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tallulah477 · 7 months

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Please, Mommy?

Kinktober Day 1: Handjob

Pairing: Lo’ak x Na’vi!Reader

Warnings: AgedUp!Lo'ak, Mommy kink, Lo’ak is in rut, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Whiny Lo’ak, Dom Reader, Sub Lo’ak, Bondage/Restraints, Orgasm delay, Knot squeezing, Tongue licking (is that a warning? Idk, it's here just in case), Hand gag (covering someone’s mouth to keep them from talking)

Word Count: 2.2K

A/N: This is my first work I've ever posted so I'm super nervous, but super excited! I hope you guys enjoy it!

Summary: Ruts can make even the most controlled of Alphas unstable. They can be possessive and dominant and territorial. But not Lo’ak. Lo’ak will go down, but only for you. Only for his Mommy.

Lo’ak’s pathetic whine makes you want to give up on this whole idea and just toss him on the ground and fuck him through the floor.

But you’ve done that already. A lot.

It’s been almost a full 24 hours since he’s been hit by his rut, turning him into a sad little horny mess who’s putting off pheromones that smell so good, it makes you want to eat him alive. Your pussy throbs at his smell, at the sight of him sweating and panting and begging ‘Please, Mommy! Please, please, please,” - and you want nothing more than to push him down, straddle his hips, and slide his beautiful, thick, perfect cock back inside you where it belongs. You want to ride him until he’s screaming, yanking against his restraints, desperate to get free and touch you.

You shake your head to clear your thoughts. Focus. This is about Lo’ak, not you.

Besides, you’ve fucked him so many times already since his rut began that your cunt is already sore. Poor girl’s been beaten and pounded so much by your gorgeous mate that she deserves a little break. Plus, you want to savor this.

It’s rare to have two Alphas become a mated pair. They’re territorial, possessive of their things and the people they’ve decided are theirs. They’re dominant and demanding, always needing to be in charge - to be the leader, particularly when it comes to their romantic relationships. Too much of the same energy can clash, causing fights and all out brawls which is not ideal for a mated pair.

It’s not impossible, obviously. You and Lo’ak are a perfect example of that. Two Alphas: both headstrong and stubborn in what you believe to be right, ready to lay down your lives for your loved ones and for each other. And you both just work. You’re territorial of the things you share, possessive of each other in a way that lights both your souls on fire thinking “this person’s mine. Only mine”. Somehow, in most matters, your shared headstrong and demanding attitudes don’t frustrate each other too much. Your communication is swift and direct, firm yet kind, and you find that you agree on most matters anyway, which helps avoid any potential heated arguments.

You let him lead when he feels like he needs to, and you stand beside him, fierce and proud to defend him at all times.

And when it comes to sex: the compatibility is something you never thought possible. You play with each other so well. Submitting to each other when the other wants to dominate, switching your roles so seamlessly in the moment that you almost forget your instincts are supposed to be led by your second gender. You and Lo’ak just fit with one another, two puzzle pieces coming together to make each other whole.

And during his rut, when he should be at his most controlling and unstable, he goes down for you instead. Hard.

“F-fuuuuuck,” He groans, deep and guttural as he tosses his head back against your shoulder.

You smirk, pressing a kiss to his sweaty temple. “What’s up, baby? Something wrong?”

You have him pinned to you, his back against your front with your arm wrapped tightly across his chest to keep him against you. His arms are tied securely behind his back, unable to move or get free. Unable to touch you like he really wants to, but he loves it all the same. Loves you being in control right now, loves that you love him like this. This other part about him that anyone else might find strange or disgusting if they knew about it, like some people do with his more human features or ‘demon blood’ - but you love it, love it so much - love him so much, love pleasuring him . . . tormenting him.

And wow, is he beautiful when he suffers.

His cock is hard and warm in your palm, an excessive amount of precum and your own spit coating both his length and your hand as you work him slowly. “I asked you a question, Lo’ak,”

He whimpers when you squeeze the tip, head tipping forward to watch as you force more precum to flow out of the swollen and reddened head. You scoop it up, finger circling the tip teasingly before dragging your hand back down to wrap tightly around the base.

“Faster,” Lo’ak moans, head leaning back again against your shoulder as he pants against your neck. “Wanna cum,”

You click your tongue in disappointment. It’s too soon for him to cum. If he cums now, he’ll be ready to go again in a matter of minutes - and the goal right now is to give him some reprieve, allow him to sleep or relax for a while before the next wave hits him.

And besides, he knows the rules. “Hm, doesn’t really sound like you do. Where’s your manners?”

Lo’ak whines when he feels you loosen your grip around his cock, hips rocking desperately to try to get back the friction. He leans in to press a sweet kiss against your jaw. “Sorry. Sorry, Mommy. Please? Please can I cum?”

The hand wrapped around his chest reaches up to grip at his braids, and you pull his head back slightly to press a passionate kiss against his lips. Your teeth latch onto his bottom lip, biting down and pulling enough to make him groan in pleasure before soothing it with your tongue.

“Good boy,” You mutter against his mouth, and Lo’ak preens at the praise, a pleased noise escaping from the back of his throat. Your hand tightens again around his cock, and you stroke him faster than before, but only slightly, working him up towards another orgasm even as you say, “But no. Not yet, baby. Mommy’s not done with you yet,”

“P-please,” He begs, lips brushing against yours. His eyes are heavily hooded, dazed and hazy from the intensity of his rut. “Please, Mommy. Need to c-cum. Need to--”

He cuts himself off at the brush of your tongue against the seam of his lips, breath shaking as his own tongue lolling out of his mouth, pleading.

“What, baby?” You ask, teasingly. “You want to taste Mommy? Taste my tongue on yours, huh?”

Lo’ak nods frantically, dilated pupils swallowing up his eyes underneath his hooded eyelids as he stares at your mouth. Your hand strokes his cock faster, wet noises echoing through your shared hut as your fingers slide over his heated skin. You can feel his knot beginning to swell each time your fist slides over the base of his cock, and you know he’s close. But he’s such a good boy for you, and his head stays where you want it: turned towards you and tongue staying out, waiting for you to grace him with your own.

So you do. You press a gentle kiss to the flat, wet surface before sliding your own against it, letting the taste of his spit, sweet like the yovo fruit he managed to eat before his current wave of rut hit him, explode on your tastebuds.

“You taste so good, Lo,” You tell him, licking across the appendage again greedily. You squeeze his knot roughly and you can practically feel the vibrations of his vocal cords from his cry through his tongue. “Like a delicious little treat all for me,”

“P-please!” He wails. Your hand leaves his knot to cup at his swollen balls and he jumps, thighs shaking from where they’re hooked underneath yours. “I’ve been good. Your good boy, Mommy. I need it. Need to cum. Need it so bad. Fuck, fuck! Please can I please, please, please, please,”

Your hand clamps tightly over his rambling mouth, silencing his pleas to mere moans and grunts. Your lips trace along the point of his ear, softly kissing the sensitive skin and laughing when his eyes squeeze shut and his ears twitch and press tightly against his head.

“Look how swollen you are down here,” You whisper against his folded ear, gently rolling his balls in your hand and rubbing against the tight skin with your thumb. “So big and heavy. Just filled up so much, huh? Ready to burst any second now. And all for me, right?”

He groans against your palm and tries to arch his back against you, tries to get you to move your hand back to his cock. But instead, you go lower.

Your fingers trail down to the strip of thin skin between his balls and hole, and rub against it firmly. You know the sensation drives Lo’ak insane, and he whimpers desperately against your hand, feet digging into the ground as he tries to close his shaking legs around your hand. But your legs that are hooked around his have his own trapped, and you delight in spreading your thighs more just to drag his own wider with them.

“Nuh uh,” You giggle, fangs pressing into his skin as you smile against his cheek. “Good boys don’t run from Mommy’s touch.” Your wet fingers press harder into the skin and you’re just barely able to keep your hand over his mouth when he tosses his head back and forth in ecstasy. “ I know it’s overwhelming, baby. Feels so good, doesn’t it?”

He shakes and cries against your hand, amber eyes wide and clouded with overwhelming pleasure, staring at the ceiling even though you’re sure he’s not actually seeing it, as you continue to torture the sensitive nerves along the strip of skin.

His cock is dripping like crazy, a steady stream dribbling onto his belly and leaving a small puddle. You have to bite your lip when you stare at it, torn between wanting to push him on his back and greedily licking it all up, and leaving it there to enhance the beautiful vision of your mate all tied up and helpless with his cock drooling with want.

In the end, there’s really no option. So you leave it there, letting the puddle grow and grow as your fingers rub against his sensitive spots.

When his moans and whimpers are a constant force against your restraining hand, you pull your fingers away from his fun little strip and scoop up his precum from his belly.

“Alright, Lo. I think you’ve had enough for now,” You say, removing your hand from his mouth and placing your other one directly under his chin. “Let’s finish this. Spit,”

He’s panting, chest heaving from the desperate need to cum and he’s mumbling so incoherently you can’t understand a word he’s saying. He’s long gone, so far away from his own body that he can’t even focus. You can tell by the dazed, faraway look in his eyes, and you nudge your face against his to call him back.

“I said spit, Lo’ak,” You demand and watch as he shakes his head slightly, as if trying to clear it.

His mouth has to work for a bit before he’s actually able to spit in your palm. With a satisfied grin, you place one hand on his cheek to guide his face towards yours for a lazy kiss, while the other moves down to wrap around his cock, smearing the combination of precum and spit onto the purple head and down the throbbing shaft. It twitches in your fist as you stroke him roughly, hand sliding down over his swollen knot with each pass.

