after a few minutes, you notice that the water isn’t draining. You look down and see a massive amount of white fur blocking the drain.

You hang your head, exhausted at the prospect of cleaning the drain before you can be done for the evening. 

This fucking dog.

Finally, the shower is clean. You’re clean.

You step out of the bathroom, walk naked to your bedroom.

Sylus is lying on your bed. As if he owns the place. His big head rests on his big paws, and he watches you, his ears swiveling, flicking, as you stop and put your hands on your hips.

“Off.” You are not letting this monstrous, furry thing sleep on your bed. You’re already nuts about him, but this is a step too far. “I got you a dog bed. You can sleep on your doggy bed.”

You go to your closet, and you feel his glowing ruby eyes follow every movement you make. As you slip on underwear. Soft pyjama pants. A tank top.

You turn. He hasn’t moved. “Be a good boy, and get off the bed.”

He pretends not to hear you. Just looks away, as if fascinated by the view outside your bedroom window. He huffs, as if bored, tail swishing slowly.

“I spent way too much money on a glorified pillow of a dog bed for you to sleep on, Sylus. You can sleep on your doggy bed,” you insist, trying to infuse your voice with authority.

One ear twitches toward you, but otherwise he doesn’t move.

“I’m not afraid to shove you off, even if you are injured,” you threaten, lying. There’s no way you could do that to him.

He can obviously smell your lie. He just looks back at you. Thumps his tail.

You’re tired. You’ve got a long day again tomorrow, starting with a five in the morning run. You give up.

“Fine. Just for tonight,” you concede, crawling onto the bed. “But you stay on the end of the bed,” you grumble, snuggling under the covers. You switch off the light, and hear a satisfied sigh from your new companion.

You come awake slowly, not from your alarm, but from the warmth. You’re sweating. It’s a bit hard to breathe.

You blink open your eyes, slowly, to find a giant, soft, space heater of a dog curled up against your stomach and chest where you’re lying on your side, his big head resting on the pillow next to yours. He’s snoring softly. Every now and then, his legs move restlessly, as if he’s dreaming about running.

You roll over, peer at your clock on your nightstand. Ten minutes before you need to be up for your run. You groan. Every minute of sleep is precious, and your new dog deprived you of ten whole minutes. 

Well. You’re awake now. You sit up, and the culprit who woke you up early startles, jumps to his feet. You stare at him. He’s a little taller than eye-level with you, as you sit on the edge of the bed.

“Good morning, naughty boy,” you say, dryly. His ears flatten against the back of his head. He takes a step forward, nuzzles into your neck with his wet nose, sniffing. You laugh, pet him. He seems mollified after being jerked awake. As if he has any room to be upset about being woken up early.

You stand, stretch. He jumps off the bed, follows you to the closet. You strip out of your pyjamas, pull on your running things. He tries to follow you in the bathroom when you go to pee, but you shoo him away, shut the door in his face.

When you emerge, he follows you to the kitchen. You shovel down a piece of toast, a sip of water. You dump the last of the leftover meat in his bowl, which he greedily eats. You make a note to get him wet food the next time you go to the store, since apparently your new (probably temporary) dog is a fancy boy.

“I”m going for a run. You stay here and be a good boy, okay?”

You walk to the hallway, and he follows. “No, you’re injured. I’ll take you out to pee and poopoo when I’m done with my run.”

His ears flatten on his head again. He squeezes past you, blocking the door with his bulk.

“Sylus,” you sigh. “You’re hurt. You can’t come on a run with me yet.”

He huffs. Shakes himself, like he shook himself last night in your bathroom. Then, like a king deigning to kneel for a peasant, he lies down and bares his belly to you.

You gasp. The stitches. The angry wound from yesterday. 

Gone. As if they were never there. Just the soft, unmarred skin of his tummy where his fur thins.

You check your Hunter’s watch. No metaflux. You don’t sense any, either. He’s not a Wanderer. He’s just a miracle. You remember Zayne’s strange expression, staring at him yesterday.

You wonder if he’s some escaped medical experiment. 

You resolve to take him to the vet, see if he’s chipped, with his owners on record. If he’s not, you’ll put up posters where you found him.

You don’t want to.

You want to keep him.

But you should do the right thing, and at least make a reasonable effort to find his true owner before allowing yourself to hope that you can keep him. This giant dog, whom you do not have time or space for, to keep properly.

But your heart hurts, when you think about taking him to a shelter. Saying goodbye to him.

“Okay. Okay,” you say. He rolls over, sits up. “I still have to go for my run. I’ll be back to take you out, after.”

He huffs, moves forward, nudges your hip with his nose. He then lopes to the bag of things you got him the day before, and he brings you his collar and leash, clutched in his big jaws, still with the tags on.

You laugh.

“Okay. Okay, you win. Again.” You roll your eyes, surrendering. You kneel, and he lowers his big head, pretty, glowing eyes never leaving yours, as you thread the black and scarlet, gem-studded leather collar around his neck with the empty tag shaped like a heart, clasp it tight. You clip the leash on the collar.

He does a little dance at the door, as if excited, tail wagging. 

He runs with you through the gray, quiet, early morning. The snow hushes your footsteps. He doesn’t falter once, the entire run. 

At the end of your run, as you’re walking to cool down, about to head back to your place, he suddenly dashes forward, jerks the leash out of your hand.

“Sylus!” you cry, trying to run after him. He disappears into an area full of shrubbery and dense vegetation, heavy with snow along the bare branches, the pine needles. You have no idea what got into him. Just as you’re about to get on your knees and try to crawl in after him, he re-emerges. He brings you his leash in his teeth.

“What the fuck, Sylus?” You stare at him.

He huffs. Runs a circle around you, kicking up snow. As if to say, Take the leash, take the leash.

You think back over the run. About how he didn’t stop, once. To sniff. Or to pee.

“Did you need to peepee? Or poopoo?” He just growls, bobs his head with his leash in his mouth. “Oooh, baby’s shy!” You laugh. “You better remember this, when you try to follow me into the bathroom again.” You take his leash from between his sharp, sharp teeth.

He leads the way back to your apartment building. You admire his big paw prints in the snow.

Before you leave him to go to work, you snap a photo of him, staring at you solemnly. As if he’s posing. You leave him with music playing and the curtains open, the door to your indoor balcony open for a view.

At work, you make a vet’s appointment. You print off a bunch of “Found” posters for Sylus for if he’s not chipped, with his cute picture front and center. You do paperwork, patrol the city, laugh and joke with Xavier and Tara.

She gives you the earful you expected, about ditching your blind date. She’s only slightly mollified when you show her the picture of Sylus, who looks like such a big handsome boy in the photo.

You’d rather hang out with your dog, than see that guy again.

But you don’t say that out loud.

This dog is making you insane.

You stop by the store on your way home, pick up an absurd amount of meat to cook, as a backup, you tell yourself. For if Sylus refuses to eat the wet food you’re also buying. Not because you have the bizarre urge to feed him food meant for a king. Meant for a king, and not your stray dog who is the least obedient creature you’ve ever encountered.

You let yourself into your apartment, and are a bit surprised, maybe a little disappointed that your new friend isn’t there to greet you already. You know it’s absurd, to wish he had missed you as much as you found yourself missing him throughout your day.

You kick your boots off, carry your groceries to the kitchen island. You glance around. No Sylus.

You peek on the balcony. No Sylus.

So that leaves the bedroom.

You pad quietly through the living room, and then pause in the doorway to your bedroom, shocked at the chaos before you.

Your dirty laundry basket, knocked over.

All of your laundry spread in a little nest, surrounding your dog.

Your big, beautiful, regal dog, who is lying on his belly the floor in the midst of your dirty clothes, like a sphinx, diligently licking a pair of your underwear meant for the wash that he has trapped between his paws. He’s so absorbed in his current activity that he doesn’t seem to notice you at all.

“Sylus!” you yell. Bellow. Air raid siren level of volume.

The noise seems to rip him out of his meditative licking. He blinks, looks up, pauses. Then he stares you right in the eye and takes another lick.

“No! Naughty! Naughty boy!” You stride forward, intending to yank your underwear from his mouth, but he just… chomps down on the slip of fabric, pulling it into his mouth with his tongue and teeth. Then he tries to swallow. “SYLUS!” 

You drop to your knees next to him and grab his snout. You place one hand on his snout and the other under his lower jaw, and then you try to pry his jaws apart, as he continues to clamp down. “Drop! It!” you order, through clenched teeth. He ignores you, resisting your efforts, but not growling, not snapping at you. Simply...ignoring your insistence.  “Drop it!!!”

He swallows, instead. 

You stare at him, huffing from the effort, as you realize that he has just successfully eaten a pair of your underwear.

You’re really, really glad you made that vet appointment already.

It’s only after he has retreated to your bed, completely unashamed, unapologetic, and you’ve started putting your laundry back in the basket, that you notice Zayne’s scarf amidst the pile of clothes. It’s now completely covered in fluffy, white fur, and it stinks like dog.

You hang your head in defeat.

This dog is making you insane.

You take him to the vet. He’s not chipped. 

“If you’re going to keep him, you’ll have to neuter him.”

Sylus’s ears twitch, and he growls menacingly, deep in his throat. The vet stares at him, a strange look on his face. You say something vague, about making an appointment once you’ve exhausted your options in finding his true owner.

The vet has no idea what breed he is. Suspects he might indeed be part wolf. But without a genetic test, he can’t say for sure. He looks at your dog in contemplation. “A fine animal. It would be a shame if he’s a hybrid, and you couldn't keep him.” His eyes flick to yours. “You’re a Hunter, right?”

You nod, wondering why he’s asking.

“One of your lot saved my daughter from a Wanderer attack, a few years ago. Handsome guy. Bluest eyes I’ve ever seen.”

You stare at him. “Was his name Xavier, by any chance?” you tentatively ask.

The vet nods. “Yeah. How’d you know?”

You look down at Sylus, who is leaning against your leg, eyes closed. “He’s my partner,” you say quietly.

“Hmm,” the vet says. He puts his tablet down. Seems to come to a decision. “Well, it looks like we’ve already got the genetic test results back about your dog. He’s just a mutt. Mainly shepherd, husky.”

You jerk your head up, stare wide eyed at him.

“Agreed?” he asks.

You could cry. 

“Are you sure?” you ask, not believing that you’re one step closer to keeping your incredibly disobedient, lovely good boy.

The vet shrugs. “Test results are test results. Just take him to obedience training. Make sure he gets plenty of exercise. This type of dog needs a firm hand, and an outlet for excess energy. They can be really destructive if they get bored. Like a bomb going off in your house.”

You snort. Think about your laundry. Your poor underwear, which the vet says was small enough not to present a problem for your giant dog. He’ll just shit it out, later.

“Thank you,” you say, quietly, sincerely. You’re breaking so many regulations—ethics rules, accepting gifts for your work as a Hunter, violating city ordinances, because your dog is clearly not just a dog. But you’re realizing you’d do a lot of shady shit, if it means keeping your good boy.

“No, thank you,” he responds, shooing you and your good boy out the door.

You take Sylus home. He curls up on the couch with you, rests his head in your lap, as you watch tv. 

And so it goes.

Morning runs.

Taking him for walks.

To keep him from going after your underwear again, you take big doggy toys that frankly look like butt plugs and fill them with peanut butter. You freeze them. It keeps Sylus busy all day, licking the peanut butter out of the toy.

You try to take him to a dog park, to interact with other dogs. He ignores them, looking bored out of his doggy mind.

You try to throw a ball for him, play fetch. He refuses to chase it. He just runs around you in circles, nips at your heels. Herds you into running with him. Then he’ll refuse to go faster than a walk, once you get tired. As if he knows.

You try to throw a frisbee for him. That, he likes. He catches it in the air, almost as if he’s showing off. Then he’ll bring it back, but refuses to release it from his jaws. You learn that you have to kiss him on his pretty white head in order for him to give it up. His tail wags furiously, every time you do.

This dog is making you insane.

When you come home, exhausted from a particularly tough battle, or an even more grueling day of paperwork, he waits for you at the door, his beautiful, blood-bright eyes big and excited to see you, his tail wagging so furiously the whole lower half of his body shakes.

You suddenly don’t feel so tired, as you kneel down, press your face into the scruff of his neck. His soft fur smells so good to you, even though he’s just a dog. You no longer feel lonely, or dread coming home to your empty, quiet apartment.

After a while, you resign yourself to hanging up the posters once you get home from work. The last hurdle, before you dare hope that you can keep him.

When you arrive at your place after work, you find Sylus on the balcony. Somehow, the window is open, just wide enough for two crows to perch there. They chatter at your dog. He just huffs in response, but makes no effort to bark at them, or chase them away. 

The entire floor of the balcony is covered with the torn-apart paper strips of what used to be the posters advertising the dog you found, with your phone number on it in case someone is missing their beloved pet.

Your beloved pet.

You wonder if it’s so terrible, to just… accept that you’ll never know who had him before. And that he’s yours now. They should have chipped him, collared him, branded him as theirs if they care about him. You decide to get his tag engraved. 

You put the hanging of posters on the backburner in your mind.

You eat with him. You, sitting at your kitchen island. Him, out of his bowl next to your stool. You snuggle with him while watching movies, TV. You take him for walks, for runs. He’s your constant companion, when you’re not at work.

When Xavier comes over to hang out, to cook and read, Sylus basically crawls into your lap despite your protests and his size, and won’t move unless you promise to make him meat along with the ramen you make for yourself and Xav. Once you’re done and back to reading, he’s back, impersonating a chihuahua instead of the wolf he probably is as he wiggles into your lap.

One evening, you’re dumping more meat into your picky-as-fuck dog’s bowl when you receive a call from an unknown number.

You answer.

“Hey. Um. Hi.” A tentative voice.

You wait. The other end is quiet. “May I ask who is calling?” you prompt, hoping you can just hang up. You hate talking on the phone. It’s never good, when someone is calling you out of the blue. Warn a person with a text, damn!

You’re about to hang up when the other person says. “Hi, yeah, sorry. I’m your blind date. The one from when you had to leave to fight Wanderers?”

You shake your head, shocked. You had completely forgotten that you had given this guy your number. “Oh, hey. What’s up?” you ask, dreading his answer.

“Yeah, hi.” He chuckles nervously. “Thanks for picking up. I was, uh, actually calling to see if you’d like a… if you’d like a re-do. With just the two of us?”

You blink. Try to think of an excuse. 

You think of Tara, her badgering you to live for more than just work. To build new relationships. How much effort she puts into trying to introduce you to people she thinks you might like.

Even though you don’t like anyone. 

Except your friends.

You glance at Sylus, who has lifted his head from his paws, his ears pointed at you, like he’s listening intently.

Except your dog.

Your mind is blank. “Uh, okay,” you blurt, wincing. “When is a good time for you?”

He rattles off some dates. You check your Hunter’s watch, settle on a date, a time, a place to meet.

He sounds excited, like he can’t quite believe you agreed to go out with him again, before you end the call.

You shake your head. How bad can it be? It’s just dinner. You get to eat, and then you’ll let him down gently. Or maybe, who knows? You might feel a spark, a spark that’s been missing for you, for so long. You try to be positive. Maybe this guy will be the one to make your heart race, when no one else has been able to.

You get ready for bed.

Sylus is already curled up next to your pillow, no longer even pretending to initially sleep at the end of the bed like the first night you ordered him to do.

You crawl into bed, lift the duvet for him to slide under, and he curls up against your chest and stomach. You fall asleep easily, as you’ve been able to do, ever since he came home with you.

You come awake slowly. 

Like the first morning you brought Sylus home, something wakes you, but it’s not your alarm.

You’re warm. Really warm.

But instead of the soft fur that you’ve come to expect, waking up every morning with your dog taking up more than his fair share of the bed, you feel smooth, warm… skin?

You turn your head. Look over your shoulder, to the source of the warmth at your back.

You think you might be dreaming.

You must be dreaming.

What else could explain the gorgeous, very human, white-haired, red-eyed man looking back at you from your own pillow, where your dog used to be?

This dog is making you insane.

Are you so desperate for companionship that you can stand, that will make your heart race, that you’re dreaming that your beloved dog is the hottest man you’ve ever seen in your life?

What the fuck would a therapist have to say about this dream?

You’re so, so glad that you don’t have a therapist, and will never, ever have to tell anyone about this fucking dream.

You slowly turn your head again. Close your eyes. Your alarm hasn’t gone off, after all. Maybe you can just go to sleep in your dream, wake up, and pretend this never happened.

You hear a low laugh rumbling behind you, rumbling through you. 

A muscular arm snakes over your side, pulls you back against a warm, pillowy chest. “Is this how you greet your good boy?” A deep voice, rough with sleep but still soaked in amusement, murmurs in your ear.

“My good boy is a big fluffy dog,” you bite out, squeezing your eyes shut harder against the warmth, the muscles, the voice. “I don’t know what the fuck you are, other than a really weird dream.”

A big hand—alarmingly big—lifts from your stomach, where it was holding you tight, and tenderly brushes your hair away from your neck, your ear. The … dream behind you noses into the back of your neck, inhales. “I have fluffy hair. And I think you can feel what I am, without even needing to look.” The dream adjusts his hips. Your eyes open, despite your best efforts, widen as you feel a big—alarmingly big—dick against your ass.

“I am not having a sex dream about my dog,” you declare.

The dream laughs, low, a rich fucker’s laugh. “No, you’re not having a sex dream about your dog,” he says. “Unless you’re into that. And then I can oblige, but it’s still my mind inside your dog, I’m afraid.”

Okay, that’s enough. You whip around in the dream’s arms, stare into familiar ruby-glow eyes, so close to you, sharing the same pillow. “Who the fuck are you?”

One corner of his full mouth lifts. He’s so beautiful, it hurts. Your heart is racing.

“You should know,” he says, eyes drifting from your eyes, to your mouth. He lifts a hand again, runs it along your hair, so, so gently. “You named me, after all.”

You don’t dare hope. Just as you haven’t dared hope that you could keep him, from the moment you saw him launch himself at the Wanderer slinking up behind you, preparing to attack you. As you saw him rip out its throat, and watched, heart in your throat, as he was flung into the soft snow as a consequence.

You’re afraid to say it. To name your insane hope.

This dog is making you insane.

“Why so quiet? You couldn’t stop talking to me, telling me about your day, about your dreams, your fears—telling me what a wonderful boy I am, when I was your dog. Does this form not please you?” he asks, letting his hand fall from your hair. He takes your hand instead, places it on his own hair.

It’s so, so soft. Even softer than his fur. You can’t help yourself. You pet him, brushing your fingers through its shimmering strands.

You finally manage to speak. You don’t want him to ever think that you don’t delight in him. “I didn’t say it doesn’t please me.”

“Then say that it pleases you.”

You think of all the moments you’ve shared with him. All of the things you’ve said to him, as he’s lived at your side, in your house. You wince. Then you think of how he made Zayne carry him to his car.

“You could walk, that first day. Zayne didn’t have to carry you.”

He looks pleased, smug. It’s jarring, seeing the expression on his human face that you felt like you saw on his doggy face. “I was injured,” he sniffs. “Any doctor with an ounce of compassion would have offered to carry your injured pet.”

You scowl at him, ignoring his jab at Zayne. “You intentionally soaked me, in the bathroom, that first night.”

He smiles wider, just a little, a canine tooth peeking out between his lips. “But I didn’t make you strip off all your clothes and groom me while gloriously nude. That was all you, sweetheart.”

You lean forward, bury your face in his warm, strong neck. “You ate my fucking underwear.”

He coughs, the first time sounding a little abashed. “When I’m shapeshifted, certain urges… are amplified. Keep that in mind, if you want me to fuck you as a—”

You jerk back, cover his mouth with your hands. “I do not want to fuck you as a dog, Sylus.”