“You can cum whenever you're ready, baby,” You tell him, and almost instantly he’s gasping against your mouth, cock pulsing in your hand as the first spurts of his release shoot against his stomach and down the outside of your fist.

You swallow his cries eagerly, fist pumping his length, working him through his orgasm, before you're closing your hand around his thick knot and squeezing it relentlessly.

He howls, hips bucking frantically into your hand, and his head falls back as he screams in pleasure. You take the opportunity to latch your teeth onto his neck, scraping them against his pounding pulse point and marking him as yours - the dark mark finding a home next to the others that you’ve littered all over his throat since his rut started.

When he’s given you all he can, he slumps down against you, head resting in the crook of your neck as he tries to calm his breathing. You let go of his knot and slide the flat of your palm lightly up his still twitching cock, loving how he jumps in your hold and moans desperately against your shoulder.

“Look at you,” You praise, pressing gentle kisses along his hairline. “So pretty for Mommy when you’re all fucked out like this. You did so well for me, yawne,”

You pull your hand from his now softening length and tug his lax upper body up just enough to be able to undo the restraints on his arms. There’s bright red marks and indents along his skin when the rope falls away, and you lightly massage the skin, helping to bring back some feeling into the limbs.

He falls back against you as soon as you let him, and you both lay on the floor of your hut, cuddling up to one another and intent on enjoying the moment of respite between waves, however short it may be. His eyes close and almost immediately his breathing evens out, fast asleep.

“No, wake up,” You say, nudging his shoulder. “You have to eat something first.” Silence. “Lo’ak,”

But he’s dead to the world. You sigh and place your head on his chest, making a mental note to make sure he eats something the moment he wakes up.

Even if that means he has to choke down his food while you choke on him.

**Special thanks to @pandoraslxna for the prompt!

#lunaskinktober2023 #lo'ak x reader #lo'ak smut #lo'ak x na'vi reader #lo'ak x female reader #taliewrites

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mischievous-piltovan · 8 months

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Of Atlas and Sisyphus (NSFW)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 (soon)

Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x afab!Reader Themes: Romance, Fluff, NSFW, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn. Word Count: Roughly 8000 words Synopsis: You're a tech-savvy Spider that landed a position in Miguel's lab by tinkering with your gizmo. Despite your best efforts, you couldn't keep a fondness for the man for taking hold, so you've been trying your best to manage your crush with the tools at hand.

Unbeknownst to you, Miguel has been dealing with a very similar problem.

An accident during a mission led both of you to face these feelings.

Two headstrong and emotionally constipated idiots can't communicate their feelings despite being over 30.

Trigger Warnings/TWs: blood, wound, piercing damage, reader is afab and uses she/her pronouns, miscommunication, emotionally constipated idiots, a bit of power imbalance because boss x underling (but ever so slightly), masturbation.

A/N: this started a silly NSFW one-shot but then I needed some yearning to make the sex part feel powerful and now we're here. Oops. Also I was VERY dramatic in my writing, pardon my self-indulgence.

A/N²: Reader's special Spider powers are linked to fire. She uses highly flammable webbing that conducts flames to burn her enemies (without killing them). The source of fire are her palms - they naturally conduct heat. So it's like: she shoots her web from the underside of her wrists and grips the ropes to light them on fire once they latch on an enemy. Anyways, just to clarify. Huge thank you to my lovely beta-readers @uniquedeerwitch @tantei14 and @zaunitearchives for lurking_kitty every single entry on the Discord Server. Part 1 | Part 2 (soon)

「Sisyphus rolled the boulder up the hill everyday so he could become worthy of sharing the weight of the sky with Atlas. Atlas carried the firmament on his shoulders to protect Sisyphus from the monster his plight kept caged - himself.」

"I expected more from you," Miguel said, looking down at you from his lab's platform. His arms crossed over his chest in a commanding instance.

"Miguel, I caught the Anomaly." You protested, annoyance seeping through your words.

"But you almost didn't," he retorted "Had Lyla not warned you, the Anomaly would have escaped your feeble attempt at securing it. You were careless."

"I had everything under control" you rebuked through gritted teeth.

"That wound you sustained begs to differ" Miguel responded, cocking an eyebrow at you. You looked away with an exhale, one hand coming up instinctively to cover the bloodied tear at the side of your suit, right below your rib cage. Had it not been for your accelerated healing factor, the gash the Anomaly left on you would still be very much open and bleeding. At your lack of response, Miguel turned back to his console. "I will accompany you on your next few missions to make sure it doesn't repeat itself."

"Oh the fuck you will," you snapped back at him "It was one mistake, O'Hara! I don't need chaperoning!"

"Until you prove to me you don't, you will have it" He simply responded, his focus on the many screens in front of him. You opened your mouth to protest but gave up before any words came out, there was no point in trying to argue with Miguel. With a loud exhale, you turned on your heels and stormed out of the dark chamber.

As soon as your steps could no longer be heard, Lyla popped up next to Miguel.

"Miguel, I think this has been going on long enough" She stated, looking at where you disappeared.

"Nothing's been going on" He retorted without missing a beat, his eyes still glued to the monitors in front of him.

"Your bio readings say otherwise," She jabbed, bringing up a second screen next to the one Miguel was working on. He looked at it from the corner of his eyes and didn't take much to notice what Lyla was referring to - his heart-rate, oxytocin and cortisol levels were all higher than his usual. He sighed, closing his eyes. At that reaction, she concluded, "It's been like that for a while, but it gets worse whenever you interact with her."

Miguel took a deep breath before responding "It's complicated."

"Lashing out on her won't solve anything" Lyla's words stung. They cemented the guilt he started feeling as soon as you turned around and left. He lost control yet again, a dreadful habit that has been putting down roots whenever you were involved.

"I know," was all he could muster. He could try to explain why he did it, how watching you get hurt stirred the beast inside of him, how he had to fight to keep it chained down yet again as it tried to claw its way out, how the amount of effort to do so has been increasing as its constant struggles had been wearing down its shackles, how on top of that he had to act as your leader, how this whole circus left him with little to no mental capacity to anything else, how his attitude was but an outcome rather than a thought out action. But in the end there was no justifying it, he was wrong.

"You care a lot about her, don't you," Lyla spoke in a softer tone. Miguel took a long breath before responding.

"You could say that."

Miguel had been torn about you for quite a while now. He considered himself intelligent, especially when it came to Genetics and Bio-engineering, but he would be lying if he said he could fully understand his own feelings sometimes. Let alone be aware of them, Lyla was the one who figured it out for him when she noticed a pattern in his biological readings whenever he came into contact with you.

At first he denied it even to himself, rationalizing the good feelings he had towards you as being a matter of fact. You were exceptionally capable, had a formidable intellect and could perform your missions with ease (seconded only by Jess and himself), he felt he could count on you and that in itself was a novelty to him. Sure, you were very easy on the eyes too but he had felt attracted to other Spiders in the Society before, it wouldn't be a first.

But then all thoughts start circling back to you, despite not necessarily having anything to do with you in the first place. Like how he'd wonder what kind of food you preferred whenever he sat down to eat or what season you liked more when he noticed the air getting crisper. He'd start noticing smaller things about you, charming details that encapsulated who you were at your best, like the melodic cadence in your voice whenever you were close to finishing a project at the lab or how small your hands were compared to his.

The last straw came one day on a particular slow morning at HQ, when he went to the cafeteria to grab some coffee and an empanada. He heard the sound of your laughter all the way across the room and the sight that greeted him upon turning towards you was like a punch to the gut: you casually talking to a male Spider while he rested a hand on your shoulder. Suddenly there was anger, dread and a sense of possessiveness overcoming him all at once.

And then there was the 'oh'.

That was the push the metaphorical askew tower he had been piling his conceptions of you needed to finally click into place, every piece neatly connecting together at the same axis - his undeniable infatuation with you.

That's when everything started tumbling down - he didn't know how to navigate these murky waters. He foolishly let it grow unattended, unpruned and now it grew to the point it consumed him. Your presence used to soothe him, now it drove him insane - as if the slow burn of a growing fondness he didn't know he nursed through months blasted him all at once, engulfing him in an overwhelming inferno shaped like you.

His desire was the very next thing that assaulted him, overwhelming his thoughts. He didn't know if it was because of his spliced genes or because he had a tendency to neglect his more primal needs in the face of work, or if it was a combination of both. The matter of fact was - his body screamed for you and he couldn't just ignore it. Your presence at the lab was enough to send him into a spiral in need of release, no matter how hard he tried to push it down. Even just trying to concentrate on his work was futile, your scent plagued him and for the first time in a while he loathed his modified genes that heightened his senses. He lost count of the amount of times he fucked his hand in pursuit of some relief, but that reprieve wouldn't last long. Soon he was snatching whatever personal belongings you left in the lab to bring it to his nose while he tugged at his cock.

All of that because the very idea of offering this onslaught of feelings to you felt wrong. Not simply because of the obvious power imbalance your respective positions in the Society bestowed upon you, but because of who you both were. Despite technically being a Spider-Man thanks to (some) of his powers, he was anything but; Everyday he was faced with countless joyful rays of sunshine, glowing around HQ in the form of different variants of Spider-People, a stark contrast to everything he was. There was no hero in Miguel O'Hara, the fire that burned within him was not the cozy glow of a hearth, but the destructive power of infernal flames; everything about him was demonic, from his talons to his venomous fangs and blood-red eyes. He'd literally take shots to keep his DNA in check as to not lose what little humanity he had left.