“Excellent, I’ll fuck you as a human then,” he says, voice muffled from behind your hand, but his subtle smile loud and clear under your palms. 

“Sylus!”

“Yes, owner?” he asks, eyes wide, falsely innocent.

You drop your hands. “Don’t call me owner,” you whisper. “You’re my companion, not my possession. You have been from the day you came home with me.”

“Then say that this form pleases you,” he says, sounding uncertain for the first time.

“How can it not?” you ask. “You’re beautiful.”

He shrugs. “Not everyone sees what you see.”

“You’re beautiful. But you’re a naughty boy,” you say, slipping your fingers under the collar he’s still wearing. It’s loose on his human neck. You pull, gently. He whimpers.

“A very naughty boy,” he agrees, breathless. “How will you punish me?”

“First, by making you wash Zayne’s scarf. It wasn’t nice what you did to it.” You punctuate each word, by pulling his collar a little for emphasis. He grumbles, but looks slightly drunk. Eyes half lidded in pleasure. You continue. “And by interrogating you. Who are you, really?” You have so many questions, even as you feel him, hard and warm, against your stomach. 

He huffs. “Would you believe me if I said that I’m the head of the largest criminal organization on the planet, and I’m the most wanted criminal on not one, but two planets?”

You stare at him. Laugh a little. “You were my dog, and now you’re the hottest man I’ve ever seen in my bed. I’d believe you if you said you’ve loved me for lifetimes, and have been waiting for me to be reincarnated in order to make me fall in love with you all over again.”

“How convenient,” he says. “Because that’s the other answer to your question.”

You laugh, loudly. 

This dog is making you insane.

“Wanted criminal, soulmate. Irrelevant. You ate my fucking underwear, Sylus.”

He leans forward, nudges your nose with his long, regal snout. He presses a soft kiss to your lips, and your heart races, races. “Is it a crime to want to savor something so delicious?”

“It’s a crime in some jurisdictions to pilfer underwear, yes,” you say, laughing, breathless in turn. You return his kiss. His lips are so, so soft. He makes a little sound of pleasure in his throat.

“Then arrest your naughty boy,” he murmurs. “And teach him what the real thing tastes like, instead of the leftovers.”

“You like leftovers,” you tease, thinking of all the takeout meat you’ve been setting out in his doggy bowl in between the fresh stuff.

“With you, I’ll take what I can get,” he admits. “But maybe if you tell me how to be a good boy for you, you can reward me with a fresh taste.”

Your heart is going berserk in your chest, as you look into his earnest, big, wet, crimson puppy eyes. It doesn’t matter, that he has been lying to you this whole time. That he’s tricked you into revealing so many of your secrets to him, as he wagged his tail for you, kept you warm in bed, as he ran by your side, kilometer after kilometer. Your heart is racing, and you think it recognized him, the moment you looked into his beautiful eyes in the snow.

You tell him how he can be a good boy. He uses his mouth, his big pink tongue, to soften you, make you wet. He licks you, like he licked your underwear. With single-minded, hypnotized focus. You tell him to mind his teeth, when he gets bitey, gently flick his ear to get his attention. His eyes drift between being closed as he savors your taste, and open, eagerly watching your face as he pleasures you, as your body begins to shake, as you gush into his mouth.

You lie there panting for a few minutes, watching him as he licks his lips, his fingers, his palms. Like a dog, licking its paws after making a mess in its bowl.

You suddenly desperately need to return the favor. You roll to your side, sit up. “I want to taste you, too.” He looks surprised, but pleased. He gets up on his knees, takes the back of your head tenderly in his big palm, petting your hair with his other hand. You open your mouth, and he guides his big cock to your lips, smears his own wetness across your lower lip, before gently feeding you his dick.

You have to open your mouth all the way, to allow him in. He moves his hips, little jerks, watching your reaction before sliding deeper, silken along your tongue, ember-eyes glowing under half-lidded lashes. You can’t take all of him, he’s just too big. You suck, use your tongue. Offer your hand, wet and sloppy for your dripping mouth, for him to tunnel through. He helps you adjust your grip. He grunts, with each little thrust. Helpless noises in his big, big throat. He smells so, so good. Skin, and sweat. A bitter tang from his leaking dick.

Finally, he loses patience. “I don’t want to come in your mouth. I want to come between your legs.” He’s panting, hair messy, sweeping over his forehead. “I want you to feel good too. May I? Please? I’ll make it so good for you.” His deep voice has a whiny edge.

You nod, looking up at him, mouth still stuffed with him. 

He slowly pulls out of your mouth, uses his hand on the back of your head to urge you up to meet him, so that you’re kneeling on the bed too. He wraps his big arms around you, hugs you, tightly. Kisses your cheek, the corner of your eye. “Are you sure? How do you want me?”

You lift your hands to his cheeks, kiss him too. His cheek. The corner of his eye. His lips. “You’ve been such a good boy, making me feel good with your mouth. You can have me however you’d like me.”

He doesn’t have a tail to wag right now, but if he did, you think he’d wag himself off the bed. He kisses you, hard, tongue licking into your mouth. He eagerly urges you down, onto your back. He lifts your legs over his shoulders, and you’re grateful for all the mobility, the stretching you do as part of your job, as he splits you wide open, holds you by your ankles, and fucks into you slowly, so slowly at first, before leaning down, bending you in half, filling you hard and fast, over and over again. Sounds come out of you that you’ve never heard before, because you’ve never felt so good, so full before. He fucks into you at an angle that makes you moan loudly, surprised, and he ruts into you there again, and again. “Am I your good boy?” he pants, desperate, in your ear.

“You’re such a good boy, Sylus,” you assure him, turning your head, biting down on his earlobe. “My good boy.” He suddenly comes, hips jerking messily, with a loud whine, a deep grunt. 

After, when your sheets are filthy and you’re both sweaty, cum drenched messes, you rest your head on his big chest, let your fingers circle one pink nipple, sift through the human fur swirling around it.

“Why didn’t you just introduce yourself like a normal person, ask me on a date?”

He snorts. “Oh, hello, my name is Sylus Qin, I’m the leader of Onychinus and your employer’s public enemy number one. May I buy you a drink? Perhaps, fuck you stupid afterwards? Love you for the rest of our lives?” His voice is wry.

You laugh, delight ballooning in your chest at his sense of humor. “Okay, maybe that would have been a little much, and I would have been suspicious. But infiltrating my life as a dog?”

He touches his finger to his lip, tilts his head. “I thought about kidnapping you. Violently trying to jog your memory by re-enacting our contentious first meeting.”

You swat his chest with your hand. “That’s a terrible fucking idea.”

“In retrospect, you are correct. Fortunately for me, the twins talked me out of it. They convinced me that being a cute, cuddly dog would be more… effective.”

You look up at him, curious. “The twins?”

He hums, low in his throat. “You’ve met them. Crows on the balcony.”

You think back, remembering the mysteriously opened window. The “Found” posters, ripped to confetti on your balcony. “The ones who destroyed my posters.”

Sylus nods, strokes his knuckles down your cheek, your neck. “The unnecessary posters containing your personal information, like your phone number, for any random fool to use to call and bother you.”

You sigh. Drift for a while, wondering how you’re going to explain your new dog and your new man in your life to your friends. To your family. “Caleb is going to hate you.”

He smirks. “I’m not worried about your brother.”

You look at him curiously. “You know who he is?”

He leans down, inhales your sweaty hair. Makes a happy noise. “I like to stay informed when I’m interested in a new acquisition. And you’re the most valuable thing I’ll ever acquire.”

You roll your eyes. “Why are you not worried about him? He’s been so weird, since he’s been back. Possessive.”

Sylus gestures at his arm, as if to indicate Caleb’s new augmentation. “I’m good with weapons. I’ll tinker in his arm, give him a little upgrade. Maybe give him sensation back. He’ll love me.”

You stare at him. No one else is supposed to know about Caleb’s arm. It’s like, a state secret. “How do you know so much about upgrading weapons?” you ask, instead of asking how he knows about Caleb.

“Do you really want to know?” He lifts a lovely silver eyebrow. “It has to do with my business. I’ll tell you, but you have to keep it a secret.”

You rest your cheek back on his chest. “Another time, maybe. I’m too tired to process all the shady shit you must do in order to be on the Association’s most wanted list. You definitely fucked me stupid.”

You feel him preen underneath you at your compliment. His invisible tail wags, wags. “Not just on the list, sweetheart. At the top of the list,” he says, smug. “And shady shit… You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you, beloved? Like accepting the equivalent of a retroactive bribe from your vet, and breaking all sorts of Linkon City laws to keep your ‘dog?’”

You groan. “I can’t believe you witnessed that.”

“I feel privileged to have witnessed your fall from grace, and all because of me,” he teases you, hugging you tightly.

You just shake your head, close your eyes. Fret about your brother again. “You think you can handle him?”

He scoffs again. “Once he sees how sincere I am, he’ll have no choice but to accept me as your other half.”

You hold your breath. Ask him what you’re dying to know, what you haven’t dared hope, even as you gave in to your racing heart, your affection for him, and loved him with your body, as well as your heart. “So you’re sincere?”

He gently flicks your forehead. “You’re the only person, in any lifetime, that I’d eat out of a bowl on the ground for, beloved.”

You laugh, kiss his chest, right over where his strong, big heart is beating.

In the end, you get to keep him. You let your blind date down gently, but decisively.

You come home one day, and he is eagerly waiting for you, in his human form. You had promised him a treat, after all.

“You’ll have to bend down a little,” you say.

Without hesitation, Sylus drops to his knees, and then places his hands on the floor.

You stare down at him, as he looks up at you, soft white hair, soft red eyes, gleaming in the light.

Your heart is racing again, just from his eyes on you, his scent filling your apartment.

You bend down, thread a new, subtle leather collar around his neck. It will hang on the wall, when he’s using his doggy collar, in his big wolf form. But when he’s a man, out in the world, away from you on business, getting up to no good and causing trouble—as he still occasionally does in your bedroom as he manages to tear the stuffing out of the plushies you’ve caught with other people when you’re away for too long—he’ll wear this one for you.

The one that says good boy on the heart-shaped tag on one side, and your name on the other.

You never do make that neutering appointment with the vet.

[moongreenlight]

I love your work about the 141 gossiping about Ghost, love the concept of him having a “secret wife”.

Please please please write more with “secret wife y/n”, I beg of you. 🙏🏻

ANYTHING FOR YOU, ANON. <3 Ghost and secretwife!reader are my sweet babies I love them so much.

Tw: blond Simon & smiling Simon. Read at your own risk.

If there’s one thing Gaz knows how to do, it’s shut the fuck up. And if there was ever a time to employ that skill, it was now. Now after he’d been frozen watching the two of you reunite after a close call. After he’d discovered your dirty little secret. Suddenly feeling like Icarus after flying too close to the sun. Hurtling back down to earth. He was certain that when he moved there would be a crater under his feet where his stomach dropped.

He’d gone so green that another nurse came up and gently tugged on his arm to see if he was alright. He snapped his jaw shut, nodding and mumbling something that didn’t sound anywhere near reassuring. But he forced himself to leave the medbay. Left the two of you behind the curtain, where in his final glance back he saw that your feet were still neatly on top of Ghost’s big boots. Pushed up on your toes to be able to wrap your arms around his shoulders.

He made some excuse not to meet with you that evening. Could barely look you in the eye when you caught him in the hall, looking significantly more cheery than you had been that morning. You pried, asking if he was alright, feeling his forehead with the back of your hand, but he claimed the stress of their mission had just hit him and he really needed to sleep.

It took him weeks to get over the initial shock. Couldn’t stand next to Ghost during conditioning. Made a point of sitting catty-corner to him during meetings and in transit so he had the least chances of accidentally catching his eye. Feeling like he’d deeply bastardized the idea of ‘Ghost.’ Blurred the lines between the man Gaz knew and the man he was in private.

He tried to reason with himself. Keep it fresh in his mind that he’d seen the signs, just hadn’t been able to fully connect the dots by himself. And it was an accident. He’d never intentionally pry into either of your personal lives like that. It wasn’t in his character. There was nothing innately wrong with the two of you hiding a marriage. Probably would have been an HR nightmare. Gotten both of you re-stationed. He was certain you both had a good reason to hide it. And there was no better person to find out than him. He’d actually be able to keep it a secret. Soap would immediately run his mouth. Get on the intercoms and scream the news as loud as he could. Price would pull the both of you aside and try to have some heart-to-heart. Not that it wouldn’t have been nice, it just would have felt too forced. Wouldn’t have served any real purpose.

So eventually he gets over it. Never pressed you about your marriage again, and you never seemed too keen on following up his request from months ago. The dust settles in his mind. He shelves the information like an old book. Life goes on.

And then the weather turns. Starts getting colder. The first few weeks of cold after summer where the wind stings a little more. Finds it’s way through jackets and uniforms a little more artfully. Soldiers are catching ill and passing it around like it’s a competition of who can infect the entire base. The medbay is busy, but a different kind of busy than summer when it’s an optimal time to see missions through.

The medics are tasked with rounding up all the soldiers on base and issuing flu vaccines to hopefully prevent further spread. You trudge to Price’s office in the early morning. He notices you look a little pale. The rims of your eyes and tip of your nose are blotchy. A gentle shade of pink that he assumes is from the weather or the cold you were bound to catch. You chat for a bit, catch up because you haven’t had the opportunity for a few weeks. Let him know that he and the boys need to make their way to the bay for their shots at some point.

You feel a little woozy. Pressing into his doorframe for support, white-knuckling it to keep yourself from swaying in your spot. He looks a little concerned. Asks if you need to take a few days away to recoup. You wave him off, tell him it’s nothing you can’t handle, but he insists on walking you back to medbay. And he’s glad he did because on the short walk back you find yourself having to duck into a dark meeting room so you can vomit into a trash can.

He keeps a steadying arm wrapped around your waist when you stumble back out into the hall. Shaking his head when you profusely apologize. Slowing his normally long strides so you were comfortable. Gently lets you down on your own cot and instructs you to stay where you are while he goes to find a few other doctors that can delegate your work for the day between them so you can have the day off.

He sends you home despite your protest. You’d already gotten your color back. Claimed you must’ve had something off to eat. He wasn’t having it. Said he wouldn’t have his best doctor spreading sick because she’s too stubborn to get off her feet for a few hours. He’s a bit more stern than usual because he knows you won’t listen otherwise, but he brings you a ginger ale and sits next to your bed until you’ve finished it.

Later that day, when he and the boys finally get around to the bay for vaccines, he notices the way Ghost’s eyes dart around like he was looking for something. His shoulders tensing when he sees your station empty, and moments after he’s taken his shot, Price sees that he’s slunk off to a corner to make a phone call.

He doesn’t think much of it. He’s been trying to give Ghost some space. So he just shrugs it off. Let’s him finish up whatever he’s doing before they get back to work.

The boys have gotten in the habit of taking a week off as the snow melts. Just before Spring brings rain and the soft buds of new leaves on the trees. Unofficial tradition proposed early on to have a few more days rest before things inevitably picked up again. Usually gave the boys time to kick off to visit family or get some well needed time away from base. Get in a well needed break because God knew they wouldn’t be able to for the foreseeable future.

Soap finds himself a little North of Manchester in his time off. Went out to see his godparents in Bolton for a couple days before getting back up to Iverness to see his parents. Meandering through a supermarket to pick up a bottle of wine for his godmother and a bottle of bourbon for himself. Could have sworn he saw Simon turning a corner at the end of the aisle. Chalked it up to a trick of the light. Seeing things after months of close quarters with his L.T.

But then he saw the man again. Stood in line at the butcher’s counter. No mask, but the same crooked nose and cropped blond hair. Same scar hooking his jaw. Swapped out his uniform and gear for a thick leather jacket, white shirt, and a pair of jeans. Would have been unrecognizable if Johnny didn’t know him so well.

He was about to head over to say hello. Make some wise crack about Ghost missing him too much, but he was stilled for a moment when a woman approached Simon. Pushed her cart up next to him and nudged his side with her hip. Prompted him to give her a small smile- the only smile Soap had ever seen Simon grace anyone with. No teeth, just a curve of his lips, but it changed his face completely.

Ghost said something to the woman. She reached up to fuss with the collar of his jacket. Johnny saw her shoulders shake slightly and heard the quiet tinkling sound of her laughter. Completely shell shocked. So imagine his surprise when the woman turned away from Ghost and it was you. Only you looked wildly different. He knew your face well enough, but after almost six months not going to the medbay on a weekly basis, something had changed.

Even wearing an oversized sweatshirt he could see the way it pulled taught against your swollen belly. Saw the way your arm was cradling it like second nature. He didn’t even realize that the bottle of wine had slipped from his fingers until he watched Simon’s head snap toward the sound. Ears perked. Tense like he’d suddenly flashed onto the battlefield. His eyes went wild for a moment as he scanned the busy aisle, calmed only a degree when he found you.

It’s like that Spider-Man meme where the three of them meet and point at each other. Johnny’s smiling sheepishly (for once), your jaw is dropped in surprise, and Simon is glaring daggers at Johnny like somehow it was his fault that you were all in the same place at once. You’re the first one to move. Rushing up to him as quickly as you could- now moving a bit awkwardly with the disproportionate weight of your pregnancy on your front. Asking if he was alright. Grabbing his hands to make sure the glass hadn’t cut him.

Simon tailed you like a hulking shadow. Glowering down at Soap something fucking ferocious. Didn’t even give him time to tell you he was fine. Pulling you back behind his arm by the wrists with a kind of gentleness Johnny had never known the L.T. to possess. You twisted your face in displeasure, batting his hands away and stepping back out from behind the wall that was your husband. Ignoring the wine and the soft crunch of glass under your shoes.

And to Soap’s absolute bafflement, Simon stood down. Didn’t try to yank you back, didn’t voice his protest, just drew his mouth into a hard line and let you push past him. He was speechless. For what well may have been the first time in his life, John MacTavish had no words. Couldn’t apologize for the mess. Couldn’t crack a joke. Couldn’t even say hello. He was pure dead at a loss.

Somehow, he allowed you to guide him away from the mess he’d made- staining the waxed tile a muted crimson even after the disgruntled looking employee came over to mop it up. Found his voice in your tugging him along after you and Simon to the checkout where you insisted you’d pay for the bottle of bourbon he’d managed not to send careening to the ground. Tried to tell you no, but you’d already sent it down the belt. And by the time you’d rooted through your purse in search of your card, Simon had already finished paying and was tucking his wallet into his back pocket.

Shuffled out with the two of you into the car park. Making a point of putting distance between himself and Simon who was pushing the cart with one hand and had the other planted firmly on the small of your back. Always walking on the side of oncoming traffic.

Johnny tried to keep up with your conversation. Asking him about his break. Where he was staying and for how long. How had he been. But it was tense. He could feel Ghost’s eyes on the back of his head. Burning through him. Making him feel like he had a target tacked to his skull.

He said a quick goodbye when Ghost helped you into the passenger seat of your car. You said you’d see him soon enough, said if he had any extra time before they went back he’d have to come by for dinner. Simon closed the door before you could say anything else. Looking monumentally irked.

The two men stood in suffocating silence while Simon unloaded the groceries into the trunk. Johnny tried to ignore the glinting of the silver band on the L.T’s finger. Caught the light every time he set a new bag in the back. A little unsure if he was being dismissed or if Ghost was just waiting until he was certain you wouldn’t hear the lashing he was bound to receive.

But it all stayed relatively calm. Maybe the eye of the hurricane. Simon pushed the bottle of bourbon into his chest before swinging the trunk shut.

“Appreciate if you’d keep this between us.”

Ghost spoke first, the words sounding a bit sticky in his throat- like they didn’t want to come out.

“‘Course.”

Johnny’s voice wasn’t much better. Both of them shifted on their feet. Not use to this kind of conversation. Uncomfortable being pushed from their usual dynamic.

Simon just nodded, moving to push the cart back to the corral. Johnny followed.

“How long you been keepin’ this in?”

“Which bit.”

His response was flat.

“Dinnae, L.T. Seems yer a man o’ mystery these days.”

Soap prodded, unable to help himself. A smile crept into his voice.

“Don’t push it.”

Simon bit back.

“Bonnie thing for a brute like you.”

“Johnny.”

“Looks ready’ta pop.”

A harsh sigh from Ghost. He reached into his jacket pocket like he was going for a cigarette. Tightening his jaw when his hand showed back up empty. He hummed his agreement.

“Few months.”

They’d reached Johnny’s car by this point. Just a few rows over in the car park. Stood by his driver’s side door shuffling their feet once more.

“Ken it’ll turn out like you?”

He couldn’t help but ask. Never pictured Ghost the fatherly type, but the idea was growing on him now that it’d been planted in his mind.

“Hope not.”

Simon gruffed back. Johnny snorted.

“Boy o’ girl?”

This earned him a nasty look, but he figured he was in deep enough as it was. No harm in asking.

“Girls.”

[jd-loves-fiction]

𝐊𝐚𝐤𝐚𝐯𝐚𝐬𝐡𝐚

❏ 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: Aventurine x GN!Reader

❏ 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: fluff + ANGST!!!

❏ 𝐰𝐜: 1.6k

❏ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Aventurine has been distant since returning from Penacony. He finally decides it's time to tell you all you deserve to know... or as must as he can bring himself to, for now. His real name seems like a good place to start.

❏ 𝗮/𝗻: Full disclosure, this was meant to be smutty but I got lost in the sauce (angst and Aven's incredible character writing) so all aboard the sad but fluffy train instead :)

The heavy oak door slides open smoothly, the sound of expensive leather shoes tapping against wooden floors as Aventurine sighs far too heavily. When you look around the corner at him, he’s taking off his hat before tugging off his shoes. 

“Hello,” you breathe softly, hand upon his chest while pecking his chapped lips. He offers a low grunt in response as you draw back to look him over, “Riney?”

He seems to flinch, an anguished expression there in a second and gone the next, covered by that deceitful veil of a smile, far too cheerful to be genuine, “Darling–”

Your finger meets his lips before he has a chance to pretend like nothing is wrong, along with a stern but fond look. You take his coat and begin leading him further into the apartment, urging him to sit on the couch.

Ever since Penacony he’d been… distant. Not that your relationship had ever been especially intimate before, at least not emotionally, but something had changed on that planet. You’d catch him watching you more than usual, looking away when caught unlike usual; see him reach for you out of the corner of your eye only for his hand to drop before it touched you; he’d begin to form a sentence with a strangely serious look on his face before slamming his mouth shut in obvious frustration.

The night he’d returned… you could tell there was something itching to make its way out past his trembling lips… but knowing he’d be meeting with the rest of the Stonehearts early the next morning you told him to rest instead; to tell you another time.

It’s been weeks. And with his increased workload, the subject just hasn't come up – that's what you told yourself anyway. Clearly there was something he wanted, needed to say, but your relationship had never been one where you’d be allowed to push him for an answer and vice versa… you learned that very early on.

So you dont push him for an answer, kneeling between his legs and caressing his cheeks, “Tired?”

He nods wordlessly, eyes barely open, subtly leaning into your affection. He must be truly exhausted, “Come on.”

“Hm?” The look on his face when you pull away so suddenly to stand breaks your heart – like he’d been broken out of a trance, “I’ll run you a bath.”

Your feet itch to shuffle nervously, afraid you’ve pushed too far. He seemed receptive, but what if he’s done letting you in?

“Okay…” Aventurine whispers, taking your hand and letting you pull him along towards the bathroom. You don't comment on the dazed look on his face.

The man sits by as you warm the water, softly rambling about bath salts and scents you think he’ll enjoy, and other topics he cannot bring himself to focus on as the storm that has been building since Penacony starts boiling over.

You deserve to know. He must tell you– but what if– no. You deserve to know. No matter how much he would rather keep your relationship as is instead of risking ruining everything by telling you the truth, he cannot keep it to himself any longer.

If you call him that name again, in that sweet, lovely voice of yours, he might snap.

“Water’s warm.” He snaps out of his haze, managing a small smile in acknowledgment, before standing up to take his clothes off.

The urge to turn away and busy yourself in order to keep yourself from staring is ludicrous – you’ve seen him naked more times than you can count. That's how this all started after all. And yet you give in, fiddling with shampoo bottles in order to give him space.

“What? Don't tell me I've gotten so hideous you can't even look at me?” He calls out cheekily, hoping to lift the weight that had settled in the air between you.

“No!” You answer, turning to Aventurine just as he pulls his shirt over his head, not even bothering with the buttons. Eyes yearn to linger on the hills and valleys of his alabaster skin, but they instead settle on the brand at the side of his neck; ‘slave’ it reads. That was the topic of your first argument. Or what could have become an argument if you’d pushed any further. “Not at al.”

Your eyes over him with such open fondness, knelt by the bath you prepared simply because you know he’s tired – Aventurine has to look away, lest he blurt out something he’ll regret.

The temperature of the water is just right and yet it seems to burn him, unknowingly cold as he’d become from the anxiety running through his veins, as if chastising him for taking so long to just say it; to bear it all to the person who’s cared for him the most in years; who’s seen through his lies and never pushed, gazed upon his scars and never questioned…

“...Riney?” He’s sitting in the water, straight as a rod, head down, hair over his eyes and you worry if the water’s too cold, or too hot, or if he has any injuries he forgot to tell you about. Your hand reaches to sweep his hair from his eyes, before it’s caught in his grasp, “Aventurine?”

He shakes his head slowly, his grip soft and yet trembling, “Please… don't call me that…”

“What… should I call you then?”

Silence.

A long silent moment of a million thoughts running through both your heads.

And then, like a stab through the heart, “Kakavasha.”

It’s not a word you recognize. The synesthesia beacon didn't translate it. It must be Avgin. His birth name.

“Kakavasha.” You repeat quietly, testing the pronunciation – hoping you’ve got it right.

His head snaps in your direction so quickly it makes you jump, seizing you by the shoulders, hands dripping warm water. Beauty eyes wide, pupils dilated, lovely lips agape, “Did I… say it wrong?”

“No it’s– it’s perfect. You’re just… the first person to say it in so long.” His hold on you eases.

“Talk to me.”

Kakavasha looks at you now and truly sees you, clearer than he ever has and wonders for a moment if you’re real at all. If he’s still a boy in a cage with a collar around his neck. He quickly decides that, no, you have to be real. His mind isn't so kind as to imagine something as lovely as you.

“I’m sure you know most of the story but,” his hands move through the water, scooping some onto his shoulders just to have something to do, “I’m from Sigonia-IV. I’m the last Avgin and my name is Kakavasha. There’s so much more I want to tell you. So much more you deserve to know. About my sister, my mother, how the IPC found me. But I don't know if I–” he looks down at his hands.

“You don't have to say it all right now. Just let it come out.” You get to rubbing his shoulders, processing the information and aligning it with what you’d inferred over your months together, “But… what exactly made you decide to tell me?”

He heaves a deep, tortured sigh – this is the hard part. As if admitting he’s the last of his species and giving you his real name wasn't hard enough.

“Penacony… turned into much more of a mess than I expected.” He considers his next words very carefully, unsure if it'd be more cruel to tell you or not to do so, “I was… expecting to die there.”

A sharp intake of breath passes through your lips, hands flinching away from his figure – it’s a lot to process but, somehow, someway, it’s not entirely surprising.

“Well, I’m very glad you were unsuccessful.” Your attempt at humor is transparently tinged with both love and fear, lips trembling at the thought… that he’d be gone. Without ever telling you any of this.

Without saying goodbye.

“What happened there… it’s all very confusing but it made me realize that I wanted someone to know who I am. On the inside.”

“I wanted you to know.”

“Me?” You question meekly, suddenly unsure. He’d always been a guarded man, beneath the surface that is.

His hands rise out of the water again to cradle your face in warm, wet palms, beautiful singular irises boring into yours with a sincerity you’d thought him incapable of until an hour ago.

“There’s no one who deserves to know more than you.” 

Waterline burning with tears you move to kiss his forehead amongst wet strands of gold, lips linger to ensure that he is real, he is here with you, opening up in a way so seemingly impossible it makes you a little dizzy.

“I guess we have to start somewhere… Tell me about your sister.”

The air between you is forever changed, both lighter and heavier somehow. But also brighter, warmer, like the gentle sun rising over the deserts of Sigonia-IV. 

Everytime he speaks of his family, he gets a dazzling glimmer in his eyes, like he’s a boy again, playing with his sister, carefree and gentle.

And when he speaks of what came later, it’s lost, his expression turns sour and grim, like he’s in that cage again, doing everything to get out. He’s no less handsome with that expression as any other. In fact, the more you learn, the more you realize that losing him would’ve broken you. The depth of his clever mind, the fondness of his gaze, the shining sincerity of real laugh. It would be a shame to lose it all.

He blushes red as a rose when you tell him, suddenly upon a random morning, unprepared and for the first time in a long time, unwilling to raise his walls at your assault on his fragile, vulnerable heart.

One day he’ll tell you how his heart thunders in his chest like it might burst right out and leap into your own chest to meet yours, when you say his name so softly.

Kakavasha.

[tojisprettylittlething]

MR. AND MRS. FUSHIGURO — MASTERLIST

Assassin!Toji Fushiguro x Assassin!Fem!Reader

🔪 Genre: Action, Thriller, Strangers to Enemies to Lovers, Romance, Smut, Angst, Comedy 📖 POV: Second Person 🔥 Warnings: Violence, Blood, Weapons, Explicit Scenes, Mind Games, Betrayal, Gunplay, Knifeplay, Power Struggles- A lot of stuff...

➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶

ACT I: STRANGERS IN THE DARK (Ch. 1-15)

1. Grocery Store Encounters – A normal day. A normal grocery run. Then Toji walks into your life. 2. The Coffee Shop – You see him again. A coincidence? Or something more? 3. The Art of Watching – A game of cat and mouse begins. You’re both hunters, but who’s the prey? 4. Dancing in the Shadows – A mission goes wrong. Or maybe, it goes exactly as planned. 5. A Gun Between Us – The first real fight. Knives, guns, and something even more dangerous—hatred. 6. Midnight Chase – An assignment forces you to confront Toji head-on. The lines blur. 7. Truce or Trap? – You agree to work together—temporarily. But can you really trust him? 8. Locked and Loaded – You teach him your tricks. He teaches you his. 9. Close Calls and Closer Touches – Tension explodes in an unexpected way. 10. Secrets Under Silk Sheets – A moment of weakness. A moment of passion. A moment that changes everything. 11. Trust is a Loaded Gun – He gets too close. You push him away. 12. Another Mission, Another Mistake – You let your guard down. You regret it. 13. The Kiss That Sealed It – He’s not just a job anymore. He’s something worse. 14. The Night We Became Us – One choice, one decision—your lives are no longer separate. 15. A Dead Man’s Love Letter – The past catches up to you both.

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ACT II: HONEYMOON IN HELL (Ch. 16-35)

16. Mr. & Mrs. Fushiguro – You never wanted a husband. Toji never wanted a wife. But here you are. 17. How to Love a Killer – Toji is difficult. You are worse. 18. Marriage Counseling, Assassin Style – Fighting is easier with fists than words. 19. Bulletproof Vows – "For better or worse" hits differently when guns are involved. 20. Wife, Weapon, Widowmaker – You’re balancing marriage and murder—what could go wrong? 21. Beneath the Bloodstains – He sees a side of you no one else ever has. 22. Fighting or Foreplay? – Who said sparring couldn't be intimate? 23. Dinner with a Side of Death – Date night turns deadly. 24. Sleeping with the Enemy – You dream of him. You dream of his death. 25. Lies Between the Sheets – There are things you haven’t told him. There are things he hasn’t told you. 26. Jealousy is a Sharp Blade – Another assassin flirts with you. Toji doesn’t like it. 27. Couples Therapy at Gunpoint – Trust is hard when you both have knives behind your backs. 28. A Mission Gone Too Far – You risk your life for him. He hates you for it. 29. Death’s Door and Your Name on His Lips – Toji almost loses you. Almost. 30. The First 'I Love You' Was a Whisper in the Dark – Soft moments don't come easy. 31. Betrayal in a Black Dress – Toji finds out your biggest secret. 32. Revenge is a Lover’s Game – You break his heart. He breaks something worse. 33. No Mercy in Matrimony – You were never meant to be soft. Neither was he. 34. Ruin Me, Darling – The fight that nearly ends it all. 35. Back to Blood and Business – The only way forward is through fire.

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ACT III: TILL DEATH DO US PART (Ch. 36-55)

36. Hunted by Our Own – The agency wants you both dead. 37. Hitman Honeymoon – The world thinks you’re on vacation. You’re really on the run. 38. In the Arms of an Assassin – He saves you. You hate it. 39. One More Kill Before Breakfast – Morning routines, married assassin edition. 40. Megumi – The one thing neither of you planned for. 41. The Last Job – One more kill. Then, maybe, peace. 42. Wife of a Wanted Man – Toji makes the headlines. You make a choice. 43. Between a Kiss and a Kill – Love or survival? You can’t have both. 44. Bleeding in His Arms – You fall. He catches you. 45. Escape Plan – If you leave now, you can live. If you stay, you die together. 46. The Funeral of Mr. and Mrs. Fushiguro – You fake your deaths. The world thinks you’re gone. 47. New Identities, Same Hearts – You try to be normal. It doesn’t work. 48. A House with No Weapons – Domestic life is boring. 49. Date Night Disaster – Toji gets jealous again. It’s still hot. 50. Megumi Says His First Word – Fatherhood looks good on him. 51. Killer Instincts Never Die – You promised to stop. You lied. 52. The Hit That Ruined Everything – One mistake. One bullet. One last fight. 53. Toji, Don’t Die on Me – He bleeds for you. 54. We Were Never Meant to be Normal – The truth finally settles. 55. The Final Kill – One last target. One last goodbye.

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ACT IV: THE LEGACY OF TWO MONSTERS (Ch. 56-70)

56. The Next Generation – Megumi starts to notice the truth. 57. Old Habits, Older Scars – You and Toji can’t sit still. 58. Enemies in the Shadows – Someone knows you’re still alive. 59. Back to the Beginning – The past never stays buried. 60. Hunted Again – Running was never the answer. 61. The Love Story of Two Killers – You tell Megumi how it all began. 62. A Family of Assassins? – The question neither of you want to answer. 63. Peace or Power? – The world calls for you again. 64. One More Bullet – Can you ever truly escape? 65. The Final War – Toji vs. the world. 66. Love in the Line of Fire – You always knew how this would end. 67. A Monster’s Goodbye – One of you isn’t making it out alive. 68. A Widow’s Revenge – If Toji dies, you will burn the world. 69. A New Name, A New Life – But can you ever really leave? 70. Mr. and Mrs. Fushiguro: The End – Or maybe, a new beginning.

[flamingpudding]

I have a new prompt idea and it's dark

So the Nightingale / Fentons are a pretty curse family and one of the curses is one where any Nightingale that tries to leave behind the family name will either greatly disappoint their family or Die because of being curious

It's a long curse starting all the way back to there great great great uncle Kingsley (Klarion) Nightingale because he was the sibling of the original Nightingale it started the The witch Hunt because he didn't get magic but Klarion he started killing which is one of them curses entire family not knowing that the rest of them were witches

Which cost to chain reaction to every Nightingale that tries to walk away from a family suffering a terrible fate like Thomas Fenton Nightingale who ran away and change his names in Thomas Wayne and was able to rebrand his entire but died with his wife after they got too curious of the Court Of Owls

Cursing his family for always being on the bad side of History cuz a few of his cousins were working with the court of owls

So when the original Nightingale started to finally pick off his family that was trying to run away from The Nightingales Kingsley was burned alive cursing the Nightingale Fenton name

Or Danny Fenton who died in the portal accident came back alive and disappointed his parents were setting with the ghost instead of hunting them

How this is all figured out is Constantine is checking over Batman for curses when he's like oh you have a family named curse and I like oh the lame one he's like no your father's real name he ends up finding out all of this information

Can you even affect Jason because he was adopted by Bruce making him technicality a nightingale and he died being mad at Bruce for not saving him and came back still cursing Bruce

So this could be a crack prompt or a really angsty one depending on how you view it because Batman is finding out that he's really into all of these people but he somewhat knows or realizing that he definitely affected all of his robins due to a family person to give no he actually had

Which continued

Interesting Idea... I like some of the premises... here and many ideas are really interesting!

> So i took a spin at this throughout several weeks. yes this has been sitting in my drafts for a long time and i added things slowly but in the end it still is a pretty short piece... sorry... writing really has been hard for me lately again...

Though I think i might have gone a little astray from what you originally had here though or didn't include it enough.

Hope you will still enjoy the following!

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

John Constantine sometimes really hated having to work with the Bat and not just because he was one of these spandex wearing goody two shoes heroes. Okay maybe goody two shoes was a stretch but Bats was one of the heroes that annoyed him still. There was also another reason. Something he had slightly noticed since the first time he had meet the man. But back then he had ignored it.

Like hell was he going to get involved more than necessary with the bat suit wearing hero.

Well with the passing years it more and more became something he couldn't ignore any more. Especially since whatever it was had a certain stink to it that John really hated right now. Not just because he was forced to sit in one of these many Boy Scout meetings because Zatana was busy. It tickled his mage senses, but not in a good way. No it was the way that really made him want to take a swing of his flask, he would take one if he wasn't running the risk of his flask getting taken away from him by one of these heroes.

"Yre fucking cursed to hell and back, mate." John decided to speak up instead anyway with a dead-stare at Batman and interrupting whatever else Sups was going on about. Okay so maybe in reconsideration, John should have waited until after the meeting to say anything at all, really. But in his defense, Batmans curse was stinking even more now. Like it had been freshly activated by something.

Great thing, whatever the meeting had been about before got completely forgotten as everyone focused on the fact that THE Batman apparently had managed to get cursed given his history with magic. Bad thing, Batman pressured John into investigating what kind of freaking curse stuck to Batman. And boy, can he say that explaining to Batman that he was stuck with a centuries old course that was pretty much affecting anyone he sees as family was not fun, nore was explaining that this wasn't a recent curse but one he had very much inherited from his father.

"Nightingale, the name ringing any bells Batsie? Curse is tied to that name apparently." Was what he ended is explanation with only to get a stoic stare and a grunt as answer. Sometimes John really wanted to wrangle that hero in particular.

"Can you trace it back?" John side eyed Sups who looked worriedly between him and Batman.

"Can you trace it back..." He repeated with a mocking mutter, who did they think he was? Of course John could trace it back, he wouldn't even need to sell his souls for the x-time to do that. Not like he would for Bats of all people, but then again, he had sold his souls for less before. "Of course I can trace it back, mate."

John took just a little bit of pleasure in the fact that he was in a position to demand something from Batman when he pestered the man for a bit of his hair or fingernail clippings to use as a medium to trace the origin back. It wasn't nice anymore when he traced it back to an area that was the magical equivalent of the Bermuda Triangle. Ground Zero. A No-Go. Do not Touch with a ten foot pole. The Do Not Enter of the magical world.

To say the heroes weren't impressed when they saw him taking a very needed swing from his flask was an understatement. Because seriously John needed a stronger Whiskey for this shit.

"What the hell do you have to do with Amity Park!?"