He was corruption, ruination… And you didn't deserve that. He didn't deserve that.

But the demon within him desired you, lusted for you, and Miguel gave everything he had to keep it sealed away inside of him. And of course this took its toll, to sustain this control Miguel had to completely change his approach towards you, distancing himself as much as he could while maintaining a somewhat professional facade. Yet, the demon would jump at every opportunity to seize control, and he'd often find himself gravitating towards you and the warm glow of the dynamic you cultivated in the lab, only to pull back as soon as he noticed his short-comings.

Miguel yawned, rubbing his tired eyes as he felt the strain of overwork settling in. He grabbed his mug, taking the last sip of his already cold coffee as he checked the time - 3 in the morning. He groaned, there was still plenty to be done before he could even consider calling it a night. Dejected, he grabbed his empty thermal carafe and made his way to the cafeteria to fill it with more coffee.

However, before he could reach the Lab door, his nostrils were assaulted with a very familiar fragrance - your scent. On pure impulse, Miguel turned on his heel and followed the aroma. Yes, your scent usually lingered a while after you called it a day, but this was different, it was stronger. Soon, he found out the reason why - you were still in the lab.

Resting your head on your crossed arms atop your work station, you slept peacefully as your body gently rose and fell to the rhythm of your breathing. Miguel noticed the project you were working on earlier that day unceremoniously shoved to the side with a myriad of tools in a messy array near it. You must have dozed-off in the middle of working on it.

He took the time to watch you, to commit the scene to memory. As creepy as he felt, there weren't a lot of opportunities he could indulge in just admiring you from afar without worrying about it setting-off your Spider-Senses. Right now in the calm hours preceding the break of dawn, he had you all to himself.

You looked beautiful.

His heart ached with yearning. Your scent in the air added to how serene you looked and his own exhaustion made him desire nothing more than to hold you, to nuzzle your neck and savor your musk as he carried you to the nearest bed only to have a decent night of sleep in each other's arms. To wake-up the next day greeted with your adorable disheveled self in pure domestic bliss. To kiss your puffy lips good morning as he caressed your face, and maybe letting wandering hands escalate it to something more… lecherous.

Miguel left the carafe on the nearest surface as he approached you. Would you like that? Would you give him the privilege of indulging in your most vulnerable state? Would you give yourself to him as he wished to give himself to you? Maybe the only thing keeping it from happening was a leap of faith…

He hovered his hand above your shoulder. Maybe he should do it, all it would take was waking you up and talking to you. Maybe just going straight to physical contact, grabbing your hands in his and pouring everything out in the open. Or taking the risk and kissing you while gently cradling your face. There was no one at HQ right now, even Lyla was busy taking care of surveillance for him, the moment was ripe with opportunity.

But then you let out a little whimper in your sleep, disrupting the steady rhythm of your breathing and Miguel flinched. The shock was enough to snap him out of his daze and he quickly withdrew, harshly reprimanding himself. He had foolishly loosened the leash a bit and that was enough to stir the beast inside of him, as it growled ready to pounce. He had to get away from you.

Miguel rushed out of the lab as fast and stealthy as he could. Once he steadied himself, he sent Lyla to wake you up and send you home. He returned to the lab only after making sure you were gone.

He passed by your empty workstation briefly only to retrieve his carafe, and was greeted with a forgotten article of clothing - your scarf. He grabbed it on a whim and was overcome with an urge to keep it. He knew he shouldn't, but the scarf was intensely doused with your scent and the demon inside of him was agitated. He kept it against his best judgment, it was to keep the monster at bay, he justified.

That night Miguel shamelessly defiled the scarf, keeping one side bunched up against his nose as he used the other extremity to furiously tug at his cock.

He watched helplessly as his relationship with you crumbled, all his own doing for the sole purpose of protecting you from himself. The resentment came in the form of him being a dickhead and the target was more often than not you. Today's mission debriefing just accentuated this reality. He just hoped you would understand.

—-----------------

You didn't.

1… 2… 3… 4…

You counted your reps as you hit the lowest point of your deep squats, inhaling through your nose as you descended, exhaling through your mouth as you ascended, the barbell heavy on your back. In your frustration, you decided to hit the gym area of the Strength and Conditioning Sector at the Society right after you left Miguel's lab to try channeling it into something productive.

You made sure to perform some first aid to your wound, wrapping your torso in bandages to protect it. You hoped that your self-administration of medical attention paired with your accelerated healing would suffice. Up until now, it was working just fine.

5… 6… 7… 8…

The Strength and Conditioning Sector was empty as it usually was at this time - early evening. It gave you the freedom to keep the lights as low as possible, so you could let the soothing image of Nueva York's skyline at night in through the tall glass panels. It helped you calm down.

Today it wasn't doing much to cool your jets though.

9… 10… 11… 12…

This was all so frustrating… He was so frustrating… After all you've done for the cause, after all you've done for him, this is your reward - being treated like you're faulty wiring, an unturning cog. Leave it to boy genius Miguel O'Hara to treat his team as mere assets instead of people.

The amount of effort you've been putting lately to not fuck up, to surgically cover all your bases has been gargantuan, of course you'd end up faltering. You should've known your energy would start running out at some point, but ignoring your body signals and underestimating the impact of prolonged periods of time neglecting your needs, all for the sake of efficiency and productivity had basically become second nature. Add that to the fact that Miguel has had his eyes trained on your every movement lately, it was a matter of time when you'd slip and he'd catch it.

All of that because you were far too stubborn to simply confront him as to why he started being an ass out of the blue.

13… 14… 15… 16…

Not to mention how all this commitment was relayed towards a cause you didn't fully believe in - Miguel's Canon Event Theory. Of course you wanted to help people, - you were a Spider-Woman after all - and working towards assisting as many people as possible was definitely ideal, but the CET wasn't that. The amount of holes and questions unanswered bothered you, gaps that could very much disprove the Theory altogether.The fact that all Spider Society's collective effort was channeled towards it was troublesome at best.

You brought it up to Miguel after your first few months as a member of the Society, but he just shrugged it off. As time went by you began to understand - it wasn't a theory, but a hypothesis. A hypothesis born from the crippling guilt of a man who lost everything. An ill-rationalization of his misfortune that he used as a coping mechanism.

And then you began to understand him. And that's where your problems started.

17… 18… 19… 20…

Miguel O'Hara - tall, handsome man, with an intellect to die for. Miguel O'Hara whose sharp cheekbones and dry sarcasm pierced you every time you interacted, even more than his fangs could. Miguel O'Hara who, under all that brooding persona had a sad, lonely individual who would surface briefly in the fleeting moments of stillness you two shared. Miguel O'Hara who had your heart between his talons and he didn't even know it.

It all started after your first day at HQ. As soon as you got back to your own dimension, you sat down at your desk with your shiny new watch and your handy tool box and began disassembling the portal device. You were mesmerized with Nueva York and the technology the year 2099 held and, as an Engineer, you were dying to get a better grasp at its intricacies. After you were happy with your tinkering, you reassembled it back together as if nothing ever happened, completely unaware that the device held a security system that had already sounded an alert back at HQ.

The next day you were promptly summoned to Miguel's Lab. After a good scolding that made you believe you'd certainly be kicked out, you were surprised to be offered a position as Miguel's assistant in his Lab. The prowess you showed in dealing with a technology so removed from your own reality proved him you were the person he was looking for - turns out having to deal with broken watches from the numerous of daily casualties every day was taking too much time and effort and he was in need of someone to handle this menial task for him. Golden chance to dive even deeper in this new technology, of course you accepted.

Big mistake.

The days passed and what started with an acknowledgement you definitely found him attractive, turned into a little crush. Your stupid lizard brain began craving his attention and you'd find yourself panicking a bit whenever you two interacted.

That's when you decided you needed to nip this feeling to the bud.

You used your gathered knowledge of 2099's technology and the tools at your disposal to develop and build your own project - a device to automate the process of fixing watches.

"It's simple: it assesses the type of damage in this scanner, sending the information to its own database, while also devising the best solution to each case" you said as you showcased the device to Miguel and Lyla "It then either remove and replace the damaged part OR discards the whole watch, amalgamating and recycling the materials to produce a new one entirely."

"Impressive!" Lyla responded. Miguel only hummed, his eyes slowly scanning the machine in front of him. You had hoped that by automating your job you'd no longer be needed in the Lab and thus would be able to distance yourself from Miguel and prevent any feelings from further blossoming.

Turns out that the best employee is seldom rewarded with more work.

"I have some projects that are… stalled at the moment," Miguel said after a while "It would be very beneficial to have someone to bounce ideas off of some of them."

It would not be long before the silly infatuation grew into raw and unapologetic love, and you hated every second of it.

You hated how he made you feel like a teenager in love again, the very prospect of seeing him filling you with a mixture of elation and anxiety. How you could easily spot him in the crowd, proof that your subconscious was actively seeking him. Despised how your gaze would automatically land on his back whenever you got distracted from whatever you were working on at the lab (and you would mentally slap yourself back to work once you realized it). Detested how the most innocent of touches, such as the accidental grazing of his hand on yours sent bolts of electricity through your whole body, making you yearn for more.

And you'd think there was some respite once you got to the safety of your home, away from the very source of your torment… Yet, it was in the stillness of familiarity that the risqué side of this infatuation took hold. Your mind wandered to him, wondering how it would feel to touch his bare skin, to trace every curve and crevice of his toned body massaging the stress of the day away. Would he enjoy it? Would he let out little sighs or loudly groan as you worked the knots away? Oh, how you'd like to help him relax, gently coaxing him to release all that pent-up tension in you.

Your hand would snake down the hem of your underwear almost on its own as the thoughts became more salacious. The whole ordeal only made facing him the next day even harder.

Miguel O'Hara had the power to turn you into the most pathetic version of yourself without moving a muscle. And for that he could never find out about any of this, the very thought utterly mortifying.

So you decided to pour all your feelings, all that love you harbored for him into the one thing you could do about it - assisting him. Becoming worthy of sharing the weight of the Multiverse he carried on his broad shoulders. You studied the multiverse in all its intricacies to the point of proposing viable solutions to eventual conundrums. You used your newfound knowledge of 2099's tech to hone your own equipment and even underwent an ongoing restricted training routine and diet in order to optimize your body for better performance during missions. All of that to help make his life easier, if only for a fraction.

But that alone couldn't shield you from the roller-coaster that was navigating the pull of your feelings against the pull of your rational mind. On a particularly difficult day, you reluctantly decided to ask Lyla to help you on a (non-ideal and very unhealthy) solution you had been marinating in the back of your head for a while.

"Lyla, do you have a minute?" You called out for the AI on your watch. Her little orange sprite appeared instantly.

"What 's up?" She asked cheerfully. You swallowed hard before speaking again.

"I need your help with something," you said in a whisper. Miguel wasn't around, but you decided to be extra careful all the same "But Miguel can't find out."

"I know he has granted you full access to all my features, but he can override the secrecy protocol if he so wishes," She responded "I cannot guarantee he will not know it."

"It's all right, It shouldn't pique his interest unless you bring it up to him," You said "Could you avoid that?"

"Sure thing." She agreed.

"Very well… " You said, pausing to take a deep breath "I need you to find a Miguel O'Hara variant in my dimension."

"Oh" Lyla exclaimed before a knowing grin made its way into her features "Ooooh, I knew it! You have the hots for Miggy!"

"Shhh, keep it down!" You urged her "Yes, and he can't know that. I just need a way to channel this into something else… Into someone else."

"Wouldn't it be easier to just confess to him?" Lyla said matter-of-factually "We don't need to buy a new Miguel, honey. We have a Miguel at home."

"Don't be absurd," you answered, ignoring her joke "I'll be lucky if he just laughs at my face."

"Your call," Lyla yielded.

In the end she couldn't find a Miguel variant alive in your dimension. And so your plight continued with no end in sight and a lot of damage to your psyche.

21… 22… 23… 24…

But recently, something changed.

What was a relatively amicable relationship you and Miguel shared before started turning sour seemingly out of nowhere. The usual sarcastic banters you two engaged with whenever you worked together in the lab disappeared, his tone shifted to something more distant, akin to professional and he rarely ever left his platform anymore.

It's not like the two of you were particularly close before, he was your superior after all, but there was a level of mutual understanding that had blossomed from your shared work at the lab when the ordeal of monitoring the Society quieted down a little. It was a friendship between peers of the same interest, the exchanges ripe with dry sarcasm and teasing. Sometimes even flirty (or so you thought).

"You have my condolences …" Miguel spoke approaching from behind you, the tone in his voice a harbinger of mockery. But still, you took the bait.

"And why, pray tell, is that?" You asked, turning on your stool while pulling your protective goggles up to face him.

"The educational system in your dimension truly failed you, did it not?" He bent his torso over the desk you were working on, a hand on it supporting his weight, his other hand on his hip. With him closer, you could clearly see the smirk he casted at you. You rolled your eyes, bracing for the impact.

"Why would you think that?"

"Oh, it is very clear to me you can't read since you're blatantly ignoring the safety protocol from the manual I gave you for the usage of the very tool you're holding."

"Eat shit, O'Hara," you playfully smacked his abdomen with your elbow. "I read the protocol but this way of using it is way more efficient and safe all the same and you know it."

"Oh, you're the expert now then? I should be having you writing the documentation on tool usage instead of having you working the machinery huh?"

"You know you need me here, O'Hara." You smugly quipped, looking at him… but he didn't promptly respond. You watched his eyebrows rise up at your words, his burgundy eyes searching yours for something you couldn't quite catch while the tension his pause bestowed made you start worrying your words might have been misinterpreted. Even worse was that little delusional part of you that made you believe such an action held any semblance of reciprocation to your feelings.

After what felt like an eternity he spoke again. His voice dripped with something sweeter, but still with the familiar tinge of spice your banters usually carried "I'm certain you're the one that needs me."

The abrupt end to this dynamic would have saddened you. Heck, it'd have somewhat relieved you at the prospect of some reprieve from your roller-coaster of emotions… If it wasn't for his new constant surveillance.

Miguel started to watch you like a hawk, analyzing your every move under a microscope, never missing a chance to criticize or nitpick whatever you were doing. Suddenly your work at the lab wasn't as efficient, the missions you went on didn't produce as many good results and even the way you addressed the other Spiders wasn't ideal.

All that pent-up frustration of navigating your feelings for him became good fodder for the shift in your own tone. You couldn't help but become petty, picking fights at every chance you had.

"I already told you are using that tool wrong," came a baritone voice from behind you.

You sighed, pulling up your protective goggles. The ire inside of you was already boiling, readying you for the imminence of combat. "And I already told you this is a more efficient way to use it."

"You are going to hurt yourself if you keep at it" He responded. His own tone getting stricter.

"I need to get this done by the end of today and this way of using it significantly cuts time," you insisted. Voice picking volume while you smacked every word with venom. "And speaking of time, you are very much wasting mine, O'Hara. So it would be everyone's best interest if you could kindly fuck-off."

Before you knew it, you started resenting him. Whenever he complained about your endeavors, you spat back at him, seldom escalating the situation. At times your bickering would turn into a shouting contest, the noise reverberating outside the Lab. More often than not you felt the urge to lunge at him during these fights, to pin him to the ground and shut him up - you just couldn't figure out if it was with a kiss or a punch across the jaw.

And today only served to rub more salt on the wound.

25… 26… 27… 28…

On a mission you thought you had wrapped up well enough, you paid a little less attention to the aftermath and the Anomaly broke free, piercing you with a sharp projectile. Lyla's sudden warning was the only thing that kept your enemy's attack from striking a more vital area. You were able to dislodge the bolt and recapture the Anomaly, this time being able to bring him with you to HQ. But Lyla's appearance meant only one thing: Miguel was watching you. And he had a front row seat to your failure, the scolding from before was practically a given… But still made you fume nonetheless.

You poured every single bit of you into this man and his Society, was it not enough? What could you possibly be doing wrong to prompt this keen surveillance out of him? Couldn't he just tell you instead of intensively watching you as he waited for an opportunity to belittle you once you inevitably fail? To put you to the test despite everything else you've done for the Multiverse so far? Was that even a failure? You caught the Anomaly and brought it here. Your mission was a success. It was an undeniable success. It was a GODDAMN SUCC…

"ARGH!"

The sound of the barbell hitting the floor behind you echoed through the empty room. You fell to your knees, grasping the bandages over your wound as you felt a warm liquid seep through it - blood.

You got careless. Again.

As your mind wandered and the anger of your pent-up frustration took over, the conscious effort to keep tension away from your midsection to avoid exerting unnecessary pressure on your wound faltered and the extra weight you held forced it open once more. So much for training to better the body.

It didn't matter, your accelerated healing factor would fix this… in time. With a resolute exhale, you got up and decided to wrap up your training for the day. As long as Miguel didn't find out about this mishap and it didn't affect your performance, it should be OK.

It WOULD be OK. You were gonna make sure of it.

—-----------------

Your mission the next day was brought directly to you at your doorstep.

"Good morning, Sunshine!"

You woke up in a jolt as Lyla's sprite sprung from your watch at your bedside table, bathing your otherwise dark bedroom in a yellowish glow.

"Lyla! What was that for?" You barked, voice still raspy from sleep. The tell-tale warm brightness announcing the morning's arrival was nowhere to be seen, meaning it was very early. Too early to have HQ calling you.

"Get ready. We tracked an Anomaly in your Universe, a Green Goblin variant" the AI said, her usual playful tone gone "Miguel's on his way here."

You groaned as she disappeared, your first mission right after being put on probation and it started at an ungodly hour in your very own dimension. You maneuvered yourself out of bed and was bitterly reminded of your wound as soon as you tried to rotate your torso, the pain flushing the rest of sleep out of your system. Today you learned your superhuman healing factor couldn't miraculously stitch together a deep wound overnight, especially one you foolishly tore open a second time.

For a moment you debated if it was wise to throw yourself at a mission in your current state, but you swatted that thought out as fast as it came to you. They'd be able to summon another Spider to this mission no problem if so you wished, but you couldn't possibly give Miguel the satisfaction of learning you were careless enough to not only sustain an ugly wound, but also made it worse by being stubborn. Not to mention the utter distaste at letting him and someone else save your dimension in your stead - not happening. You could manage a little pain, you just needed to be careful.

You changed into your suit and equipped your gear as fast as you could and soon you were on your apartment's building rooftop. You were greeted by Miguel's back as he scouted your New York's (Santa Iorque) skyline. You loathed the blooming fondness, the heartache the sight still caused you.