Danny meanwhile felt a shiver going down his spine, but he shock it off as he souped Skulker for the 3rd time this month. His eyes surveyed the area for a moment wondering what was going on before he once again choose to shrug it off. His legs turning into his ghostly tail as he flew back towards Fenton Works. Unaware of the storm brewing far away, while Clockwork was cackling in his tower contemplating if he should give his ghost child a heads up or not.

[spdrvyn]

PAPER PLAYS — [ wc 2.7k. pre/post-atsv. angst. hurt/comfort. ] being a journalist in nueva york isn't a job for the weak, but you've managed to make it through after all these years. long enough where the mystery of its masked vigilante enamors you endlessly.

took me a lot longer to finish this than anticipated and i'm so sorry for that, life gets busy and other things were calling for my attention. this is definitely my longest fic to date, and i just wanted to see how much better i'd gotten at writing miguel compared to before. hope you guys like this one as much as i enjoyed writing it!

cw: violence and mentions of death. this is a rewrite of an old work. check the original fic here.

You knew from the beginning, Nueva York wasn’t the dreamland you thought it was. 

Maybe your young and naïve self saw something in this god-awful city that the present you just couldn’t. The illusion of freedom and expression that served as a think blanket for the real horrors that hid underneath bustling streets and funky smells. 

Reality set in even harder once you graduated college. Landing a job as a journalist in one of Nueva York’s top publishing companies with your nifty degree and shockingly, your belief that you had talent to offer to them. A lot of years have passed since then, yet it’s still pretty difficult to get by. It costs too much to leave, but you wonder how bad the cost of living will get if you continue to stay. 

Either way, you have persisted and hope to continue that. As far as it goes, you love what you do. There are a lot of sick truths that make it to the public eye, truths that you want to talk about, start discussions and discourse on, and hopefully reach the blissful young adults that see this city as a wonderland of opportunity. 

Your ambitions might also be why Spider-Man thinks you’re such a nuisance. It usually never is your goal to unmask his identity whenever you approach him, but it would be nice to at least get a motive as to why he decided to take it upon himself to protect the city, why he abolishes evil in its wake. Only that he has managed to evade you every chance that he gets. Any information that you have right now, you practically had to rattle out of him. 

He’s just an interesting topic, is all. Mystery is as much of a journalist’s candy as it is to detectives, it is up to you to ensure that unearthed discoveries find their way to the public’s eye. That’s all he’ll ever be. The same way that all you’ll ever be to him is a pest. 

Right? 

~

Routine was a safe net for you to fall back onto. Living in the underbelly of the city never constituted any new changes or risks, it was secluded yet still densely populated and as usual, a tad unsafe. Visits from the local vigilante were pretty frequent, you would see him around even when you were just walking about the streets. 

Every single part of your routine was designed to blend in as much as possible. You would wear unassuming clothing, take the commute to work, take the commute back once you were done, and occasionally eat outside when you thought you deserved it. 

If the ever the opportunity presents that you can reward yourself, you enjoy sampling some of the cuisine that’s in your area. You never eat at the same restaurant twice, simply because it’s good to try new things and frequenting one place makes you too easy of a target. 

Which is why you’re definitely surprised when two figures in black hoodies begin to follow you once you exit the doors of the restaurant, they follow you three blocks down so now you can’t convince yourself that it’s merely a coincidence. Once you turn a corner, you break into a run. Tightly gripping the bag of food in your hand as you dash past street lamps and smelly dumpsters, the footfalls of your hopefully-not captors in the distance get faster and faster. 

Adrenaline grips you tightly. When you turn the corner again, you make your way into a secluded alley and hide behind the dumpster. Peeking out, the vague shape of your apprehendors zoom past and you’re finally able to breathe a sigh of relief. 

It’s only when you hear grunts of pain and thuds of bodies against the floor, does your heart begin to race again. Slowly, you make your way to the edge of the street’s crevice as your eyes squint at the unruly sight before you. 

In a speed that you certainly didn’t expect, your previous apprehendors were face flat on the cold cement and Spider-Man was menacingly standing above them, chest heaving, and unbearably furious through the mask. As if he could sense his unwanted audience, he narrowed his eyes at before stomping his way towards you. 

You take a few steps back from the way he invades your space, maybe it can’t be helped considering just how tall he is, but you couldn’t help but feel a little intimidated. What he’s about to say next certainly isn’t going to help either. 

“Why are you of all people walking alone at night? Are you trying to get yourself killed?” Yep, called it.

“Is that seriously any way to talk to someone that almost got themself killed?” You huffed, his frustation was evident. He turns to massaging his temples with his fingers to fight off a horrific migraine. There is clearly so much more that he wants to say, but your point stands correct still. You really could have died, if he weren’t there to save you.

“Fine, I can take you home then.” 

“... Excuse me?”

“You heard me. Let’s go.” 

There was barely any room for argument, if there was room to spare at all, he was very insistent on being your personal escort. Despite it seeming like the very idea of being in such close proximity with you for over a minute may as well kill him, you weren’t in the position to decline that kind of offer anyway. Begrudgingly, you give him the directions to your apartment building. 

What you don’t expect is him picking you up by the waist with nary a warning before swinging from building to building. Was he following the way to your residence? Yes. Was he doing it the way that you wanted him to do it? Absolutely not! You cling to him for dear life, until your feet are firmly planted on the ground as he safely deposits you onto the roof of your place. 

It’s a bare moment of silence, consumed by labored breathing and rustling fabric. You glance up at him, and his expression is almost unreadable. “Uh, thank you.” 

He sharply averts his gaze, making his disgruntledness all the more obvious now. “Just… Don’t do that again. You’re smarter than this.” 

You raise a brow, “So you think I’m smart?” 

“Don’t flatter yourself, you made some stupid decisions tonight.” 

“Actually, do you think I could get you on the record for that? I’m sure that you have a⎯”

“Okay. Good night.” 

And… he’s gone. 

~ 

Suffice to say, maybe you weren’t as smart as you thought you were. 

Ever since your publication on Alchemax came out, danger has sought you at every corner. Nowadays, your commute is a race to get out of the subway as fast as you can, especially when you meet eyes with a mysterious man who was sending daggers at you with his glare alone. Honestly, he might have had an actual dagger on him, but you certainly weren’t looking forward to finding out. 

What else is there to say other than it sucks? Truly, your already constrained lifestyle is beginning to close its walls on you ever since you released that God forsaken article. 

There isn’t the option to leave your job either, it wouldn’t be worth it to leave because you actually enjoy what you do to the point where you could say that you love your job despite the whole getting followed, stalked, and attacked scheme. Besides, it would be even more foolish to let go of your only stable source of income at the moment. 

Not like you can afford any sort of protection for yourself either, your company can’t care enough to provide any form of guard because it’s a case that happens with most journalists. You certainly don’t have the funds to get your own bodyguard. The most you have in your bag is pepper spray and a sneaky taser. 

This is probably the part where you begin to accept just how risky it is living the way that you do, but it is so much easier said than done. There never will be a point in expecting something in return for all of your hard work except a paycheck and compliments from appreciators, because that’s probably just the way things are. And that is how they’ll stay forever.

The slight of hopelessness that worms its way into the crevices of your brain spreads out into the other aspects of your day-to-day life, the joy that you receive from performing each task, the simple things that made everything else worth it, was drained through every fibre of your being. Restaurant stops weren’t an option anymore, cafe visits were a no-go, you just have to head straight home from work, recharge, and do it all over again. 

So much so that you don't realize there’s someone in pursuit of you after you carry yourself through the subway, until you’re backed up against a brick wall and a knife lodges its way into your shoulder. You don’t scream, you can’t. Because they have a gloved hand pressed up against your gaping mouth. Well, you are making noise, sputtered and choked. 

It was only a matter time before you lost enough blood to pass out. Your eyes glossed over and the brick scratched against the back of your head as you begun to slump in the culprit’s grasp. As you were falling, you felt the hand on your mouth tighten as they removed the knife from your body. 

Everything else that follows happens in a haze. It almost felt like your spirit itself was separate from your body, being a passenger instead of the driver. There is someone talking to you, you think. Hurried whispers and worried murmurs, here and there. 

“Stay wi… now…” 

“You… afe…. prom…” 

“... upid… St…” 

~

Nueva York’s hospitals had never brought comfort for you. They were overly sterile, suffocating, and intolerable. You’ve only had to go once in the entire period that you’ve lived in the city, and it has forever soured what you’ve thought of the establishment. But this place? It was nothing like that.

When you had awoken, warm light bounced off of sage and dandelion patterned sheets. Your head had been carefully positioned up on plush pillows that matched the bedding, the room was nicely furnished and decorated like it was actually meant to be a liveable space rather than just a holding for patients. On your bedside table, there was a bouquet of flowers along with a ‘Get Well Soon’ card. 

It was truly puzzling. It was still dark out, the sky hadn't even looked like it moved since you got stabbed. Wouldn’t seem like even your friends that lived in the same area would have caught wind and came to see you. 

Suffice to say, your answer is right next to you. 

A strange man was sitting at the chair next to your bed, bouncing his leg as his eyes were glued to a watch-looking contraption on his wrist. Your eyes widened and your jaw fell agape, movements that he could pick up from the corner of his eye as he turned to you. 

Shock, this was the guy that saved you?!

He wasn’t anything short of attractive. His hair was a dark chestnut, slicked back save for a few strands you can only assume fell out of place from the scuffle with your attacker. He had a sharp jaw, strong nose, and thick lips. Crimson eyes too, oddly enough. Eh, you can look past that. 

You want to smile, you almost do, but it doesn’t even get the chance to fall from your face when he looks at you with a scowl. “I thought I could leave you alone long enough for you to not get into any shocking messes.” 

That voice. It’s way too easy to recognize, to put the pieces together. Your face twists to one of distaste that matches his own, you almost shriek. “Spider-M—?!” 

Almost instantly, he leans forward and presses a finger to his lips. A very obvious gesture for you to shut up, but you just couldn’t believe what you were seeing really. Among all nights you were expecting him to reveal his face to you, if it were even a possibility to begin with, you would have never expected it to be tonight. 

“Could you keep it down?” He scoffs, slumping back in his chair when he’s reassured that you’re not going to scream bloody murder. You narrow your eyes a little, trying to convince yourself that this isn’t a hallucination from all of the blood that you lost. 

“I- I don’t get it. You saved me again? Where even are we?” 

“It’s a private clinic, you would be too easy of a target if you were brought to one of the general hospitals.” It explains the pleasant decoration and nicer atmosphere, although you were sure that this place would have your bill shooting through the roof. It was expensive enough at the general hospitals, just imaging how much you’d have to pay here. “If you’re worried about the cost, don’t.” 

The horrifying implications of that statement were that he had already settled the charge for you, it’s a debt that you’re going to be stuck with for a while because there is no way in hell that you can scrape up that much money with just your job alone. Maybe revising your resume would be a good idea when you get discharged…

“Listen to me, you need to quit your job.” 

Nevermind, not as nice of an atmosphere anymore. “I’m sorry, what?” 

“You could have died tonight if I hadn’t caught you in that alleyway, rapidly losing blood. I can’t always be there for you, I can’t always save you, or everyone for that matter. Find– find something safer, or work from home. I don’t care. I just can’t– you shouldn’t–”

Whatever seems to be on his mind can’t find its way out through words, you can see it in the way that his lips purse and his eyes go from exasperated to defeated. His shoulders shake with slightly trembling breaths as he ruffles his hair with bruised fingers. All behaviors you’ve noticed when you’ve seen him geared up, but it feels so much realer now that he’s unmasked. Vulnerable. For you. 

Sympathy burns your skin, watching him so disheveled over the fact that this really could have been your last night alive. Never in your right mind would you have thought that he cared this much, a name is at the tip of your tongue. You don’t know what to call him, his alias feels wrong in this moment. 

“I… I know.” You shift closer to his side on your bed, “But I can’t quit. I’m not only doing this for pay, there are people out there that need my help too. It’s scary for me too, but it’s not enough to stop me fom doing what I need, want, to do.” 

There is a fraction of understanding in the way he looks at you. He knows, deep down, that he can’t change your mind. He thought that maybe, if he begged enough, if he tried harder, the world would keep you a little safer. But he knows as well, deep down, that isn’t true. There’s a chance that it will never be true. 

Though, you don’t know that. You probably never will. 

The very least he could do is protect you, more than he already is. He was never supposed to stay here, waiting for you to wake up. By your side, as the lamp’s light shone down you and blessed your gentle features. He never should have revealed his face to you, spilled his guts, and trusted you to be careful with them. He knows what happens when that’s the case. 

“It’s Miguel. O’Hara.” 

You’re taken aback by this sudden breach in his personal identity, but of course, it isn’t unwelcome. “Alright then. Good to finally have a name to the face, Miguel. I won’t tell anyone, for once.” 

He has a little bit of heart to chuckle at that, but it fades quickly. “... I’m still– thinking about your situation though.” 

“I appreciate you covering everything and the concern, but I’ll be fine. If you really do worry and care for me an awful lot though, then we can keep in touch.” You drawl out the last statement with a teasing lilt, offering a smile to lift the tense air in the room. 

He doesn’t acknowledge it, or deny it even. He just stares at you with an expression you haven’t sene his face long enough to decipher him for, before he nods. The corner of his lips curling upward, only a tiny bit. 

“We will.”

[sorchathered]

The Willows Never Stopped Weeping for You

Pairing-Tyler Owens x female OC (Olivia Wright)

Warnings- language, drinking, angst, death, injury, smut

Summary- Olivia let Tyler go to carry out his dreams, but broke his heart in the process. What happens when in the wreckage of a little small town he learns the real reason she left him, and how do they repair it?

A/N- we back at it again on the angst train, third week in a row lol!! I really loved this one, twisters was so good and I am excited to start writing for the fandom! As always, like, comment, reblog anything to let me know what you think!

“We’ve gotta get the hell out of dodge, we can’t sit here any longer Ty!” Dani is panicked, sweat dripping from their brow as they tremble, eyes wild and afraid of what will happen if they don’t make it out.

“I can’t- I can’t leave without her goddamnit and you know it, go ahead of me, you gotta trust me! We will make it out of here, get everyone to safety Dan, I’m serious get the hell out of here!” He yells over the roar of the wind, shoving them towards the rv and as much as it pains the crew, they know Tyler would die in this storm before he ever left Olivia behind. She was his everything, he’d loved her his whole life, and even if things were broken between them he would die a thousand times over to make sure she was safe.

——————————————————————

The crew had been up and down the state the past few weeks, working together with Javi and his crew to test out Kate’s theory and it had been one hell of a ride. They’d mostly been able to help keep the damage to a minimum, but as always with storms like these it was always a risk.

The little town on the outskirts of Enid had been ravaged more than once, but this storm seemed to be hell bent on taking whatever was left of the small community and turning it to rubble. So many injured, and so many homes and businesses destroyed, it seemed like a no-brainer that the government would send aid relief workers to help repair the damage, but what Tyler Owens hadn’t foreseen was the bright green eyes and auburn hair of his first love as he helped people in the aftermath.

Olivia Wright had been his everything since he was fourteen years old, occupied every one of his dirty fantasies and dreams of the future. He’d never been more sure of anyone in his life, until they’d crashed and burned so spectacularly shortly after college. He’d fallen in love with storm chasing, his dreams of working for the NWS had turned into something else entirely as he and the crew of misfits he migrated to became more and more obsessed with the beauty and danger these storms brought.

Liv had their whole future planned, finish college, get married. Ty would work for the NWS and she would become a nurse, fulfilling your passion to help people and getting to be by his side while he pursued his passion for meteorology. The two of them were growing apart, everyone could see it but him, and she knew she’d have to be the one to let go, he was always bigger than the whole sky and Liv couldn’t bear to keep him down. So she broke his heart and her own, and in that time she watched him flourish. His channel and all of his friends, the articles written about his discoveries, she watched it all with rapt attention, he was living out his dreams and Liv couldn’t have been more proud. Eventually she had to decide what was best for her, and watching storms ravage communities just like hers in Arkansas became too much to bear, working in disaster relief and helping to save lives became her passion, she kept her head down and let the work take over, but never lost hope that one day she’d run smack dab into that man that was as wild as the western wind.

It had happened less like a rom com and more like a horror movie, he’d seen her first and lost his cool immediately, ducking under an awning and scrambling to find somewhere, anywhere else to be but near her. Lily, who had been both of their friends in college couldn’t quite figure out what the hell was wrong with him, but it didn’t take long to spot her bright hair and the FEMA t-shirt Liv was sporting as she handed out water to a group not far from theirs.

“Oh my God is that my Livvy?!” She shrieked as she ran for her friend, the two of them erupting in giggles and swaying each other in the midst of the debris-covered road.

“Lily bug!! Oh my goodness what are y’all doing here?! I thought from your last video you guys were over near Lawton!” She said, smacking a hand over her mouth as she realized she’d given herself away already.

“Ooh so you have been watching hmm? Come say hi to everyone cutie pie, it’s been too long and we need to catch up.” She pulled her along but Liv tried to dig her heels in, wild green eyes panicked.

“I can’t intrude Lils, and I don’t want to make Tyler uncomfortable, I’m sure he doesn’t want to see me” she says as she puts both hands up in surrender but Lily is having none of it.

“Nope, you don’t get to pussy out Olivia, life is too short and you know it. Now come on! I want to hear all about your life, and Dani makes some bomb ass burritos so you should try to eat something, it’s gonna be a long day babygirl.

————————————————————-

He somehow manages to avoid her like the plague all day, catching glimpses here and there but mostly staying close to Kate and Javi, much to Lily's frustration if the glares she’s cut at him all afternoon are any indication.

Livvy wasn’t quite sure what to make of it; she had been watching them for so long online that she felt like she knew the crew personally, they were some of the kindest people she’d ever met and it wasn’t lost on her that all of them had been brought together by Ty. He’d made himself a family, it was just another thing that she had missed her chance on and she couldn’t help but feel a little emotional over it.

When Kate had come over to introduce herself later in the evening, it had been obvious to Olivia that she and Tyler had something going on. It was hard to dislike her, she was beautiful and kind, and smart as a whip from what Liv could tell. Definitely perfect for him, so after a while of watching them all interact and being all but ignored by her oldest friend, it got to be too much and she found a way to make her escape, using an early morning as an excuse and holing up in her motel room to lick her wounds and cry.

Lily chases after her with another nasty glare in Tyler’s direction, everyone had questions now and he couldn’t give them, waving them off with a middle finger as he stumbled through the parking lot, a little tipsy and feeling an ache in his chest that he’d thought he’d healed from.

“Liv! Stop damnit, I know this shit is hard but just talk to me honey, tell me.” Lily shouts into the crowded lot and watches her friend's shoulders sag as she turns with tears sliding down her cheeks.

“Oh Lily.” She lets out a ragged breath and lets it all wash over her, everything she’s left unsaid and held deep inside. “I could never deny him happiness, if it’s not with me that’s OK, it’s been a long time and I’ve learned to accept it. If Kate makes him happy then of course I want that for him. I never stopped loving him, so of course I would always want what’s best for him. It wasn’t right back then Lily, that kinda love was unpredictable. We were growing together like two gnarled trees, neither of us were helping the other reach our potential and I had to let him go so we didn’t end up hating each other. “ A shudder runs through her at the declaration, tears are threatening to seep from her eyes but she won’t give them the satisfaction.

“That sounds like horseshit and you know it” Lily says she jabs her finger into Liv’s shoulder, her eyes are full of fire. Liv knows she means well, she’s always been a good man in the storm, someone you want in your corner when things get hard which is why she’s so glad that Tyler has her. Liv lets her shoulders sag and look at Lily full of defeat.

“I can’t change it now, even if I wish I could.”

“Do you wish you could?” She says with raised eyebrow and Olivia gives her a little nod.