"Go back to HQ, O'Hara. I'll handle this one myself," you spat. He turned his head slightly, the eyes in his mask narrowing down.

"You don't get a say in this" he retorted.

"Fine. Try not to get in my way, then" you jabbed, walking over to his side. You could feel Miguel shifting a little as you scanned the horizon for any sign of the Anomaly.

"Lyla, what's his location?" Miguel spoke to his watch.

"Still working on it," the AI responded, her sprite typing on a little computer "I'm experiencing a lot of interference, the cause is still unknown."

"What do you mean interfe– "

Before Miguel could finish, the loud bang of an explosion ripped through the air, leaving behind an expanding cloud of greenish smoke. You and Miguel briefly nodded at each other before rushing towards it.

Spotting the perpetrator wasn't hard. Cruising above a crescent-shaped hovercraft stood a figure you could only describe as a techno-imp with jester undertones. You jumped over them as they threw a second explosive, intercepting its trajectory mid-air with your hand, and launching it skyward as you landed on a rooftop nearby. The greenish explosion almost looked like fireworks.

"Well, that's what I'd call a ban… ugh, nevermind," you turned to your very annoyed opponent, if the frown on his display-like mask was anything to go by "Look, I'm not in the mood for snarky banter, so let's get this over wi–"

Your Spider-senses kicked in just in time for you to dodge a barbed javelin-like metal bolt. The sudden movement made your wound hurt, causing you to hold back a gasp. Miguel's red webbing ensnared the Goblin before they could fire a second one and just like that it seemed like the mission was over.

But the Goblin's right feet move to a button on his hovercraft and the next thing you know a piercing high-pitched noise reverberated all around you. Miguel's webbing glitched a few times before disappearing and you watched him panicking as his stupid holo-suit started glitching as well.

In a less tense moment maybe you'd feel embarrassed about his now half-exposed torso, but the Goblin's disappearing from your field of view proved more concerning. Suddenly, your senses kicked in again and you quickly glanced at the scene of a very distracted Miguel trying his hardest to revert - or at least stop - his forced undressing as the Goblin reappeared behind him, quickly closing in with their javelin gun ready to shoot.

You panicked. Miguel had his attention elsewhere, the piercing noise completely muffled the sound of his incoming attacker and he didn't have Spider-senses to alert him.

You had to save him.

On instinct, you lunged yourself in their direction, shooting your own web at the Goblin. But they spotted you, redirecting his aim, while you set the flying ropes of web ablaze. It all happened in a second, the web ensnared then just as they shot the javelin, your fire rapidly consuming the web until reaching the Goblin, the flames briefly engulfing them. You tried dodging the javelin again, but the whole ordeal was too much for your wound, the pain roused enough to snatch your attention for a millisecond, the exact amount of time you had to move away from it.

You didn't move away from it.

The javelin pierced the spot under your ribs right where your wound was. You fell on the rooftop with a loud thud, rolling a few times before stopping, leaving a trail of blood behind. You managed to open your eyes to see the Goblin hovering away in retreat and Miguel turning his head to you having seemingly managed to fix the glitch in his suit. You watched realization kicking in him as the eyes on his mask widened.

"¡Puta madre!" Miguel shouted as he flinged himself to your bent over form."This is why you can't go on missions by yourself."

"What?" You barked in pure incredulity, despite the searing pain below your rib cage "This is gah –…this is your fault!"

"How is this my fault?" He retaliated, crouching beside you as he tried to assess your wound. You swatted his hand away before he continued "You're the one who got careless. Again."

"I was protecting you, you mmnph–" you scrunched your face midsentece trying to get up, the motion sending another flash of pain through your system. Miguel tried helping you again, but you held his wrist in place before he could touch you. You had a point to make "You ungrateful fuck! Your lack of Spider-Sense was gonna be the end of you. This literally wouldn't have happened if you weren't here."

"You talk big for someone bleeding out" he retorted, freeing himself from your grip. His movement accidentally made you lose balance and you had no strength in you to regain it in time, but Miguel caught you before you hit the floor "Lyla, send someone to pick her up and take her to the Med Bay."

"Don't you dare… " you tried sounding assertive, but the pain reduced your voice to a whimper at best. Wound or no wound, you still had a mission to finish.

"¡Por dios! Can you quit being so stubborn for five minutes?" He spat back at you "¡OYE, LYLA! I need assistance!"

But once again the AI didn't respond. Miguel groaned in frustration and tried his best to dial the commands on his watch while holding you as you tried your best to trash your way out of his grip. But no matter what he did, the gizmo's only response was a continuous static noise paired with a greenish blank screen "¡Que carajo! Why's this thing not working?? LYLA! Can you hear me?"

Miguel groaned again, considering his options. You were losing a considerable amount of blood and the Anomaly was nowhere to be seen. He picked you up with one arm, trying his best to not jolt you.

"O'Hara… put me down," you complained, but there was no force to back it up. You started feeling light-headed on top of the pain.

"Shut-up," save your strength he meant to say, but that would convey more than he felt necessary. There was no time for frivolities and sentimentalism, he needed to act fast. With Lyla and his team off-line, his best option would be taking you back home.

He tested the integrity of his neon-red webbing, but it was no use - the quick work he did to stop his suit from fully disintegrating was crude at best, he was grateful to at least have prevented its meltdown in time to not be left completely exposed. He retracted his suit from his fingertips up to his wrist, getting his organic web shooters free - its string wasn't as strong as the neon-red artificial ones, but for aerial traversion it would more than suffice. Miguel positioned your torso over his shoulder with care, hugging your legs together with an arm (a part of him painfully aware of how soft your thighs were) and jumped off the rooftop, slinging himself away to your apartment.

You hated how comforting the warmth of his body was against your own, how his scent, a mixture of oak, spices and his own musk, was undeniably helping soothe the woes of your current predicament. The gentle way in which he held you, taking extra care to keep your body from wobbling too much while he carried you made your heart ache almost more than your wound was. It was in times like these, when his stoic facade faltered, giving way to the caring and sensible self underneath, that you remember why he held your heart.

Soon, you arrived at your apartment building. Miguel climbed through your bedroom window, gently placing you on your bed. He took the cover off of one of your pillows, handing it to you.

"Here, press this against your wound to stop the bleeding," he said, the mask of his suit retracting to reveal his angled face "Do you have a first-aid kit?"

"I–, y-yeah, it's in the cabinet under the bathroom sink," you answered. Taking the cover from his hand, you quickly folded it in half and did as he told you, wincing a bit at the contact. Miguel was back with the medical box not long after.

"You'll have to let me take a look at it," he said, placing the box on the bed next to you. His words were demanding, but the tone conveyed nothing of the sort - it was a question, he was asking for permission.

"Y- yeah, of course," you answered, uncovering your wound. Miguel kneeled next to bed getting closer while bringing his hands to your torso. You watched entranced the furrow in his brows as his red eyes darted quickly left and right, his digits gently probing the area around the wound.

"Doesn't seem to have pierced anything serious," he muttered "But it's odd…"

It was your time to furrow your brows "What is?"

"The wound from yesterday should've be in a more advanced state of healing," he said "you do have the hastened healing factor in your power repertoire."

You tensed a bit, looking away. The last thing you needed right now was him finding out about your mishap at the Conditioning and Strength sector yesterday. But of course, Miguel being Miguel caught that little shift in your body language.

"What happened?" He asked right away, bringing his eyes up to you without lifting his head.

"There was… an accident yesterday," you began, trying to find the words. As much as you didn't want him finding out about the Gym incident, there was no point in lying. Better try to soften the blow "Exerted myself too much and the wound reopened."

"Dios mio, that's why the gash was so deep…," Miguel mumbled under his breath, pinching the bridge of his nose "Why the shock were you exerting yourself when you should have been resting?"

A surge of anger started blooming in your chest at his inquiry. It was risky to go into a training session with your wound, you knew that. You also knew there were a million other ways to blow off steam if that was all it was to it. But increasing endurance, enhancing conditioning, building up muscle - all of these were connected to improvement. This self-imposed never-ending quest for leveling up all in the name of helping Miguel, in an attempt to placate your feelings for him.

All for him.

Maybe you should have stopped to consider your well-being instead of going straight to the brawny way of amping-up yourself. There ought to be something else that could mindlessly soothe your nerves while also working as a method of improvement - the way exercising often did -, but yesterday you weren't exactly thinking. There was no bandwidth left to think, you were just so fucking tired.

Tired of putting so much effort in the pursuit of the right to share the weight of the responsibility he carried. Tired of seeing your comfortable platonic relationship you two once shared start to wane seemingly out of nowhere, despite all your efforts to prove yourself worthy of his good graces. Tired of how, despite all of this, your heart stubbornly kept yearning for him.

You were in dire need of respite.

"This is such bullshit," you croaked, clenching your palms into fists.

"What did-," Miguel couldn't finish. With a loud exhale, you shoved Miguel's hands away from you while throwing your legs down the other side of the bed. You hurled yourself up, the adrenaline from your anger fueling your body was the only thing keeping the pain and dizziness at bay.

"I'm done. I quit Spider-Society," you barked through gritted teeth, making your way to your wardrobe while pressing the pillowcase to your wound. You knew you had some strong compression tape in there that should keep yourself from bleeding out until you were done with the mission "I'm catching the goddamn Anomaly. I'm not letting my universe get nuked today, but after that I'M FUCKING DONE."

"Stop! Get back here, you're in no condition to be moving around like that. Let alone finish this mission."

"I don't give a shit about what you think," you barked back, rummaging through your wardrobe. "I'm still this dimension's one and only Spider-Woman. I have a duty with these citizens and I'm gonna protect them."

Suddenly, you felt your wrist being held. You turned around only to meet Miguel's eyes. But instead of finding irritation you found… helplessness.

"Please, stop… " the abrupt shift of tone in his voice chipped at your rage. There was caution, fear and a bit of… desperation? It made you pause, if only for pure bewilderment.

"Why should I?" the flames of your ire had been subdued, but the heat of the ember underneath still burned hot "Our priority is catching the Anomaly and safeguarding this dimension."

He exhaled, casting his eyes down to where his hand met your wrist. When he brought them back to meet your gaze, you were presented with his familiar stoic frown "You're going to jeopardize this mission in your current condition."

There it was, the spark to reignite your wrath.

"Shut the fuck up, O'Hara," you snapped, yanking your wrist away from his grasp. "I don't care about your mission, I just need to catch that Anomaly and save my city." You turned to him, angrily pointing at his chest, "YOU shouldn't be here. YOU are also an Anomaly! Get the FUCK out of here, O'Hara. I'm DONE being your silly little plaything!"

The knot in his brow softened a bit at your words.

"You're not my plaything." He uttered, a bit unsure.

You stiffened, your eyes unfocused darting left and right contemplating the stuff you just said. You bitterly realized that in your fury, you had let out more than you needed to. You searched his face for disgust or discomfort but found a concerned confusion in his eyes.

Swallowing your pride, you decided to press on.

"I'm so tired, Miguel," you muttered in a long exhale "I've been trying so hard, working so much to help keep the multiverse safe… But it feels like the more I do, the worse you treat me." You felt your legs start getting wobbly as the adrenaline waned down, but you had a point to make. "No matter how hard I try, you tell me everything I'm doing is wrong…" you let your hands fall to your sides as the dizziness came back full throttle. With half-lidded eyes, you met Miguel's face once again before muttering "Why am I… even… here…"

"Because I need you"

You barely registered Miguel's response before you collapsed. The last thing you remembered was him rushing to your side as everything became black. ---------------------

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 (soon)

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shadowisles-writes · 4 months

Text

Innocent (Part 1) [Elucien]

A/N: Here is the first part of my gift to @kingofsummer93 for the ACOTAR gift exchange <3 A big thank you to everyone behind @acotargiftexchange, this is always one of the loveliest events of the year!

Summary: Lucien had always thought his life would be normal—or as normal as it could be growing up in a werewolf hunting family. All it took was one full moon for the truth to unravel in front of him and force him to make hard decisions. His fate was forever changed, and no amount of trying running from it could prevent it from catching up to him.

Huge thanks to @rosanna-writer for the beta <3

Read on AO3

And here I sit alone behind walls of regret Falling down like promises that I never kept - Castles Crumbling, Taylor Swift ft. Hayley Williams

6 years ago - Elain

Elain ran through the field with a shriek. The teenage boy with shoulder-length red hair chased after her, laughing as his longer legs easily caught up with her. His arms wrapped around her and Elain stumbled, unable to slow to a stop. The weight of his body and his own speed drove her off balance, and they collapsed in the grass together.

“You’re going to ruin my skirt again, Lucien.” Elain tried to check her cheerleading uniform for grass stains, but his body on hers covered most of it.

“It’s already too late for this one.” He gave a half apologetic shrug, knowing that she had an immaculate outfit to perform in folded in her closet.

Elain squirmed to look at the short skirt. “Where?”

“Right here,” Lucien grabbed her ass over the fabric and grinned.

“You’re impossible.” She tried to sound stern, but the way she tilted her head up to kiss him gave her away.

Lucien smiled against her lips, then quickly pushed himself to his feet and held his hands out to her. “Come on,” he lifted her until she stood. “I should drive you home.”

“Already?” Elain looked over to the almost empty parking lot. They had stayed long after practice ended, but it didn’t feel like enough time.

“Gotta stay in your dad’s good graces.” He squeezed her hand and led the way back to the locker rooms so that she could pick up her bag.

Elain knew that sulking wouldn’t help, but she was quiet all the way home. It had been four months, and Lucien still wasn’t allowed into her house apart from the occasional dinner. She followed her family to church every Sunday and endured the talks of abstinence and marriage, as if she would even get the opportunity to be alone with Lucien.

All he had ever done was kiss her. Hands wandered over clothes sometimes, but the only time they ever got to be together was the hour they stole after school and practice ended. Often enough, Elain’s father showed up after practice to pick her up and interrupted them, though he’d only ever found them sitting on the bleachers holding hands and talking.

Lucien wouldn’t take any chances and risk her family forbidding her from seeing him, but Elain’s patience was wearing thin. Nesta, of course, was always proper and only seen talking to the boys their grandmother thought would be a good match for her. No one cared enough about Elain to find her a match until Nesta was taken care of, so she was unfairly sheltered instead while Feyre ran wild, too young and headstrong for anyone to bother with her.

“Come on El, it’s not that bad.” Lucien placed his hand on her thigh as he drove.

“Aren’t you sick of it?” She traced the veins on the back of his hand and studied his profile.

“It’s not ideal,” he conceded. “But as long as I get to see you, I’m happy.”

“Don’t you ever get angry?” Elain asked, because she did. She got angry at the world for keeping him from her, for telling her that she was only a child and didn’t know what was good for her when her heart told her Lucien was the one she needed by her side.

“What’s the point?” Lucien glanced over at her and flipped his hand to lace his fingers with hers. “Of course I wish we could have more freedom, but I don’t see another way at the moment.”

“We have a year and half of this ahead of us,” Elain sighed. “I just… I don’t want you to lose your patience.”

“I won’t, never when it comes to you.” He kissed the back of her hand. “I promise.”

Dinner was quiet that evening, as it always was. Elain’s grandmother and her father were the only people who ever really talked. The three girls had been raised to know that children didn’t speak at the dinner table, and as they had gotten older the rule had never truly been lifted. Elain never had much to say to her family anyway, only answering questions when she was spoken to.

It was typically uneventful until her father had to leave the dinner table to answer the phone. The conversation was short and impossible to overhear, and Elain didn’t think any of it would matter until he sat back at the head of the table.

“Who was it?” Feyre asked.

“Beron Vanserra.”

Elain’s heart skipped a beat as she looked up from her dinner. The way her father was looking back at her did nothing to reassure her. Beron never called.

She was just about to ask about the reason when her grandmother stepped in. “We haven’t seen a werewolf in this town in twenty years. What would be important enough for him to interrupt dinner?”

Everyone knew werewolves were the most unpredictable creatures. Elain hadn’t heard of one anywhere near this town in her lifetime, and she could only pray it wasn’t about to change. Some towns were riddled with them, but hunting families like the Vanserras had cleared many areas for humans to safely live in.

Beron Vanserra and his oldest sons were some of the rare people who lived after facing down one of those creatures on a full moon. Lucien talked about it, sometimes, though he still had a few years before he would be forced to follow in his family’s tracks.

“It wasn’t about hunting. Lucien was in a car accident, he knows he picks up Elain for school,” he explained before adding, “You can take the bus tomorrow.”

Elain nearly dropped her fork. She couldn’t have cared less about school or the bus as she quickly asked, “What happened? Is he going to be alright?”

“I assume he’s going to be in the hospital for a few days at least.” Her father reached for the spoon in the middle of the table and helped himself to more potatoes.

“Well,” her grandmother scoffed. “Good thing Elain won’t be getting in that boy’s car again.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t his fault,” she protested, unable to even look at her food anymore. “Can I call them back after dinner? Just to know if he’s alright?”

“His brothers will be at school tomorrow.”

“Daddy-” Elain began to argue, but Nesta interrupted her.

“I have my final project with Eris due tomorrow,” she said. “I was going to have to call to talk over a detail of the conclusion. I’ll ask about Lucien.”

Lucien

Everything had happened too fast for him to remember. One moment, Lucien was driving; the next, he was in a hospital bed. He tried to move his shoulder and immediately groaned from the pain that shot through his articulation. His arm was partly immobilized by a splint, and he could only wish they had put it on tighter as he breathed through gritted teeth. The room was entirely white, and the steady beeping by his head was enough of a clue for him to know where he was.

“Oh sweetheart, you’re awake.” Lucien’s mother quickly noticed his eyes were open and reached for his hand. His eyes followed her touch, noticing the IV in his arm and the plastic covering one of his fingers.

At least that arm wasn’t injured, he realized after carefully moving his shoulder to check. “What happened?” He croaked before clearing his throat.

“You had a car accident,” she explained and handed him a glass of water. “Beron is outside, he’s on the phone with the insurance company,”

Lucien wouldn’t be surprised if his father never came into the room. He didn’t expect him to care beyond the cost of car repairs. Beron hadn’t spent time with him in years, always too busy traveling to nearby towns with other werewolf hunters to care about his youngest son.

“I don’t remember it,” Lucien said about the accident. “Was anyone else injured?”

“No, you only hit a tree.”

“Okay,” he breathed out, at least relieved that no one else had been hurt. “Did I hit my head or something?” It certainly didn’t hurt now, but maybe that was what affected his memory. “I just don’t remember anything happening in the car.”