“Every day. I miss him every day.” Tears well up in her eyes and she shivers as the wind blows through the camp, but she won’t let the pain overtake her, she made her choice and she can only hope that he’ll be happy.

Olivia doesn’t see it but Lily does, Tyler is half hidden behind the RV, he’s heard it all and she watches as his face goes from grief stricken to angry turning on his heel as he walks off into the dark, the weight of her confession breaking his heart all over again.

—————————————————

He paces the concrete hallway of the motel for what feels like hours, letting the weight of what she said run over him. Had he really been so blind? Olivia hadn’t wanted to let him go, and he’d never thought to question it when she pushed him away. He had been hurt and stubborn, shutting down immediately and saying some of the meanest things he could hurl at her to hurt her back. In hindsight he should have known she was just trying to give him the ability to do what he wanted, but just the fact that she had convinced herself that she was what was holding him back made a fire rage in him. Sure it would have been hard to manage, but they could’ve handled it! They could handle anything together, he’d always told her that, why she would have ever thought otherwise was something he couldn’t reconcile with.

He was at her door before he could stop himself, rapping sharply on the peeling metal and praying that she would listen. The sounds of the lock being undone told him she was still awake, the door swinging open to reveal her puffy tear stained face, hair up in a messy knot on her head and an oversized t shirt full of holes, one that had definitely belonged to him.

“Why are you here Ty? You’d had all day to say something to me, and you waited until midnight?” She said with a sniffle, there was no point in trying to hide what she’d been doing, it was all over her face and his heart clenched in his chest knowing he’d hurt her again.

“You didn’t want us to end, did you?” He said gruffly, he wasn’t leaving until he got his answers, he needed to know the truth.

“What does it matter now? You’re with Kate-“ she said as more tears formed, arms wrapped tightly around her waist as though she was trying to hold herself together.

“I’m not. We tried it, but she’s got her own demons to work out, and we agreed it would be better to be friends. Answer my question baby, I need to hear it. Do you still want me?” He was leaning in close to the door frame now, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body and smell the beer on his breath. Liv let out a ragged breath and nodded, that was all he needed to push the door the rest of the way open and pull her into his arms, kicking the door shut behind him as he pressed kisses to her cheek and neck while she held on for dear life. Sobs wracked her body as he sat down on the creeky mattress, pulling her into his lap as he rocked her side to side.

“My sweet girl” he murmured into her hair, he let her cry it all out until she relaxed in his grip, tipping her chin up to look at him as he stroked her cheek.

“I never stopped hoping for this, I didn’t want to hold you back but- I can’t stay away anymore. I-I love you Ty, I always will.” She stuttered and he let out a groan as he pressed his mouth to hers, flipping them both so she was on her back and spread out for him, she’d been the star of every fantasy he’d ever had, and nothing would ever be as good as the real thing.

“I never stopped either Livvy girl, can I have you? Please baby I- I need it, need to show you how much I missed you.” He looks wrecked, hair a mess and eyes wild, and she can’t stop herself from pulling him down to her, licking into his mouth and running her hands over his broad shoulders, watching him shiver in her embrace as he grinds down into her.

They make up for all the time lost, re-learning each other's bodies until the early morning, finally coming up for air when Tyler’s phone begins to go off with weather alerts and texts from Boone.

“Looks like there’s another cell coming this way, we need to get these people to safety while we can.” He says with a sigh as he rolls his body off of hers, she’s sated and happy as she stretches her limbs like a cat and moans, he feels himself twitch in his boxers as he watches her. She’s like a siren, calling him back to her and he wants nothing more to than to stay right here between the sheets and ravage her again.

“Stop looking at me like that Owens, or we’ll never get out of here in time” she playfully punches his chest and he lets out a hearty laugh, they’d have plenty of time to talk and catch up, he wouldn’t be letting her out of his sight anytime soon.

“Ok, ok sugar, let’s get back out here, storms a comin’ and times a wastin’.”

——————————————————————-

He should have known. He should have known they’d never get that lucky, especially knowing how unpredictable the storms had been this season.

They thought they’d had more time, weather warnings saying the tornado would likely just pass the town, but it had all gone wrong. What had started out as one had turned into two, splitting off and causing maximum damage to what was left of the area. He’d lost Liv and Boone somewhere along the way, Kate and Javi and the rest of the crew were safely out of danger, but somehow the twister had gotten between his truck and yours, and when the dust had settled you and Boone were nowhere to be found.

He was sick, bile crawling up his throat as he trembled, they’d been searching the perimeter when he’d heard Boone screaming for help, tearing through the field of corn to find your upturned truck, mangled and covered in broken glass. Boone had tried his best to pull you from the wreckage, but his shoulder was mangled; most likely dislocated from the crude angle it hung from.

Tyler pulled Olivia’s limp body out and heard a sharp gasp from her, she was alive, that was good. At least that was what he thought until he got her in his arms and saw the jagged shrapnel wedged in her abdomen, blood flowing like a water hose from the wound, way too much to be a minor wound. She kept lolling her head back and forth as she tried to lift her hand to his face, god there was blood everywhere, he couldn’t take the metal out, what if that made it worse? He yelled for Boone to give him his shirt, tears pouring from his eyes as he tried to stop the bleeding, but it just wouldn’t stop coming.

“Livvy, baby look at me ok?” He says with a gentle pat to her cheek, her eyes keep rolling around in her head as she tries to focus on something, anything, but she just can’t seem to get there.

Finally she seems to see him through her unfocused bloodshot eyes, a small victory and he breathes for the first time since he found her.

“Oh god, Ty there’s so much blood! What happened? Are- are you ok? How do we stop it? We need help!” She cries out as her body shakes in his arms, she’s going into shock and bleeding to death but is still selfless to the end, always worried about everyone but herself.

He’s sobbing so hard now he can hardly speak, just kissing whatever skin he can get to as he holds her tightly, still pressing hard into the gaping wound despite knowing it won’t do anything to stop the inevitable. He’s going to lose her, and he just got her back.

A scream comes from somewhere, Tyler jolting awake from the world’s most uncomfortable hospital chair. He’s drenched in sweat, and his neck aches, as he looks around the dimly lit room he realizes the scream came from him. He’s replayed that awful night over and over for the past three days, it ends with Olivia choking on her own blood as she fades away and he can’t seem to make his brain understand that while it definitely happened that way, the end result wasn’t quite so gruesome. She’s alive, unconscious, but alive. How EMS found them in time will consume his thoughts for a good long while. He’d been so sure he’d lost her but the miracles just kept coming because somehow the doctors were able to save her and had assured him that though recovery would be long and hard she would in fact recover.

—————————————————————

Months later he would still be convinced it was all just a dream, the nightmares had ceased but the jagged scar along Olivia’s sternum would always be there to remind him of how close he’d come to losing it all.

He lived for chasing storms, he’d convinced himself it was everything he’d ever need after she’d left, but he’d been so wrong.

She’d never ask him to give it up, but he didn’t know if he could continue to run after something that had nearly taken everything from him. He and Kate took a job consulting with the NWS on her research after Ben’s article got traction, and he left his truck to Boone to continue the legacy and the channel. He wanted to prevent the storms from happening before they started and he knew with Kate’s research and the grants from the government they could really dig in and make a difference.

He asked her to marry him on her birthday, 6 months after the accident and she’d said yes before he could even finish his speech. The future hadn’t been linear like he thought, he didn’t have to accept what he thought he deserved and finally allowed himself to accept what he wanted. Olivia Wright Owens sounded damn good to him, and maybe one day a house full of babies. Yeah he could definitely make that his new dream.

Tagging- @sailor-aviator @goldenseresinretriever @hangmanapologist @roosterforme @trickphotography2 @mynameismckenziemae @seitmai @sebsxphia @im-just-ken @kmc1989 @jessicab1991 @dizzybee03 @nouis-bum @attapullman @bobgasm @floydsglasses @withahappyrefrain

[valandrawrites]

2024 Recommended Fics - Incomplete List

Here's my start at an end of year round up. If you're looking for a specific kind of fic or trope, let me know, and I'll try to find something for you! I have many, many more I could add, and what I've included is in no particular order.

I didn't list the rating or warnings with this because it just got too long, and honestly, I'm lazy. Read at your own risk.

A. fragilis by eachainn @eachainn

This is quite simply the best fic I've ever read. Do not continue until you read this one!

150 million years ago, an Allosaurus finds a stranger had wandered into his territory and he wants the intruder out.

1878, the middle of what will become known as the Bone Wars between O.C. Marsh and Edward Drinker Cope. Castiel Novak is transporting fossils from the latest dig in South Dakota back to Yale. He has to be careful, because there are people who work for Professor Cope who would gladly take the fossils off of his hands.

Those Who Get in the Way of Peace by ladyofthelake17 @ladyofthe-lake

“Don’t make me an optimist. You will ruin my life.”

Dean Winchester finally has his shit together: business is booming at his auto repair shop, he's eating healthy (okay, he's eating salad with bacon bits), he's exercising (in a cemetery). He's single, but he's claiming it as a good thing. And so what if Sam's not talking to him? So what if his dad is marrying an insane artist? And so what if the priest marrying them is hot as hell with a name that sounds like a sin just to say it — Castiel?

AKA: another Fleabag fic, but maybe it'll have a happy ending. Maybe.

Illicit Ink by allmystars @allmystars-i

Dean Winchester has a secret. He does this thing maybe two or three times a week, and he loves it, don’t get him wrong, but… He’s a camboy, and that’s not exactly something he wants shared around the breakfast table. When Dean decides he needs a change, it’s nothing too drastic, just a tattoo. But the hot-as-sin tattoo artist he gets to do the job might just change everything.

Ground Control to Major Tom by MrsShinigamiDaiko @mrs-shinigami-daiko

Dean Winchester dreamed of being a mechanic all his life, but he never thought he would end up working as a mechanic for NASA and going into space. He is thrust into his first ever space mission after a strange lunar body, dubbed Luna-b I, mysteriously appears in Earth’s sky. Teams of astronauts scramble up to the permanent lunar base and begin analysis to determine if the blue orb is any threat to mankind. Most of the first team is sent home after a few months, nearly all of them having fallen ill with devastating cases of space sickness. As time goes on, it becomes clear that something altogether unnatural is going on here. Dean feels like he’s losing his mind as he and his crewmates also begin to succumb to sickness. He races to figure out what could possibly be the root cause. Is Luna-b I really just some weird, deep space rock that got caught in the Moon’s orbit by chance? Or is it something much more sinister, watching and waiting for the opportune moment?

Pinfall by crowleyo @crowleyo

Cas runs the family diner with his adopted son, Jack. His old high school flame rolls into town and he thinks he can just step back into Castiel's life. Well... He's kind of right.

This Impossible Happiness by FriendofCarlotta @friendofcarlotta

In one universe, Dean Winchester is pushing thirty. He’s just danced at his little brother’s wedding, he likes his job at the garage, and he goes on the occasional hunt with friends and family. He’s also desperately lonely for someone to share his life with. One day, he finds a mysterious package outside his door. It contains a news clipping about an urban legend that just might be real, and a book by Professor Castiel Novak, who happens to specialize in that same urban legend.

In another universe, Castiel Novak’s roadside motel is slowly dying, its business hollowed out by the interstate system. Dean Winchester, the man who asked him to run away together years ago, is only a painful regret these days. Until the day a mysterious letter Castiel doesn’t remember writing brings Dean back to his doorstep.

Out there in the multiverse, a man and an angel look for each other in all the wrong places. In the meantime, they might as well help a few other versions of themselves figure things out.

Then Comes the Rain by someonetoanyone @someonetoanyone-blog - a three part series

“I’m not looking forward to it,” Rowena tells him, as though that will absolve her of anything, “he may have a better solution for this, but the spell requires a smidge of spilled Grace. He’ll need to be hurt for this to work, and — Dean, all joking aside, you may be the only person fit to do this.”

“Oh, this’ll be great — go ahead, tell me why I’m the only one that can get butt-fucked to save the world.”

Mind Your Own Business by BunnyHunter

While the ability to overhear the secret thoughts of the people around him was distracting at best and anxiety-inducing at worst, Castiel had found ways to cope that included a pair of noise-canceling headphones and burying himself in his PhD research. After hearing inner thoughts for his entire life, there were very few things he overheard that surprised him anymore. So imagine his shock when his roommate Sam's brother, Dean, came to stay with them. While Dean may have been able to keep a straight face on the outside, his inner thoughts told a much different story.

Survivalism by bleuzombie @bleuzombie

Genetic engineers Castiel Novak and Dean Winchester are on the verge of a breakthrough in cancer treatment and possibly even a cure, using genetic manipulation and incredibly, shark DNA.

Following a devastating diagnosis of brain cancer, and amid growing pressure from his boss, Dick Roman, for results, Castiel is pushed to an act of desperation. He tests the cure on himself with disastrous and violent results.

He has never been so hungry.

Dean Winchester’s half-way house for orphaned half-monsters (and humans) by foolondahill17 @foolondahill17

What if Dean just kept every kid he’s ever interacted with?

A re-write of season 6 onwards in which Dean slowly collects every conceivable stray that crosses his path.

The eyes of a lamb by naughtystiel @naughtystiel for Shedar

The year is '98 and Spring is approaching fast. For most, the season is a symbol of new beginnings with Mother Nature’s chaste kiss that breathes life into everything once more. It's inspiring, peaceful and beautiful. So, the fact that this is exactly when a certain serial killer loves to strike makes Detective Winchester's blood boil. Two years in a row now, the guy has slipped through his fingers, not leaving a single trace behind. No clues, no leads, just murdered women in the most picturesque places imaginable. And the worst thing of all? Sometimes Dean catches himself admiring the killer's work.

where there is darkness by quiettewandering @quiettewandering @wanderingcas 

When Castiel Milton takes a job to be the new assistant keeper at Whaleback Lighthouse in Kittery, Maine, he expects to live out his new life in quiet isolation. What he gets instead is Dean Winchester: bitter, brash, and, like Castiel, harboring a dark secret. As the spark of attraction between them grows into a flame, the lighthouse walls start closing in—as do the ghosts of Dean and Castiel's checkered pasts.

[sunflowergirl522]

Fairy Circles

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Fairy!Reader

Summary: Eddie accidentally traps you in his lunchbox and takes you home with him.

Word Count: 2545

Fairy!Reader Masterlist

Eddie eyes up the wooded area next to the trailer park from his van before sighing and grabbing his stash from the passenger's seat. He’s been trying to smoke less for the last couple months knowing Wayne’s been getting sick of the smell, but it had been a long day. It seemed like everyone in Hawkins car had an issue and they were down a man at the garage and on top of that he’s been having phantom pains on and off all day in his scars. And the weed always helps, so he turns the van off and crosses the park.

He’s not paying attention to where he’s walking, too busy searching for the blunt he knows he rolled yesterday. Which is what leads him to almost stepping in the fairy circle that definitely wasn’t there a couple of days ago. It’s only when the slight tinkling sound reaches his ears that he looks around.

“Shit!” Eddie moves his foot that was about to be set down on the other side of the mushrooms sprouting from the ground back to safety before taking a giant step backwards. The tinkling stops as soon as he does, causing him to look around for what could have been causing it. When he doesn’t see a cause for it he glances back at the decently sized circle of mushrooms that seem to have sprung up overnight.

He’s never seen a fairy ring in real life before and he has to admit he’s intrigued. Just not enough to risk stepping into it. He knows all about the different outcomes that could come from it, and the last thing he wants is to get trapped there or dance until he dies. So instead of investigating it, which he wants to do oh so badly, he turns to go around it.

The light shining off of his rings is what had initially drawn your attention to him. And when he was about to step into your circle you couldn’t contain your excited laughter from your lounging spot on the moss growing on a branch of the oak tree above the circle. You feel like you’ve been waiting ages for someone to come across it and dance with you. You even got up and moved to get a better look at this, as you came to realize quickly, pretty human man. And when his foot stops just as it was going to cross the boundary and he takes a step back you grow the most aggravated you’ve been in a long time.

You cross your arms and stomp your feet as you pace in an angry circle, cheeks puffing out. You let out a tiny yell that gets absorbed in the wind and kick the part of the branch pointing up that you were leaning on to get a better look. Your eyes catch on the acorns on one of the thinner branches under you. You have to pull with all your might, and you go somersaulting backwards once you rip it off, but you get it with a proud smile on your face. 

The rustling of the leaves only catches Eddie’s attention for a brief moment before he shrugs it off and keeps walking to his designated smoking spot, a hunters' platform he found his freshman year of high school and has yet to see anyone actually hunt on.

“What the-” It’s when an acorn hits and bounces off of the top of his head that he spins around and looks up at the tree, brown eyes becoming slits as if that’ll help him spot the culprit. When he doesn’t see anything he chalks it up to just nature running its course instead of a fairy throwing something at him and scoops up said acorn before continuing on his way.

You follow him, becoming intrigued even more by him once you watch him put the acorn in the thing he’s carrying and wanting to know what else is inside immediately. Once he’s situated on the platform in a tree you hover for a while watching in awe as he brings his weird stick to his lips and inhales before exhaling and leaning his head back against the trunk of the tree. You enjoy how the dying sunlight glints off of his rings and the ink on his newly exposed arms.

Once he throws his fire starter back into his box you fly over to it landing just next to it, staying crouched so as not to be spotted. Once you see his eyes are closed again you stand and grab onto the top to peek inside. The pretty blue crystals scattered on the opposite side immediately draw your attention. After seeing the man preoccupied you dart inside to get a better look. They’re all different shapes and bigger than your head and you can’t help but think you’ve found treasure. 

Eddie puts his roach out against the platform before putting it back in his lunchbox to throw out later and shutting it. He slings his jacket over his shoulder and grabs the box’s handle before climbing down to head back home.

You don’t notice the stub of the stick he had fall in behind you, too distracted with turning one of the more ball-like gems around in your hand, until you get overwhelmed with an odd earthy smell and notice the lid shutting. It’s immediately being moved and knocking you onto your ass. You huff before standing, finding purchase on a smaller less solid red and white box, and flying up to try to push on the lid to try to open it. After several failed attempts you land back on the constantly slightly tilting ground and let out a scream. One that stays hidden from Eddie’s ears due to the metal blocking it and the distance from his lunchbox to his ears.

You should have never gotten into this trap! Because of course that’s what this was, the intriguing pretty human and the gems were all a ploy to capture you. You feel so stupid and your anger boils up as one of said gems slides to your feet. You kick it into the wall enjoying the echoing noise it makes. You enjoy it so much that you continue to kick and throw the things in your prison, stomping all over the green clumps and snapping the arm of the little statue off. As soon as your prison stops moving and finds solid ground you rush to start banging on walls. 

Eddie hears the constant dinging coming from his lunchbox just as he’s pulling his pajama pants on. He sits at the chair in front of his desk before sliding it in front of him, successfully knocking you on your ass again, and opening the lid up. He’s immediately met with the sweet smell of strawberries, which is definitely not what it should smell like. His eyes go wide when he sees you sitting there arms crossed and slightly glowing in the midst of the chaos that is his lunchbox.

“Woah.” You look up at the sound of his voice catching the shocked look on his face briefly before you’re shooting up and out of the box you were stuck in. You hover there for a second before seeing your way back outside next to him and flying straight into a wall of some sort.

“I gotcha!” Eddie catches and cradles you in his hands as you bounce off of the window. You can’t be taller than three inches and your wings, which tickle the slightest bit as they brush against Eddie’s palm, remind him of a butterfly. Your dress looks delicately made out of the petals of some purple flower and he wants to admire the craftsmanship. And he would if you hadn’t flown out of his hand to hide behind his lunchbox as soon as the shock of flying into the window wore off.