“I-”

“I see you’re awake,” a nurse walked into the room and interrupted before Lucien’s mother could start her explanation. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine, I think,” Lucien diverted his attention to answer more questions.

Something was clearly going on with his mother, but she didn’t speak with the nurse in the room. After several questions and a promise to have a doctor check on him soon, the nurse left them alone again.

Lucien’s mother didn’t meet his eyes until she was sitting beside him again. Even then, it was hardly more than a glance at him. The tight bun that usually held her bright red hair had fallen loose, and her light brown eyes were rimmed with red.

Lucien didn’t remember the last time he had seen her so distressed. She was always put together at home, even in the worst of circumstances she could hold her head up and pretend everything was fine. Three of his brothers had been in accidents that sent them to the hospital before, yet she had never looked this pale waiting in their hospital rooms.

“Are you sure you’re feeling alright?” She fussed with the edge of his bedsheet.

“I’m fine. What were you going to say?”

“There are a lot of things I need to explain to you.”

“Just tell me what happened.” Lucien frowned, her reluctance to say anything only making his worry increase.

She kept staring at the bedsheet for a moment, then met his eyes, took a deep breath, and finally began to explain. “There’s something you need to know about your father.”

“What about Beron?” Lucien couldn’t fathom what that would have to do with his accident. Could he be cheating on his mother? Probably, he was a piece of shit and always traveling, but there was no reason to tell him that now.

“I’m not talking about Beron.”

“What?”

“Let me explain.” She rested her hand on his. “I should have told you this a long time ago, but Beron isn’t your biological father. Many years ago, before I was married to Beron, I met someone. My family wouldn’t have approved, for a million reasons, but we remained in contact through the years, and that man is your real father.”

“How the hell-” The heart monitor beeped faster as he processed the words. “How could you not tell me?” He pushed on his good arm to sit up, betrayal written all over his face.

“Lucien, please—” His mother glanced to the corridor to check no one would come in. “He’s a werewolf.”

Lucien laid back into the bed with wide eyes. He had grown up with Beron’s stories of the creatures, and it was expected he would learn how to hunt them too sooner or later. Every story he had ever heard depicted them as monsters, not people.

They were wild, they did not have feelings, they only killed. It was what he had been taught from the youngest age, it was impossible that his mother could have associated with one, or that he could be one of them.

“I’m so sorry, Lucien. I’ll tell you all you need to know now.” She blinked several times to clear the tears from her eyes. “Last night was a full moon, and you’re old enough that the symptoms are beginning to manifest. That’s what caused your accident.”

“How could you not tell me?” He repeated himself, still too shocked to say anything else.

It was impossible. It was going to destroy his life.

“I thought that because I was human there might be a chance you could escape it.”

“Escape it—they’re going to kill me.”

“Of course they won’t.” More tears rolled down her cheeks.“Your father, Helion, lives far away from here, I called him after your accident. You’ll live with him and learn how to protect yourself, there’s a place for you at the high school so you can still graduate and— I’m sorry, Lucien. I truly am.”

Lucien’s mind immediately went to Elain. How could he explain himself? She would be terrified, she would hate him before he had a chance to give her an explanation. “I can’t just leave, Elain-”

“Can’t find out.” His mother interrupted vehemently. “It would put you both in danger.”

“I can’t just leave her like that,” he protested, but his thoughts were too frantic for him to figure out what he could possibly say to her either.

“You have to, or you’ll hurt her. Full moons will make you uncontrollable, and you won’t be able to keep it secret. Beron will kill us both, and Elain will be caught in the middle of it.”

Lucien quieted at that and brought his hand up to cover his face. He couldn’t think—could hardly breathe from too much information yet not enough for him to understand it all.

It took most of the day for him to calm down. His mother stayed beside him the entire time, answering every question he had and apologizing so many times he didn’t have it in him to remain angry at her. Beron had always been a horrible husband and father; there was no love lost between them,and he couldn’t really blame his mother for loving someone else.

It would take more than apologies to fix the broken trust between them, but there was no time for Lucien to sulk or reject her when listening was the only way they would both survive. The hardest part was hearing that werewolves weren’t monsters. Lucien didn’t believe he was a monster himself, but would these symptoms eventually make him into one? If werewolves could hide among humans, maybe even fall in love with them, why had Beron lied all of these years?

“Lucien, you need to know-”

“Stop.” He interrupted before she could start another one of her apologies. “I need… I don’t fucking know what I need, but just stop right now.”

“If I could keep you here with me I would,” she whispered anyway “but when lives are at stake-”

“I know they are!” Lucien’s voice rose with anger. “You think I don’t realize what a mess this is? And Elain…”

Lucien sank his teeth into his cheek until he could taste blood. She was too smart for him to just break up with her without an excuse, and it was only a matter of time until she showed up at the hospital. Even with her father opposing her, she was a caretaker, and she would always find a way to be there for the people she loved.

The only way for Lucien to keep her safe would be to make sure he wasn’t one of these people anymore.

#acotar fanfiction #elucien #elucien angst #elucien fanfiction #elucien fic #elain x lucien #elain archeron x lucien vanserra #elain and lucien #lucien vanserra #lucien x elain #lucien and elain #elucien acotar #elain archeron #werewolf au #werewolf fanfiction #angst

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groggydog · 1 year

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THE FAMILIAR - Out now!

Hello everyone! My pixel-art-heavy and beginner-friendly parser entry for Spring Thing 2023 has officially been released into the wild. Learn more about it below, or click to play:

PLAY THE GAME!

You are a witch's crow familiar, headstrong as anything but still young and untested.

What starts as a normal day soon takes a harrowing turn when your pacific caretaker, Valmai, is struck down by a terrible hex of mysterious origin. Now it's up to you, little bird, to cure your caretaker and discover the hex's source.

Are you up for the task?

Beginner-friendly parser commands peppered with choice-based elements

Limited vocabulary: you'll only need LOOK, TAKE/GET, DROP, PECK, and CAW

Free to play; formatted for browser, tablet, and mobile

More than 30 unique, hand-crafted pixel art scenes

Roughly 60-90 minutes of play time

Cute woodland animals

Accessibility features: optional tutorial, dynamic TASKS list, three varied fonts, dark/light mode, and toggle-able text indicator for 'press any key' commands

For both detailed step-by-step and spoiler-free walkthroughs of the game (and information on how to obtain the secret ending), click here.

Written by groggydog

Raven portrait pixel art from craftpix.net

All other pixel art by groggydog

Created in the Adventuron Engine

Many thanks to my alpha/beta testers:

Alpha: jbeebs305, manonamora

Beta: Christopher Merriner, Dee Cooke, Mike Russo, Travis Moy, ZAG On Em Clan

#interact if #interactive fiction #interactive story #parser #text adventure #crow #corvine #pixel art

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trickstarbrave · 3 months

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this is not proofread. and i am half awake

but i have FINALLY finished the fucking. nerevoryn omegaverse au fic. no one else has written it yet, so i will be the one to bear the burden. i will commit the first sin and take all the stones you throw.

sorry that this is mostly not even smut, just me messing around with worldbuilding. i have worldbuilder's disease. i have even MORE thoughts about this setting i have inevitably left out. but. well. they fuck in the end okay

special shout out my mutual who posted an omegaverse tweet bc i was really blanking on the smut for some reason. i couldnt get it working right???? like it wasn't interesting. but we got there with the help of the tweet.

content warnings: standard omegaverse shit. heats, ruts, biting, impregnation kink, knots, you get it. omegas have vaginas as far as im concerned bc it just makes more sense to me. give it a shot as i have played with stereotypes and tried to make it interesting i hope

There were, despite the stereotypes, perks when it came to being an omega. In fact, in a way, stereotypes could be one of the perks, if you played your cards right. And if there was anything Nerevar knew how to do, it was use anything and everything to his advantage.

There was a common belief omegas were all delicate, gentle hearted peace-keepers--or worse, treasures that lay in wait for some big strong alpha to come take them. It wasn’t like there were no docile, delicate omegas, but Nerevar was certainly not the type. He could make peace all right--with persuasion and his blade however, not rolling over with his belly up begging everyone to stop fighting.

Most people thought he was an alpha given how headstrong he was and how quickly he took charge of situations. That, or he was an alpha-leaning beta given he was usually able to keep his cool in difficult situations, especially around alphas acting territorial and puffing out their chests. Nerevar never bothered correcting them either way; sure, he could turn himself into some moral champion of omegas and prove they could be just as capable politicians and warriors, but the more likely outcome was everyone he told would take him significantly less seriously. And that would mean more heads would have to roll and well, Nerevar didn’t like cleaning up messes.

He still had heats, having to retreat into his room for days at a time, but no one said anything. Just as easily he could be locked away in a rut, or praying to Azura for several days on end. No one dared question him, and only the most trustworthy attendants were allowed anywhere near his room to be able to smell the difference.

On the plus side, Nerevar had many things he used to his advantage; in all honesty, the fact people thought Nerevar was a beta wasn’t unfounded. Even when an alpha went into a rut, he was mostly unbothered by it. A bit of discomfort, not to mention he needed a long bath afterwards to get the smell off him, but unlike some omegas where the scent of an alpha in rut had them going into heat right away, Nerevar seemed mostly unaffected and could force the instinct down. And, through careful control of his mental state, he could usually calm most alphas down without them being the wiser about Nerevar’s secondary sex and wanting to take him for themselves. His seeming immunity from an alpha in rut was often the subject of multiple jokes by Almalexia, as the two of them would mostly sit around, having a few drinks in the quiet of her room. Well, that was until she took Vivec as her mate, then most of her ruts were spent with the warrior-poet instead.