He’s still in so much shock that there’s a real living fairy in his room that it doesn’t register how scared you might be after being shut in his lunchbox until you’re scurrying away from him.

“Oh god, I’m such an idiot. You must be so scared, hold on.” He gets up and you peer around the corner to watch him as he digs around in a drawer, the softness in his voice gaining your interest. When he sits back down you go back to hiding only hearing the beads he drops in between your hiding spot and himself. “Here, I don’t want to hurt you, I swear.” He pushes his chair back and crosses his arms so you know he’ll keep them to himself and waits for you to come out. 

You think about it for a couple minutes before poking your head around the corner again looking at his new position before at the small offering in front of you. The pretty beads make you smile and you clock the human in front of you again before making your way to them. Eddie’s transfixed as you walk out from your hiding spot and kneel to pick up and admire the beads. 

“Sorry for shutting you in my lunchbox. Right hand up to god I didn’t even know you were in there.” Your attention goes up to him and Eddie catches himself holding his breath for your reaction. You can tell he’s telling the truth, you’ve always been good at that, so you just shrug and go back to your beads. You don’t even flinch when his hand goes up with his choice of wording. He notices and decides to test his luck and move his chair back to where it originally was. All you do is look at him and tilt your head to take him in. He has very pretty eyes, if you were a more violent fairy you’d want to pluck them out of his head. The thought makes you giggle and Eddie recognizes it as the tinkling sound from earlier.

“That was you earlier, I was about to step into your circle.” He’s beaming at you and getting excited. It’s admittedly contagious as you nod and smile at him before remembering how he ruined your fun by not stepping into it. Your smile drops and you cross your arms as you look at him. He notices and goes to reach into the box pulling out the acorn from earlier. 

“Did you throw this at me?” You nod once pouting. “Well I’m sorry for not stepping in. I’ve just heard and read stories about what could have happened and didn’t want to risk it. But you seem very nice and I’m sure you wouldn’t have kept me trapped there forever.” You shake your head rigorously. You really just wanted to dance with someone for a bit, you’ve felt so lonely recently. And you had forgotten completely about how some fairies will do things like that. 

“What were you doing in my lunch box that got you shut in anyway?” 

“Oh!” Eddie doesn’t hear your exclamation, just sees your mouth form it before you’re standing and climbing into his lunchbox. He only has to wait a couple seconds until you’re throwing out his D20 dice and rolling a nat twenty without meaning to. When you fly out you have his D4, D8, and D10 balanced in your arms. You drop them where the D20 rolled and beam while gesturing with open arms at them.

“My dice?” You nod even though that’s an odd name for gems.

“They’re pretty.” To Eddie your words are a little like small bells but the way you stare at them has him agreeing with you anyway.

“You’re a pretty little thing aren’t you?” Once again you look up at him but this time you really take him in, from his long hair to his pretty brown eyes to the scars on his neck, chest and torso. Under your studious gaze he suddenly remembers that he never put a new shirt on and starts to fidget with self consciousness.

“I should finish getting dressed.”

“What are those from? Somebody hurt you?”

“I don’t know what you’re saying darlin’ but if it’s about the scars you don’t have to worry about it. I got them a while ago.” He winces as the phantom pains decide to pick the worst moment of his life to return. And suddenly he’s feeling the bites all over again just slightly less painful. You fly over to hover in front of him as he rubs the ones on his chest and grimaces. You start to panic not liking watching the human who gifted you such beautiful beads and showed you kindness and called you pretty go through whatever this is. 

“Let me help.” You fly closer to his ear hoping it’ll help him hear you. After you fly back to see his reaction you find his eyes wide at hearing your voice before he nods an okay. With his permission you fly closer to where he’s rubbing and trying to get it to go away, placing your tiny hands on the scars and starting the healing process you normally just do for animals or plants. After so long of it not working how you want it to because you can’t cover enough surface area you aggravatedly sigh and back away for your next move hoping it’ll work better.

One minute you’re this small fairy in front of him and the next you’re human sized, glitter falling to the floor where you stand from your use of magic. He barely has time to take you in before your hands are on his chest again, a sort of glow emitting from your connected skin as you try to heal him. It works, the pains fade but Eddie’s not sure if that’s because of you or well you. 

Your hands are cooler than he would have expected them to be. And now he can really see the curves that make up your form and the gorgeous eyes that he could only barely make out the color of before. You’re pretty as a pixie but as a human you’re like nothing he’s ever seen, you’re plain ethereal. 

“Better?” Your voice sounds different than in your smaller form and Eddie immediately falls in love with it. All he can do is nod as you look up at him, because even in your bigger form you’re shorter than him, and you take your hands off of him. You giggle as you see the glittery dust in the shape of your hands on his skin where you were using your magic. It’s Eddie’s new favorite sound because on top of it being an actual laugh there’s still the slight tinkle in it from when you’re fairy size. “Good.”

Before Eddie can say anything else you’re poofing back into fairy size, leaving more glitter behind, and flying over to the desk to pick up all the beads you can carry. After that you fly over to the window touching the glass with your foot wondering how to get out.

“Let me get that.” Eddie comes over and opens the window watching you while he does so. “Will I see you again?” You just shrug before flying out and heading back home.

Eddie Taglist (27/40): @sadbitchfangirl​ @notbeforelong​​​​ @navs-bhat @emotionaldreamer ​​​​​  @gaysludge​​​ ​@eddiethesexy​ @mazerunnerrose​ @midnightsgetawaycar   @mushroomelephant @saramelaniemoon @nojamsonmytoast @vintagehellfire @esoltis280 @spikedhe4rt @siriuslysmoking @toobsessedsstuff @alana4610 @gretavanfleas @sparkletash @aactuaaltraash @spookyemorockbabe @jesssssmaybankk @tlclick73 @eddiemunsonslittlemetalhead @bl4ckt00thgr1n @eli-flower @canyonmooncreations

Everything Taglist: @matchamunson​ @bubsonnobx @practicalghost @katsukis1wife @crustyowos @yourfavdummy @protecteddiemunson4vr @kennedy-brooke @m00nkn1ghts @rory-cakes

[crownofgildedlilies]

feelin' like an absolute fool about it -> cool about it [1]

in which: a son of jupiter can't remember the life he lost to time and circumstance. or the daughter of mercury he lost, too.

pairing: jason grace x daughter of mercury!roman!reader

warnings: angst, angst, and angst. oh and cursing.

word count: 3.3k

a/n: this is a four part fic and im so obsessed with this idea. Jason Grace the man that you are. oh and this follows a nonlinear plot so be warned. lmk if you want to be added to a taglist or wtv!

[one] two three four

"If I have to sit through one more meeting with you making kiss me eyes at the praetor, I'm going to run myself through with my own lance."

"Good morning to you, too, Dakota." You grunted, half amused, half still pissy from the horror show that had been your previous night. "I slept like shit, thanks for asking."

"You're welcome," He didn't miss a beat, pouring more kool-aid than was probably healthy into his cup to drink with breakfast. "Now, man up."

"Real inspiring."

Dakota leveled you with a flat look, and you fought the urge to roll your own eyes. But you knew he would twist the action into your admitting defeat in your impromptu staring contest.

And you were nothing if not a sore loser.

"Admit you want to date the praetor." Dakota demanded, trying to push the conversation along.

On instinct, your gaze darted throughout the dining pavilion, looking for a certain head of blond hair that had yet to make an appearance that morning. And it was then that you knew Dakota meant business, because he didn’t call you out for looking away first.

"Reyna's pretty. Not my type, though." You deflected, stabbing a fork into your breakfast with what was probably more force than necessary. Dakota's eyes widened at the action, briefly, before narrowing at you in suspicion.

"Moving past that comment," He waved his hand in front of him, as if to physically move the conversation along. "Does your current attitude have anything to do with last night's freak thunderstorm?"

Maybe, you would have said, if your mouth didn't suddenly taste so bitter. Still, you winced, and you knew that was enough of an answer for him.

"Oh, come on!" Dakota groaned, pausing only to sip greedily on his kool-aid. You looked on in near amusement, cheek propped up on your fist, waiting for his dramatics to pass. "I finally get my speech all prepared to get you to confess your unending love to Praetor Grace, and you two get in an argument the night before?"

"Pity," You replied dryly, hoping the way you exaggeratedly poked out your bottom lip and knitted your brows together masked the ache in your chest.

"Centurion," Dakota whined, and you wondered how you had gotten so lucky to be promoted to lead the Fifth Cohort alongside him. "What happened?"

Your eyes flashed, shooting him a glare that made him snap his mouth shut.

"Oh-kay." He whistled, sipping his kool-aid some more. Seriously, you needed to figure out how to trick the poor guy into drinking water. "My point still stands. One argument does not change the fact that you guys are in love with each other."

You scoffed, shoveling pancakes in your mouth to avoid answering, head ducked.

Dakota slammed his open palms down on the top of the table so forcefully, almost every head in the pavilion snapped towards him.

"So you admit it!" He accused, grinning wickedly and showing off the red-stained mustache his drink of choice left. You grimaced, swallowing your breakfast to avoid choking. "You do love him!"

"Keep your voice down or I will shove Octavian's entire teddy bear collection down your—"

"Okay!" Dakota interrupted, grinning proudly, as if he hadn't just been threatened. "No need for violence. I was right."

"So is a broken clock twice a day. You're not special." You rolled your eyes, settling stiffly back into your seat. Risking another glance around the mess hall, you still found no sight of the world's most irritating, kind-hearted, moron of a praetor.

Also known as Jason Grace, your best friend.

And as Dakota had just so eloquently uncovered, the guy you've been in love with for years without ever uttering a word about it to him.

"Put me out of my misery, please, and just go talk to the guy, will you?" He begged, like he truly was the one suffering. You glared at him again, but you knew it wasn't fair.

Dakota hadn't been there last night, when you had tried telling Jason how you felt. But the boy was as emotionally oblivious as he was pretty, which was saying a lot.

"Wait," Dakota wiped at his mouth, but the kool-aid stains remained behind. "Did you already—?"

"Centurions," Harper from the Second Cohort appeared at your side, slightly out of breath and eyes wide. You had only ever really spoken to her during Senate meetings, but you were friendly enough.

So you were more than a little confused when she looked at you and took a step back, like she was afraid.

"Everything alright, Harper?" You asked, turning slightly in your seat, mind already running through a million different scenarios of horrible things that could have happened and dragged such a reaction out of Harper.

You had seen the girl take on four sons of Mars before. She wasn't exactly afraid of much.

"He's gone," The words tumbled past her lips before she winced, taking a second step away from you. Face twisted in confusion, you tried to make sense of the vague explanation. "Jason, I mean. He's just—"

Gone.

You were out of your seat before she could finish talking, breakfast long forgotten. The few bites you had managed to swallow felt like lead in the pit of your stomach, weighing you down and making you feel like you were barely moving, even as you raced so fast through camp that even the Lares barely had time to get out of your way.

There was no way Harper was right. Jason couldn't just be—be gone. He was everything a Roman aspired to be; strong, resilient, dedicated.

And maybe you had gotten into an argument, but Broken Clock Dakota was right for the second time that day. One argument didn't mean you stopped loving him.

You have never been so thankful that your father was the god of travelers as your feet pounded on the dirt roads. Sprinting towards the bunk houses, you utilized every ounce of Mercury-blessed speed. Jason had to be there. Or maybe he had snuck off to New Rome to buy you apology flowers, like he had the one time he missed your birthday—you had forgive him easily, as he had been off on a quest he nearly died during.

Heart in your throat, you skidded to a halt outside the small, private bedrooms given to the praetors. You had always teased Jason that his looked like a prison cell, considering his only decorations were books on war strategies used throughout centuries.

But then he had taped up that one gods-awful photo of you and him, both squinting against the sun shining in your faces, and it hadn't seemed so desolate.

"Jason!" You shouted with relief, voice choked up, because the door to his room was open. He never kept his door open, unless you were inside, because he claimed it stopped the other campers from making assumptions about what the two of you were getting up to in his bedroom, alone.

And then you would ask him to explain what he meant by that, trying to hide your grin for as long as you could while he stammered over his words with a blush.

"Jase, they're saying—" You pushed open the door to his room further, voice almost shuddering, and stopped cold when you saw the room's only occupant.

Because it wasn't your blond haired love leaning over the small desk in the corner of the room.

"He didn't show up to our praetor meeting this morning." Reyna's voice was flat, giving you only the facts. You were glad, because if she had spoken with pity, you were certain you would have thrown up.

Jason would be nice about it, but you didn't want to vomit on his carpet.

"That's not like him," You stated dumbly, fingertips vibrating with anxious nerves. Reyna shook her head, and it was then that you realized she had been sifting through the stacks of papers on his desk.

It felt like an intrusion of his privacy, even if it was a necessary precaution. There might have been clues to his whereabouts in those papers. Instead, you were certain they were only his to-do lists, scribbled in his neat handwriting you so adored.

And when she spoke next, you wish you could have plugged your ears and ignored her.

"Centurion, Jason Grace is missing."

Six months, one week, four days, nine hours.

And thirty-six minutes.

Jason had been gone for six months, one week, four days, nine hours, and thirty-six minutes.

In total, you had slept probably a total of nineteen consecutive hours. Octavian had tried calling for your removal from role of Centurion five times. Reyna had offered you the open position of Praetor twice, behind closed doors.

"It's not available," You had snapped. Fear and exhaustion had turned you bitter. "Jason's coming back."

Six months, one week, four days, nine hours, and thirty-seven minutes.

"You know," Dakota's voice was slightly slurred, already gone on the kool-aid on such a bright summer afternoon. He had found you on the steps of the forum, searching through dozens of letters from retired legionnaires all claiming to not have heard any word about Jason but would keep scouting, and suggested you join him for a walk. "I bet he's out there, fighting for his life to get back here to you."

You shot a glare at Dakota, but kept your mouth shut. Lately, he was the only one of your old friends that could stomach being around you. No one else wanted to subject themselves to your attitude. You were glad to have a friend, even if you didn't act like it.

But you wished Dakota wouldn't talk about Jason fighting for his life.

"Brenda said I could take another eagle out searching today," Your voice had a rasp to it. Rarely used, but never rested. For the first three weeks following Jason's disappearance, you spent each night crying in your bunk, murmuring desperate pleas that your golden boy be returned to you.

And maybe he had never truly been your Jason, but it had felt pretty close.

Finally, Reyna had slipped a key into your palm, disguised as a handshake. The silver key, the one that unlocked Jason's empty praetor room, currently sat on a chain around your neck.

You slept there, now.

No one mentioned your nightly disappearance. You figured everyone was just thankful they didn't have to hear your crying anymore.

"Are you sure you should be flying?" Dakota looked you over with unease, the Little Tiber coming into view on the horizon. You were certain you looked a mess, but what did it matter? You only cared about what Jason thought of you, and Jason never cared about what you wore.

Still, the dark bags of exhaustion under your eyes probably were cause for concern.

"Says you," You countered dismissively, waving a hand towards the flask of kool-aid attached to his belt.

"That's not what I mean," He huffed, defensive. "When's the last time you slept—"

The shouting from the Little Tiber interrupted your conversation. You squinted in the direction of the sound, both surprised and startled to find two massive fists of water raised in the air, a gorgon in each.

At the bank was Hazel Levesque, submerged up to his knees was Frank Zhang, and... controlling the water-fists was a boy you had never seen before.

Without warning Dakota, you took off in a sprint towards the edge of the Little Tiber. You reached the bank just as Frank shot two incredibly well placed arrows at each of the gorgons, turning them to dust and swallowing them downstream.

"Centurion!" Hazel gasped, spotting you approach. Dakota was slowly closing in, muttering curses about children of Mercury and their swiftness. "We found him by the front gates. He was carrying, well, a goddess, so we figured we should let him in."

By the time Hazel finished rambling, both the new boy and Frank had made it ashore. Frank, with his probatio tablet swinging around his neck avoided meeting your eye.

Most people did, lately.

But the newcomer met your stare head on, confidently, if not a little confused. Pursing your lips, something about him set off alarms in your mind.

"What's your name?" You asked, still frowning. You hated being so angry all the time. You missed smiling. You missed your reason for smiling, too, but you had other things to worry about, somehow.

Like the son of Neptune who showed up on your front door.

The boy shifted on his feet, a bronze sword clenched in his tired hands. He looked far worse than you had realized at first, and his voice was exhausted when he answered you.

"Percy Jackson."

"Jason Grace!"

"Careful," He grinned, pointing his sword lazily at you. Your laughter echoed throughout the room, setting the world around the two you singing. "People might think your form is getting sloppy."

"Then they'll think you're a shitty coach," You teased, twirling your own sword as you danced throughout the room, always light on your feet. Jason chuckled, and if you could have bottled up the sound to keep forever, you would have in a heartbeat.

Your favorite moments were when it was just you and Jason, in the training center alone. With curfew fast approaching, everyone else was taking advantage of the two short, sweet free hours before lights out.

"Water break," Jason ordered, flipping his sword gracefully back into the golden coin he always kept in his pocket. You obliged him, slipping wordlessly over to your water bottle on the edge of the mat. "I was serious, earlier. You're dropping your elbows."

"And you're more stiff than a flagpole," You countered, raising a pointed brow at him. Jason gave you a look that screamed 'I don't think so', which was practically an invitation for you to mess with him. "Seriously, Jase, you gotta loosen up."

"I'm loose." He argued, and you let out another loud laugh, the kind that had your head tipping back with the force of your joy. Crossing the room to stand before him, you lifted your chin so that you had a chance at meeting his eye.

I'm loose, he claimed. The thought made you snort, again, as you took in his rigid posture, how even just standing, his arms were crossed over his broad chest.

"Jase," You crooned innocently, settling your left hand on his shoulder, fingers smoothing over the muscle. His reaction was instant, to your excitement. Flush coating his cheeks, his eyes tracking the movement of your hand against him.

Just as you had hoped.

"Baby," You taunted, and he actually choked, burning a bright red as you stepped closer to him, smirk on your lips. "If you're going to talk shit about my elbows, you better get ready to fight back."

Grinning wickedly, you held up the magical golden coin you had lifted from Jason's pocket while he was distracted.

"Give me that," He huffed, eyes rolling and catching your wrist before you could get away. Your laughter fell from you in echoing shrieks, trying to escape Jason as he tried to snatch the coin back.

You stuck out your arm in the opposite direction, trying to hold out as long as you could against him. How rare it was you ever were able to outsmart the great Jason Grace.

He simply pulled you closer, his longer arms stretching out over your body to try and get his coin back. Knees knocking together, your laughters mixed in the air.

By the time his fingers finally wrapped around the golden coin, you could barely breathe. Smiles spread wide over both your faces, you grinned up at him, cheeks albeit a bit flushed.

His arm was wrapped around your middle, holding you flush against his front. And even as he stuffed his coin back into his pocket, he kept his arm wrapped around you tightly.

You weren't going to complain, either, your own hands settling on the tops of his shoulders, toying with the collar of his purple camp shirt.

Gods, you were so in love with him, you felt it in your bones. How was it fair that the powers that be put him in your life, just out of arms reach? And how could Venus despise you so much that she would give you Jason Grace, let him hold you and smile at you, and not have him fall in love with you, too?

He was blinding, golden sunlight, and you just needed to be caught in his rays, however briefly.

"Why do you train so much?" You weren't exactly sure where the question came from, but you were certain it was an important one as you studied the emotions swirling in his sky blue eyes. Confusion, mostly, but also a hint of something so similar to admiration it made your skin feel flushed.

"We're soldiers." He reasoned, ever the level-headed Roman. And you loved him for it, really, but you loved him more than the Roman traits.

"Do we have to be, all the time?" You hated how desperate your voice sounded, and you hated Jason for making you ask.

"What else is there for us?" His counter argument was like he hit the panic button in your mind. And maybe if you had more time to think about how to best react, you would have slowed down and talked him through a life beyond the military prowess he had been practically conditioned to think was the only life for him.

But you didn't have time, and you could barely think, so all you did was pull away from his hold.

"Forget it." You mumbled, not entirely sure if you intended for him to hear. It wasn't his fault, you distantly reasoned, he didn't know any better. Raised by wolves then sent to Camp Jupiter? He had no chance at seeing any sort of life beyond battlefield glory.

But you weren't the daughter of reason. Your father was the god of thieves, and your emotions stole the moment from your fingertips.

"Hold on," Jason urged, taking a step towards you as you backed away, mumbling some excuse about needing more water. "Did I do something wrong?"

"Never, Jase." You nodded solemnly, your frown never once leaving your lips as you twisted back around to face him. "And maybe that's the problem."

I want you to break regulation and kiss the daylights out of me, you wanted to scream.

"I don't understand." He shook his head, open palms splayed up towards the sky, like he was pleading with you or the gods to explain to him.

You laughed once more, but this time, it echoed coldly in the empty training room. Gone was the sunshine smiled you wore, as if it had fallen behind the horizon as the real sun set over your head.

Bitterness twisted your heart, firing unfamiliar cruelty through your gaze, pinned on Jason. He almost flinched at the look on your face.

I don't understand, he had claimed. He didn't understand just how much you ached for him, praetor or not. Roman or mortal, you wanted him.

But he was a soldier, first. And maybe he was a soldier, only.

"Maybe that's the problem."

He called your name, but you were already out the door, letting the metal slam shut behind you.

You weren't enough of a fool to pretend to not see the lightning strike the roof of the training center, ruining the perfectly clear skies from only moments before. The only proof of Jason's frustration he would let the world see, you knew.

The only proof that maybe he ached the same way as you.

That night, you didn't sleep. Your poor bunkmates, listening to you twist and turn and try and get comfortable when it felt like knives were piercing your insides. Acid burned your tongue, cursing the appendage for ever trying to broach the subject about being more than soldiers to the other with Jason.

The next morning, you walked into breakfast, determined to avoid talking to Jason for at least a few hours.

Oh, what a mistake that wish was.

[cateyesinlove]

Threads of Black and Threads of Green

Jace Velaryon/ targaryen x Helaena Targaryen

TW: none

Masterlist

AO3

Chapter one; Dance of The Dragons I

Helaena’s mornings had begun the same way every day since her sister had taken her rightful place on the Iron throne. She would wake up, break her fast alone then visit her mother, spend her afternoon in the garden, reading or having tea with her sister until it was time for her supper. Now that she no longer was Queen she was allowed so many more things like sleeping longer, more freedom to have a say in matters regarding herself, and finally, she was able to take the reigns of her life, while Helaena had been Queen she had wilded no real power given that her mother made certain that everything was done how she wanted not how Helaena wished for it.

Helaena enjoyed doing things by herself, she had always enjoyed it, from brushing her hair to choosing her clothes. When she was younger she had been able to pick her dresses, after the crowning of Aegon, her mother instructed the maids to select Helaenas cloths, something regal that made her look the part of Queen she was to play. Helaena often felt like her mother was intentionally putting her in the dresses that would overwhelm her the most making her skin crawl, the feeling of needles prickling her, the sensation of hundreds of small ants running around her body, now just the thoughts of those dresses brought her to tears

The first time she had spent an afternoon with her sister after the coronation, the first time she had truly interacted with Rhaenyra since the retaking of Kingslanding since Helaena of course had not been allowed to attend the coronation for her safety, her sister had asked how Helaena was, how she felt and if there had been anything she could do for her. 

“Anything that I can do to help, sister?” the Queen had asked her one afternoon as they drank tea.  

“I wish for the maids to not touch me!.” she blurted out, part of her felt ashamed that she had spoken so bluntly to the Queen but Rhaenyra had just smiled at her and instructed every single person of Helaenas staff to not lay a finger on her sister if she did not desire it. Later that night as Helaena brushed her hair, she was reminiscing about how she hadn’t even thought for a second to ask about her mother and to plead for her.

She finished preparing for the day by herself and proceeded to break her fast while reading a book. Days in the Keep were slow but gentle to her. She would usually be left alone until she visited her mother in the cells, and some days after the visits, she would ask her sister for tea. 

She felt queasy and quickly rushed towards her chamber pot, vomiting everything she had eaten. Oh the joys of pregnancy, she thought bitterly, after feeling better she quickly proceeded to do her business in it to try and hide the vomit.

Once she was done she came back to her couch, placed a hand on her belly, and wondered what her sister would do if her child turned out to be a boy. Naturally, he would be an heir for Aegon that is if her husband still lived, worse some lord would rally behind her child to dethrone Rhaenyra and place him on the throne, however, if the baby was a girl, she would be another bargaining chip for the Greens to marry away in exchange for armies and alliances; Helaena feared for her babe, why could her children not been fathered by another man, a good man or the man she loved and longed for. Would Rhaenyra allow her babe to live? Helaena knew that it was a risk for Rhaenyras's position to let her child live but could she be capable of killing her or her child? 

Unable to move from the panic and overwhelming feelings she spent all day there, never moving from her seat ignoring as maids came and went, wondering, planning, and praying to whatever God would listen, asking for guidance on how to coax her sister to let her babe live when she had realized the sun was setting, she had skipped visiting her mother and by now it was too late to request an audience with her sister. 

The door opened unpromptedly later that afternoon, “Lady Helaena, Lady Mysaria is here to see you.” Ser Lyonel informed her as he allowed the woman to enter her room. 

A new development in her life was that most nobles had begun calling her Lady Helaena rather than Princess unless her sister was present. She had passed from Princess to only Lady Helaena. 

“Thank you Ser,” she thanked him and proceeded to stand up, Ser Lyonel bowed and retired to guard her door again. 

“No need, to stand up princess.” Mysaria informed her with a gentle smile, “Especially in your condition.” she said to her.

“My apologies Lady Mysaria, I am not certain I understand what you mean” she immediately replied, her hands began shaking so she held them tight making sure never to bring them near her belly, she clasped them together on her lap as she sat down, no longer being able to stay standing up.” I am feeling rather well.”

Mysaria made her way to her table and sat down, “No need to lie princess.” She informed Helaena. “I know everything and so does the Queen.” 

Helaena felt the ground be swept off under her as she grew weak. “Th- the Queen knows?” 

Mysaria nodded serving herself some tea her maids had brought earlier in case she got hungry and picking it up,” Of course, after you reached that conclusion, so did I and immediately informed her.” 

“Ho-how did you find out?” she asked, eyes full of tears. 

“The same way you did,” Mysaria answered after drinking from her cup. “No bleeding, the maids informed me of your morning sickness and your strange appetite.”

“What does my sister think of this?” she asked frightened. 

Mysaria sighed setting her cup down, “The queen has a gentle heart and feels for you, I feel for you Princess Helaena but that babe,” she pointed to Helaenas belly, “is Aegon’s baby and the babe will present nothing but a challenge to the Queen, you must know that Princess.” 

“ I know, I am aware but my sister must know the babe is innocent! ” She pleads hands cradling her womb, “Wh-what if I say the babe is a bastard? I can claim I had a lover in front of the entire court! I will do whatever is necessary for my baby, please lady Mysaria, please help me keep my baby!” she cries, running to sit down at the table reaching for the woman's hand desperate for an answer.

Mysaria settles her left hand on top of Helaena’s, “The Queen and I will do what we can Princess but I can't promise you everything will be fine, this are dark times and I will not put the Queen's reign in jeopardy,” She says to Helena, thumb caressing her hand.

“I understand,” Helaena answered as tears ran down her face. 

“I will advise you Princess Helaena,” Lady Mysaria said while retracting her hands from Helaenas. “If you could betray Aegon by informing us of where he is, it would be in your best interest and maybe the small council could help you.” she offered the advice.

“Bu- but I do not know where Aegon went! I wasn't aware he had even planned to leave.” she pleads. 

“Then it would be in your best interest to find that information.” Mysaria tells her with a serious tone, almost a warning, “Talk to the one who would know,” 

Lady Mysaria had departed soon after her conversation with Helaena bidding her a good afternoon and retiring. 

After that Ser Lyonel informed her of the time, It was visit hours with her mother if she wished to see her.

Her mother, Lady Alicent Hightower. Rhaenyra had officially stripped her mother of her dowager Queen title, she was nothing more than a lady like her. 

She made her way down to the dungeons with Ser Lyonel behind her, following her of course not to protect her but to keep an eye on her. No one in this place ever cared for her, not when she was Queen, and less now that she was merely a Lady.

“Helaena! My dear!” Helaena could hear her mother before she saw her.

“Mother,” she answered as she approached the cell. She could see her mother through the small window with bars at the door of her cell. The first thing she saw was her mother's hands and then her face as she pressed herself as close as she could. 

“Oh thank the mother!” She praised grabbing Helaenas cheeks and caressing her face, “You are safe,” She sighed in relief. 

“I came to see you the day before,” Helanea reminded her. 

“Yes of course but every day I fear they will execute you for breathing the incorrect way,” she exclaims worried sick and tears gathering her eyes.

“Mother,” she sighs, uncomfortable with her mother's behavior, with her tears.

“What! Why are you acting like the only reason they aren't killing us is to prevent an uproar!” She yells angrily at Helaena and bangs the bars of the cell. 

She remembers now why she is only allowed to visit her mother in this cell, days ago her mother had gotten mad at Helaena and grabbed her through the bars of the cell, scratching her and accidentally banging Helaena against the cell. Her sister yelled at her mother and forbade her from seeing Helaena in a cell that allowed her to touch her. 

“You can not say things like that mother!” she says hardly panicking in the inside, she looks back at Sir Lyonel and the guards, they dont move nor look at them but she knows they heard her mother. 

“WHY? Because if precious rhaenyra would hear me say things like that she would what, KILL ME? She cant! I am the queen! I am the QUEEN MOTHER!” she screams in anguish, fury taking overtaking her, she drops onto her knees covering her face with her hands and then she cried like all the other times before. Helaena took a moment to observe her mother, she had on a grey tunic and her auburn hair was down, her curls going everywhere and her hands, her fingers were read and some of them bandaged after so much pinching and scratching around her nails, her one flaw she would call it. 

“We had everything, I had everything, I was a perfect queen and lady, I never meant for any of this to happened!” she sobbed. 

Helaena opted for leaving her mom, once her crying spells started it took her a couple hours to compose herself again, leaving without saying anything she felt the tears gathering in her own eyes. Helaena rarely felt resentment towards her mother, she tried not to but there occasions like this when she had no will powe to stop the morions and feeling rushing through her, how could her mother still act like the victim when she had deliberatelly put them in this position, seh had aegon and raised him since a child to be king, to steal Rhaenyras throne, then she married to him and made her have kids with him, she planned and scheamed and when things didnt go her way she gave up and now blames everyone else. 

As she made her way to her room quickly Ser Lyonel was fast behind her she dried the tears away from her eyes. How horrid it had turned, she had to deal with Lady Mysaria's cryptid advice to see her mother and deal with the insanity… No.. madness, the madness that emanates from her trapped in that cell where all she does is plead with the gods and relive memory after memory of her life. Every mistake. Every error and every painful moment.

“Lady Helaena!” Sir Lyonel called her but as Helaena turned to look at him she crashed with something, someone. 

King consort Daemon Targaryen, her uncle and her son's murderer. 

“Your grace!” Ser Lyonel exclaimed as he grabbed Helaena by the shoulders, parting her from him. Helaena shuddered at the touch and quickly shook herself from his grip, “My apologies Lady Helaena was careless with her footing.” He excuses her before bowing before Daemon. 

Helaena was no one's fool, she might have not been as sane as everyone else, plagued and marked by the things she had seen throughout her life but she was somewhat aware of how things worked, how the games were played, and what her uncle thought of her. 

Daemon smirked, looking down at Helaena. Through his eyes, she could feel his disdain and almost disgust. “ Of course, “ he mockingly says, “ I am sure Lady Helaena forgot she is in the ground rather than in the clouds, as always.” He snorts and keeps walking. Looking at him, she sees him dressed in dragon-riding attire, and she catches a smell. It fills her with dread, and she realizes what it is. 

He stank of death. The same smell that plagued her little boy that day.

———————————————————————-

Tag list ( open) :

@ella-error505

[theroseredreaper]

Afternoon Tranquility

Genshin Impact

One afternoon, during your usual study session together, you fall asleep.

Word Count: 991 Words ✯ AO3 Version

Character(s): Wanderer x Reader

Tags: Gender Neutral Reader, Reader is an Akademiya student, Nameless Wanderer, Plotless Fluff, Unedited

You weren’t truly sure when your friendship began with the elusive young man that everyone in the Akademiya referred to as ‘Hat Guy.’ Was it after he’d been volunteered to give you a tour of the city by your professor during your first week of classes? Or maybe it was after the first paper you’d worked on together, when you first got a glimpse into the kindhearted person he was behind that antisocial demeanor of his? Whenever it was, the turning point in your relationship with him truly came on the day after you’d begun your newest semester at the Akademiya.

Now one semester into living in Sumeru City, with no shared classes, there was no real reason for the two of you to see each other again. You’d enjoyed his company, but didn’t know him well enough to know if he’d even be interested in continuing a friendship with you now that you no longer shared any classes together. It had felt weird to walk to your classes and not see him around, but it was something you’d have to get used to. Your professors expected more of you this semester, now that you were settled into life here, and all the class introductions you had just sat through were almost too much to keep track of. You were busy juggling all the different syllabi and lecture notes from your second day of classes when a voice calling out to you had you turning around. He didn’t really do smiling, unless it was to smirk derisively at something, yet you could’ve sworn you saw a ghost of a smile on his lips as he waved you over.

He’d asked you if you’d be up for studying together that afternoon, if your schedule was free. Neither of you shared classes together anymore, and yet…

It’s been a year since that day.

Today, the two of you were spending the afternoon together, as you usually did when your schedules aligned for a study session. It had become a routine the two of you shared, to seek out the other in the House of Daena after classes to find a table to work at together, or to walk outside to seek out a pavilion in the shade of the great tree to work together when the weather was fair.

It was business as usual for you, looking forward to getting ahead on your project while in his company.

But for him…he’d come to a realization recently, as sudden as a clap of thunder during a rainstorm.

Sometime during the past year, in between the motions of his everyday life of attending classes, studying with you, and running tasks for Nahida…he’d somehow gone from ‘not minding’ your company to being…fond of it.

Sitting side by side in companionable silence as you two worked on your respective assignments during your study sessions was something he’d…begun to look forward to, even.

Of course, today was the same. The day was pleasantly warm, not a single cloud in the sky - so the two of you found yourselves in the shade of a pavilion as always when the day was this beautiful. It was perfect for getting work done, the breeze pleasant enough to keep cool but not so obnoxious that it risked being a nuisance to your work materials. He’d made great headway on his essay, but you, it seemed, had been lulled right to sleep instead. He couldn’t help the smile that slipped through as he watched you from the corner of his eye, chuckling at how at peace you were. You truly don’t know what you did to him, resting blissfully unaware on his shoulder as if it were your personal pillow.

Huffing softly to himself, his smile turned wry.

Would you laugh at him if you were to hear every sappy thought in his head? If he exposed his inner heart to you, would you treasure it? Or would you become his fourth betrayal? Would you find it weird that he’d been so focused on mapping out the details of your face, trying to commit every inch of it to memory, for the day he’d inevitably outlive? Would you be put off by how he’d been so distracted by you, that he’d stopped working on his essay entirely the moment he’d noticed your weight settle onto his shoulder?

Clicking his tongue in self-admonishment, he forced himself to clear his mind to return to work, eyes going back to his paper, when the feeling of you moving gave him pause. He glanced back at you, mouth opening with full intent to tease you for falling asleep, when the sensation of your arms wrapping around him left him frozen. He stared in disbelief, mouth snapping shut when you grumbled and shifted against him in an attempt to get comfortable.

And you were still asleep, too!

The audacity, too, for a human who’d happened to walk into his life on that day Kaveh volunteered him to give you a tour of the city. How, exactly, did he arrive here at this moment with you…? Slowly, the slowest he could ever remember moving, he wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you closer. Adjusts your head so it tucks into his neck, so your own head wasn’t so awkwardly stretched in what must’ve been such a comfortable position, not for any other reason. He looked you over for a moment, his other arm awkwardly hovering with his essay still in it.

“…”

Putting his essay down, he wrapped both arms around you now, tucking you under his chin. The content smile on your face as you cuddled into him with a sleepy mumble had him squeezing his eyes shut, utterly overwhelmed. If he had any actual need for air, he’s sure he’d be breathless.

Just…just when…

“Just how…did I get so lucky…?”

And if you heard him or not…well, that was a conversation to be had another day.

(A/N): This was basically born from my friend asking me, "How do you think Wanderer would react if I hugged him in my sleep?" Instant inspiration right there! Funnily enough, my first genshin fic is of Wanderer instead of Thoma lol.

Whether this is romantic or platonic is up to your personal interpretation! I also left Wanderer nameless, since the game lets you as the player decide what his name is.

I hope you enjoyed! Likes and reblogs are always appreciated and loved. <3

[adrift-in-thyme]

Whumptober Day 3: Friendly Fire

Ao3 link

- Legend & Four

- Summary: Legend risks everything to save Four

CW for blood/injury and possession

——————————————————-

He should have seen it coming.

That is what he thinks as he stares down at the blade that protrudes from his abdomen. That is what he thinks as his knees weaken and fail, as blood turns his flesh slick and sticky; as raging, roaring pain engulfs him.

He should have known. Damn it, he should’ve known. 

Legend’s knees hit the ground with a finality so thick it rattles his teeth. 

He let himself grow too comfortable. He dared to trust in what his eyes saw, what his hands touched, the roads his feet walked. He allowed himself to believe that this beautiful dream was anything but. 

He believed that they were real. 

It would be easier now if they weren’t.

If this was a dream, he could open his eyes and breathe. He wouldn’t have to see Time lying crumpled, motionless, wouldn’t have to hear Wind crying his name between bitten-out sobs. He wouldn’t have to see Warriors and Twilight trying to stand on failing legs with one another's support. He wouldn’t have to hear Hyrule’s dangerously raspy breaths, see Sky’s eyes roll back in his head as he finally falls, hear Wild’s choked cry at the loud crack his skull makes against a nearby rock.

He…he wouldn’t have to lift his head now, he wouldn’t have to lift his head and stare into the eyes of a brother, someone he had trusted, someone he had loved.

Hell. Who’s he kidding? 

He still loves him. He still trusts him.

How could he not? This was never his fault.

Legend raises his eyes and makes himself look. Four is there, just as he knew he would be. His eyes are darkened, just as he knew they would be. Shards of deepest purple embed themselves within his skin, humming with a heinous melody. They crowd beneath his left eye, forming an ellipse like a tear.

The veteran lifts a hand, brushes his thumb over it. Four doesn't move. Not now. He had raced about before, splitting and reforming with lightning speed. He had doubled, tripled, quadrupled the ferocity of his attacks upon those already inundated with monsters, gone for the weak spots only a brother would know. But not now.

His foes are felled. Why should he not freeze here? What good is a pawn without a mission?

Is his mind empty now? Legend wonders. Can he feel? Can he think?

Or can he only hear screams?

“Smithy.” The name hisses out from between his lips, born upon agony, washed away by blood. “Four…”

Fight it.

This is not you.

Don’t let the Shadow win!

We’re here for you.

Come back!

They have all said them all. Legend doesn’t have much breath left and he doesn’t plan to waste it. Veteran of hero business or not, he won’t flatter himself to believe the words will have any more power coming from him.

Especially not from him. They ring hollow flying from the lips of the one who, not so very long ago, slayed four fractured phantoms.

He would rather die than do so again.

So, instead, he says, “keep your eyes on me.”

Instead he says, “take a deep breath.”

Instead he says, “this is gonna hurt like hell.”

Blood bubbling from his lips, pain like lightning in his veins, determination running hot, he digs his fingernails into the tear of glass and metal. 

There is a place deep within his gut where his magic curls, like a kitten slumbering softly. It is exhausted from the battle already, strained with the task of simply keeping him alive. But when he barges through the silken walls of its sanctuary, when he begs it to come forth once more, it unfurls its powerful body, roaring at his desperate cries. It rises and lunges, a prowling lion released. 

He and his magic are one. Their bond is one that is deeper than all others, stronger than all others. So, when he pours it into Four’s screaming, thrashing form, he pours his own soul along with it.

There is little chance of coming back from this. He knows that, his magic knows that. But he was a dead man the moment Four’s blade brought him to his knees. There are no fairies left, no potions. The remnants of empty bottles are strewn in jagged shards amongst items dropped from trembling fingers, blood dripped from shaking hands. 

He’s going down, whether he likes it or not. But before he does, he will rid Four of this dark influence. 

To gaze upon his crimes will break him. Given time, however, he will be able to get back up. To live a life of mindless servitude will turn his spirit to ash. 

Four’s screams are deafening now. Legend can’t tell if his own have joined or if it is only the smithy’s that ring in his ears. The agony in every part of him, however, that he knows is his own. 

His vision is a clouded mix of blacks and grays. The acrid taste of iron is on his tongue. His lungs heave, his heart pounds. Their efforts are in vain. Ever inhale garners a thin bit of air. The blood that should be circulating throughout his body runs down his stomach, puddles beneath his legs. 

He is getting closer though. He feels it, feels the slight give in the defense. The darkness within Four is desperate. It is scared. It had lashed out violently at the start, battered his mind and soul, so certain it could win through brute force alone. But now it has begun to cower before his perseverance.

Legend grins, all sharp edges of white and red. 

Just a little longer and he’ll be there…

Oh, you didn’t know? He sneers at the beast that backs up before him, whispers of darkness dissipating into the sun. Stubbornness is my principal characteristic. 

You never stood a chance against me. 

It snarls, lunges. Legend draws back just enough to gather his remaining strength, then with infuriated abandon, rushes forward. 

The gray-scale world lights up in shades of violet and pink, petals of flame open to face the smiling sky. His magic screeches, his body burns. His head snaps back, blood on lips, trailing from his eyes, filling his nose. Four bucks beneath his hold. 

The blade finds him again in a last ditch effort of hopelessness, finds him and twists. 

Legend screams. Something snaps. Everything goes dark. 

[joejhang]

who the fuck even is abram

OK I LOVED WRITING MY NEIL VS NATHANIEL ESSAY SM SO NOW I'VE GOT ONE FOR ABRAM. spoilers ahead and continue at ur own risk !!!

abram is a mildly easier "character" to dissect than nathaniel or neil because neil explicitly states who abram is and contrasts him to nathaniel and neil: "neil" might be an easily-spooked runaway, and "nathaniel" was a hunted young man, but "abram" was the one shielded from and untouched by his father's bloody business.

the first time we hear of abram is when neil is trying to convince andrew to trust him with kevin's safety so andrew can leave for rehab w that security. andrew points out (rightly) that all neil does is lie, so how can he be trusted w someone as important as kevin? and neil answers "don't trust "neil", trust me."

you don't get it cos this line is one of the most insane in the entire series and no one points it out. because what follows is andrew asking "who are you?" (the layers of that, too) and neil just answers "if you need a name, call me abram."

this is so fascinating because neil literally separates himself from the "neil josten" identity in this scene and says trust me. who he is, in himself, he considers (at least at this point in the story) separate from both nathaniel wesninksi and neil josten. and when asked to put a name to this "true self" he says "abram".

isn't that crazy like y'all be arguing whether neil is truly at heart neil josten or nathaniel wesninski when he said himself, he's neither: the only "true self" he ever gives us is "abram". not even a last name because abram never belonged to nathan wesninski, and neil josten wasn't even a real person until the foxes made him one.

ok technically, i do realise "abram" is nathaniel's (and eventually neil's) middle name and i also find it interesting that even as abram has no last name and is neither wesninski or josten, the name "abram" has belonged to both last names throughout neil's life. so technically i would say abram is neither wesninski or josten but also both wesninski and josten.

that doesn't make sense but hopefully the rest of the essay makes it make sense.

"abram" is the name used by mary when she wanted to shield nathaniel from his father's work, and also the name he'd had when he'd played little league. interesting, too, because while nathaniel mostly belongs to the butcher, and was born and bred by mary, and while neil was a conscious decision, a choice and an amalgamation of his loved ones, abram belongs almost completely to mary and neil. neil also notes his time in little league as the only times he saw his mother smile. this was also before the bloody events of castle evermore, and before the miserable years on the run, so u can bet these were probably the only bright times in neil's entire life until he joins the foxes. nathaniel is deeply entrenched in a dark and bloodied past, a mirror and creation of the butcher, a cold-blooded killer. neil is an identity forged in fire (for lack of a better term) by the reckless choices he made and shaped by hands that loved him and fought for him as fiercely as he fought for them. neither of them can be fully absolved of trauma and bloodshed and anguish.

abram is a different story. abram is rooted in neil's youth, but not the fearful, abusive baltimore house, but the freedom of being on the court. abram was a creation of his mother's love (no matter how heavy-handed it became later on), and is deeply entrenched in probably the only happy childhood memories neil has and definitely the only happy times he ever experienced with his mother (his father basically entirely out of the picture). abram, unlike neil and nathaniel, is entirely untouched by the butcher's cleaver, r*ko's vicious games and mary hatford's closed fist. abram, neil implies, is someone who can be truly trusted. someone who neither has murderous nor runaway tendencies. someone who keeps his promises and doesn't flinch in the face of violence, but keeps his hands and trail clean.

abram, out of all of neil's many identities, is the only one that is both real and clean. real, because when neil was young and played exy and got to feel happy and (sort of) free for the first time, he was always abram, not nathaniel. real, because he considers "abram" to be his true self. when "neil josten" couldn't be trusted and "nathaniel wesninski" was too risky, "abram" was the name he gave to andrew. clean, because mary said "abram" to protect a young nathaniel from his father's dirty work. clean, because "abram" was what mary called him during the only times she ever smiled, before those violent fearful years on the run, before she showed her love through shades of black and blue. clean, because abram remains untouched by the violence of his childhood, because abram was only ever used during those sparse, happy times in his life, and before that it was steely-eyed, auburn-haired nathaniel and after that there was no more "abram" just alex, stefan, chris and twenty-something other names that meant nothing, and then neil josten.

andrew himself reinforces this when he says "truth is irrefutable and untainted by bias. sunrise, abram, death. these are truths." duh, this is saying, abram is a truth. the truth. abram is someone, an identity, a person, a promise that is irrefutable, untainted, unbiased. abram is like the sunrise, like death, certain and sure and undeniable.

obv another notable point is that neil's final, real name by the end of the series is neil abram josten. interesting, because abram isn't really mentioned much at all throughout the series, but is significant enough to literally become part of neil's name. like yes, neil did mention that abram was his middle name, but he also says "i don't want to be nathaniel" and "abram" was a part of nathaniel and his name. that neil thought to transfer and keep "abram" as a part of his final, real name, is significant. abram remains a part of him, even as he lets go of the past and "nathaniel" (i.e. his father, the murder and the blood and the years on the run) but holds onto "abram" (happiness, his mother's love before it became ugly, freedom, exy). it would make sense that he makes abram a part of his true name when he considers abram to be his truest self.

the way i'd yap about this man for days. GOD HE'S SO COMPLEX. anyway go read my nathaniel vs neil essay !!!

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Grey Zone 6

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon, manipulation, age gap, bullying, toxic parental figures, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Your relationship with your parents has never been good, and that with a family friend takes a strange turn(goth!reader)

Character: Lloyd Hansen

Note: Lloyd I guess is the only man worth writing.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

The nearest bathroom is diagonal down the hall. Only a half bath with a sink, a toilet and a tall cabinet in the corner. You work at removing your makeup with micellar water, dragging the cotton pads over your eyelids and down your cheeks. 

You watch your reflection, a loud growl rising from your stomach, a tic in your temple. You need your morning matcha but you didn't pack your powder, you didn't think of it. You mourn your tin forgotten in the cupboard at home and grab a fresh pad.

More than tea, you need a shower. You assume the main bath must be downstairs. You shove the bottle and leftover pads into your black leather pouch and tuck it under your arm.

As you come out into the hall, you nearly walk into an unexpected wall. Not a real wall but Mr. Hansen. You step back, trapped in the doorway as he smirks at you.

“Morning, sunshine,” he reaches to touch your naked cheek as you flinch, “don't you look fresh as a daisy? I don't think I've ever seen you without at least a couple layers on.”

“Mr. Hansen,” you croak and shy away, “excuse me–”

He doesn't move as you attempt to sidestep him. In fact, he gets closer, rescinding his hand to grip the door frame. He tilts his head as his other hand comes up to play with the hem of your shirt.

“I got my own shower. A nice big tub too if you need to clean up,” he purrs.

“That's fine,” you gulp, heat speckling over your skin, “I can just use the main–”

“You can't,” he interjects, “your dad's in there tearing the toilet out.”

He laughs at your gobsmacked expression. He leans in, letting out a slow breath as you look anywhere but in his eyes. He growls as you squirm.

“Let me show you my room,” he insists, “no funny business. There's a lock on the bathroom so… I'll just listen and use my imagination.”

“Please, I–”

“You know you're even sexier like this. How about we tag team this. Shower together? Or relax in a nice hot bath–”

“Stop!” You catch the shriek in your hand. He chuckles, his hand dangling above you as he leans even closer.

“You can put on that sexy little piece I got you,” he touches your hair, “fuck, you got me hard again.”

“I…” you gulp, panic welling in your chest and locking up your throat, “I cant–”

You don't think. You can't as your ears are ringing at his suggestions. Every word confirms that you didn't dream up last night. You shove past him and he lets you. If he didn't want you to get past, he'd make sure of it.

He cackles as you hurry down the hall, nearly running into the door as you scramble to open it. He sighs out his amusement as you trip into the bedroom. Your heart is thumping furiously.

“Don't worry, I like the chase, sweetheart,” he calls after you, “you just wait till I catch you.”

You slam the door and lean against it, sliding down onto your ass as you squeeze your leather pouch. You have no doubt he will catch you. It's only a matter of time…

🖤

So much for a vacation. You're pent up in the guestroom, staring longingly out the window at that unreachable beauty. You don’t dare emerge in case you run into your ravenous host.

You wonder how you missed the signs. Were there signs? You couldn’t have guessed his intentions. Why would Mr. Hansen want that? With you?

The thought of telling your parents makes you laugh. Not with genuine amusement, more sardonic acceptance. They won’t care. It’ll be the same reaction you got when you told them about your bullies. 

There’s no escape either. You’ve come too far to turn back. Your dad will want to stay and do your work and your mother will savour the opportunity to day drink without judgment. So there you are; stranded.

You jolt as a sudden roar brings you away from the window. Your father yells your mother’s name a second time as you rush to the door, not thinking to stop yourself before you have the door open. As you enter the hall, you hear another door opening further down. You go to the top of the stairs as your own name drawls in the air.

You stop and look over at Lloyd– Mr. Hansen, struts towards you. Your eyes ping away from him the moment you see him. He wears only a pair of white swim trunks and they don’t go far down his thighs, exposing the thick muscles and leaving his torso entirely naked. He’s in better shape than you imagined, not that you ever thought about that.

You flit down the stairs before he can reach you, towards your father’s hollering and your mother’s chirping. A gush of water ripples over the hardwood as you follow the commotion to what appears to be a dining room. Your parents stand in front of the open doorway from which the water pours out.

“I told you not to use the goddamn sink, Connie,” your dad snarls, pointing a wrench in her face.

“Ooops!” She blathers, a wine glass firmly in hand, “I was just rinsing some fruit. I can’t drink on an empty stomach, Ray!”

Lloyd comes up beside you and rests his hand on your lower back. You stiffen and step away from him. He chuckles and crosses his arms over his chest, making it look even buffer. You peek and notice the edge of black ink on his pec. You turn back to your parents’ show, hoping they can distract your host.

“It’s barely noon,” your father retorts, as close as he’ll ever come to telling her not to indulge.

“It’s barely noon,” she mimics and sticks her tongue out. “Maybe you should’ve turned the water off, Mr. Fix-it.”

“Hey, hey, it’s fine,” Lloyd interjects as he comes forward, dropping his arm, “You know how to fix this stuff, huh, Ray, and Connie, why aren’t you enjoying the pool? Perfect place to enjoy some chardonnay.”

Your mother flutters her lashes drunkenly as she faces Lloyd. You see how she blanches before a grin twists her mouth. She’s shameless as she takes in the breadth of the mostly naked man in front of her. She licks her lips and wobbles.

“I could fix it if everyone wasn’t in my goddamn way,” your father chides. “Shit idea bringing everyone up here. Never get this done.”

“Oh, you know what,” Lloyd snaps his fingers, “I got a great idea. Connie, why don’t you camp out in the pool house? There’s everything you need. A bed, kitchen, a toilet not gushing sewage onto my floors.”

“Pool house?” Your mother echoes curiously, her head tilting one way than the other.

“Didn’t I mention it? Yeah, you must’ve seen it, right behind the pool,” he emphasizes the last word as if it’s obvious, “and I can take the kiddo up to Moose Ridge. It’s like an hour north. Get out of your way for a bit, huh, Ray?”

“As long as you leave me alone,” your father crosses his arms and turns back to watch the toilet gargle. 

Your mother pouts and slurps her wine, “you’re leaving me alone? With him?”

“No, Connie, imagine, a pool house all to yourself,” Lloyd puts his arms over her shoulder, “just you. No husband, no daughter… You and the pool and all the wine you can drink. Isn’t that vacation for a hardworking mother and wife like yourself? You know the old man’s not gonna be sleeping and if he is, he won’t make it that far.”

“But… ugh, you shouldn’t have to put up with her,” she lowers her voice, but not enough for you not to hear.

“She’s right,” you agree, startling her as she gives you a caught look, “you could drive me back down to civilization. That might be for the best.”

“Eight hours? It’s not that far to the Ridge,” he insists, “unless you wanna crash in the pool house with mama.”

“Oh please,” your mom spits, “haven’t I been through enough?”

“I don’t care what ya do,” your father spins and snarls, waving his wrench, “I need you out. Go. Anywhere but here.”

“Then it’s decided,” Lloyd claps his hand, turning to smirk in your direction, “we’ll meet again when you got this all done up, huh, Ray?”

Your dad doesn’t answer. He grunts and enters the bathroom, shoving his hand down the toilet. Your mother hums and drains the last of her glass. She holds it up as she admires its emptiness.

“Before you leave, where’s the rest of the wine?” She trills.

You cringe. This can’t be happening yet you’re all too sure he planned it all so precisely.

🖤

You hole yourself up in your borrowed room. You make no move to pack your things or get ready for your imminent relocation. More akin to an abduction. You just can’t, you’re paralysed with inaction. 

This is the one time you need someone to listen to you. To hear you, and as usual, they don’t. They refuse to. Lloyd knew they wouldn’t, he’d witnessed their indifference for so long, and turned it to his benefit.

That one question lingers. Why you? Maybe it’s just that. That you are vulnerable, an easy target. No one special, just a convenience. Not any different than what you were to your parents; a check mark on a list, nothing deeper than that.

There’s a tap at the door. Just one, the soft rap of knuckles. You don’t need to wonder or ask who it is. You already know. He lets himself and why shouldn’t he? It’s his house. The trap he set.

“Almost ready– woah, come on, sunshine, we got road to burn,” he proclaims, “ah, you know, I forgot to mention, there’s a pool at the Ridge. And a hot tub. Way better than this place.”

You look at him. You sit with your back straight against the headboard, legs stretched out down the bed, dressed in your typical black, though today it feels particularly mournful. You just stare. What do you say? What can you say?

“Well, honey, you can never claim I don’t care of you,” he grabs your empty duffel and goes to the dresser. He slides open the top drawer and starts shoving your clothes back into the depths, “which is exactly what I’m going to do,” he looks at you over his shoulder and sticks his tongue out, flicking the tip crudely.

You shake your head and stare at your feet, the shiny black pedicure on your toenails and your silver toe rings. He can’t make you go if you just don’t move, right? 

Your vision blurs as he moves around the edges. You hear him shifting around, searching, digging in your things. He puts the bag heavily at the foot of the bed but you don’t react. You’re in a trance, the kind you used to put on when the girls in the halls called you names.

“Alright, I think that’s everything but really, all you need to bring is your sweet self,” he approaches you, breaking your shield as he taps the tip of your nose. You look up at him past your heavily mascaraed lashes. “Aw, don’t look so pathetic. Sweetheart,” he bends, leaning over you, “your whole life you’ve been wanting to be wanted and guess what? I fucking want you. So let’s get this show on the road.”

You flinch. That last part, that cliche, it’s something your dad would say. You frown as you notice the strands of silver woven through the dark blonde combed back on his head. You suspect if he didn’t keep the sides shaved, there’d be more gray there. He’s not that much younger than your own father.

“What is that look for?” His eyes narrow and his smile falls.

“I don’t want to go,” you fold your hands in your lap and turn your head straight.

He scoffs and laughs as he stands up straight, “I didn’t ask.”

You don’t answer. You don’t move an inch, planting yourself in a silent protest. He can’t make you go. You don’t care if this place smells like toilet water. You’re too afraid to go with him.

His soles scuff on the floor as he sucks his teeth loudly, “you don’t have to put on this act for me. I won’t think you’re a slut, I’d prefer it if you were.”

You shudder and turn your face away from him. Why won’t he leave you alone? 

“Alright,” his tone deepens, “I’m starting to get annoyed, sunshine, so let’s stop playing this game. Here, there, we know how this ends. Don’t act so innocent, you’ve been flirting with me since before we even got here.”

“Flirting?; You sputter, “no, I…”

You don’t even know how to flirt. You never had anyone to flirt with.

“Those cards, bullshit. That was all you, sweetheart. Or maybe they aren’t and we should let fate take its course.”

“Please, go,” you quaver as you clutch your hands together. “I don’t want you.”

He exhales and puts his hands on his hips. He has no response. You shake your head lower your eyes. You slouch in defeat.

“You’re old and I’m not interested,” you murmur, “I’m done being a joke.”

He laughs suddenly, starling you. You wince as he drops his hands and rolls his shoulders. He clucks as he comes closer to the bed. He bends and reaches for your chin, forcing your head up. 

“Old?” He sneers, “we’ll see about that.”

He dips his head and before you can react, he loops his arm around you and pulls you against him. He stands as he swings you over his shoulder. The breath is pushed from your stomach as your weight pulls at your head and feet. You wriggle as he carries you loftily, reaching with his free arm to grab your bag from the bed.

You cry out and slap his back, kicking your legs as you try to free yourself. What is he doing? He can’t just do this.

“Lloyd– Mr. Hansen,” you plead as you claw at the back of his shirt, “put me down. Let me go! Mom! Dad!”

Lloyd chuckles as the whirring of a drill reverberates through the house. He ignores your struggles as he comes downstairs. He is entirely unbothered by your resistance.

“Don’t tire yourself out, sunshine. Daddy can’t hear you over his work and mom’s already passed out by the pool.” He angles you through the front door, “besides, this isn’t about them. This is you and me.”