Hence why, when his meeting with Voryn had been canceled last minute after he already made his way to Kogoruhn, he simply strolled to Voryn’s room, humming casually with a couple books and food for the other.

Much like Nerevar, Voryn was also an… Interesting example of an alpha. Voryn was usually pegged more so as a beta based on his behavior, until you got a whiff of pheromones when you pissed him off. He wasn’t as outwardly aggressive and territorial as far as most people were concerned, but Nerevar knew him well. He disguised it as dedication and love for his house, or loyalty to those close to him, but he was indeed territorial. And instead of outward aggression, picking fights and throwing fists, he preferred to temper his aggression and instead attack them when they least expected it. He may look like he forgives and forgets, but in truth he was a viper laying in wait to strike.

Nerevar knocked, careful not to drop the few books tucked under his arm, hearing the low growl that followed.

“Out.” Voryn hissed, and Nerevar bit back a laugh.

“It’s me,” Nerevar clarified. “I brought you some books and some food. Servants said you haven’t eaten since yesterday.” Voryn, unlike his typically cool demeanor, was vicious and snippy in a rut. Since Nerevar grew up alongside him, he knew it very well, getting chased away from Voryn’s door every time. Well, that and the servants and other members of House Dagoth would shoo him away, warning him not to go near. It was customary to keep young alphas and omegas apart during heats and ruts respectively, for good reason. No one wanted any injured teenagers or anyone carrying children way too young. But Nerevar could still see it in the aftermath—scratch marks and bruises on Gilvoth after he came to force his younger brother to eat, broken furniture, a smashed window at one point—luckily he calmed down from physical violence as he got older. If he hadn’t, he doubted Kogoruhn would still be standing with all the magic the lord knew.

“All the more reason to tell you to leave.” Voryn huffed.

“You know ruts don’t bother me.” Nerevar snarked. “Hurry up and open the door before I drop your food.”

After some groaning and growling, eventually Voryn did open the door, to which Nerevar quickly darted inside before he could take the tray and shove him out.

“You are an idiot.” Voryn groaned as Nerevar set the tray of food on the desk, before tossing the books onto Voryn’s bed. “But that’s nothing new anymore.”

“I told you, ruts don’t bother me.” Nerevar chuckled, trying to ignore the heavy feeling in the air as always. At the very least, Voryn’s scent wasn’t offensive; some alphas made him feel disgusting, if not a little nauseous. Voryn’s was much more familiar and a lot more welcomed, given he was used to it in much smaller quantities over the years. In fact, it was kind of nice; warm, a bit spicy, and nostalgic.

“I can’t help but fear you’re just playing with fire when you say things like that.” Voryn sighed, before plopping himself on the bed. He was dressed very loosely, no doubt feeling hot and antsy. Nerevar, unbothered, also sat beside him with a grin on his face.

“Come on, I’m not being that reckless.”

“You’re tempting fate, that’s what you’re doing.” Voryn huffed. “But you’ve always been like that, haven’t you? Always pushing your luck to its limits until it blows up in your face.”

“It hasn’t blown up in my face yet,” Nerevar asserted proudly. “Unlike several of Sil’s little inventions.” Voryn rolled his eyes at that.

“Because you’re constantly poking and prodding at them even when he specifically told you not to, that’s why.” Nerevar, seeing as Voryn was making a good point, instead side-stepped it entirely.

“Come on, you know you get lonely during a rut,” Nerevar instead circled the conversation back around. “Bored, stir crazy, antsy…”

“That’s the nature of a rut so I don’t rip someone to pieces.” Voryn huffed. “I’m not supposed to be relaxing and having fun but defending my territory and looking for a mate as far as my instincts are concerned.”

“Mm…” Nerevar hummed. “I heard mate does make them easier. At least, as far as Ayem told me.” Nerevar hadn’t minded his wife taking a mate that wasn’t him; in terms of sexual compatibility, Nerevar didn’t find her very appealing. Not that she was ugly or anything--far from it! She was very beautiful, tall, strong… All things an omega should be dying to have in a mate. But there was something about her scent that put him off from ever wanting to mate. Just as well, she didn’t find his scent all that appealing either, and most political marriages didn’t end in mating even in the case of alpha and omega couples.

“And I am in no mood to tear apart Vvardenfell looking for one.” Voryn scoffed, before laying down on his side. Despite doing so, however, he didn’t look comfortable in the slightest. All of his muscles were tense as he laid there, stiff as a corpse. “I have things to be doing, research to do, meetings to be had--”

“Shh…” Nerevar hushed him, scooting closer to rub his back. At the touch Voryn snarled, before slowly he began relaxing, bit by bit. “There…” Nerevar smiled fondly. “You’ll have time for all of that when this is over. It’s only a couple of days right?” Nerevar asked, before working at a knot on Voryn’s shoulder. “Roll over and I’ll rub your back. You’re way too tense.”

Despite all his huffing and snarling, Voryn did roll over, face planted in a pillow, allowing Nerevar climb on top of him to massage him. For most alphas having an omega crawling on top of them in the middle of a rut like this was no doubt humiliating, but Voryn had in fact relaxed gradually. The scent in the air turned from one of hostility and warning to more of a gentle warmth as Nerevar continued to work knot after knot out of his back.

“What research are you working on now?” Nerevar asked, hoping some light conversation would help relax him further.

“Mm…” Voryn groaned softly, fingers clenching and unclenching the blankets under him. “Dwemeri explosive powder…”

“Making it?” Nerevar asked, raising a brow.

“No,” Voryn clarified. “Dwemer machinery is required to actually… Make it.” He hummed softly as Nerevar rubbed at his lower back, working the especially tense muscles nice and slow. “Machinery far too large and complicated to fit into Kogoruhn.”

“What about it then?”

“Dwarven oil has a number of alchemical properties…” Voryn continued. “I was hoping to test if their explosive powder had any as well.”

“Without blowing up half of your stronghold, I hope?” At that, Voryn snorted, before rolling over and forcing Nerevar off him now that he was much more relaxed. With a grin, Voryn tugged Nerevar down to be laying beside him.

“Unlike you, I don’t have a track record for blowing things up unintentionally.”

“You’re back on that again?” Nerevar groaned, offended but still laughing.

“I’m not the one who brought it up the first time.” Voryn smirked. “Though tell me, how many times has Dumac saved you from nearly stepping on a landmine again?”

“You’re being an asshole right now, you know that?” Nerevar shot him a playful glare.

“Well you’re an asshole all the time and it’s never stopped you.”

And just like that, the two were at it. Was wrestling an alpha in rut a good idea? Not in the slightest. However, the two used to playfully wrestle all the time as children and even teenagers, so it was… Oddly nice to do so again as adults. Typically Nerevar would win due to raw strength alone--and he could right now, of course--but he knew it was probably a terrible idea to piss an alpha off like that in the middle of a rut. So instead, Nerevar just put up a gentle fight, knocking several of the pillows and blankets off the plush bed, along with the books Nerevar brought earlier, all the while laughing. Then, once he felt Voryn was starting to get a bit too aggressive and his movements too hurried, he let the other pin him to the bed.

“Gods…” Nerevar laughed, breathlessly. “How long has it been since we wrestled like this?”

“Decades.” Voryn replied, equally as breathless. “Mm… But oddly nice to get the energy out.”

“I told you.” Nerevar grinned. “Nice to move around, get your mind off things… Sitting there stewing in it only makes it worse.”

“Don’t tell me you go around wrestling people in heat.” Nerevar nearly choked in laughter at that.

“No!” He had to roll over onto his side, holding his stomach from giggling. “Gods, fuck no! Azura’s mercy, I’m not that insane!” Another few chuckles followed as he tried to compose himself. “I can barely stand anyone touching me once it settles in. Everything feels so… Sharp and uncomfortable.”

“Does it?” Voryn raised an eyebrow, but climbed off Nerevar to flop down beside him. “That sounds… Unusual.”

Nerevar shrugged. “It’s always been like that.” He admitted as though it were nothing. “You wouldn’t it get it being an alpha, I guess.”

“Nerevar, I may not be an omega but that doesn’t mean I’m uneducated.” Voryn was oddly stern now, concerned. “Just like how you aren’t an alpha but understand how a rut works.”

“Look, what do you want me to say?” Nerevar asked. “No healer has ever told me anything is wrong with me. It just seemed the more time that went on, the more… Painful they got?” Nerevar groaned. “Well, not really painful, I’ve found a way around it for the most part--”

“So you’re coping with it like a poorly healed injury.”

“No!” Nerevar asserted. “It’s not an injury but a normal thing.”

“A normal process that isn’t acting as normal.”

“Look,” Nerevar rolled his eyes, “You can bother the healers back at the palace about it if you’re so concerned. But I’ve adjusted just fine to my heats. I lay in bed, have all my food ready, stacks of books and what have you, and I deal with it.” Nerevar gave him a playful kick. “Unlike someone who went a whole day without eating.”

Voryn rolled his eyes, getting up from the bed. “Fine fine, I’ll eat lord Nerevar.” Voryn replied, sarcastically. He then went over to his desk, finally eating the meal Nerevar brought him.

While he ate, they still chatted and talked, Nerevar laying casually on his bed. It hadn’t been the first time he’d done it, and Nerevar expected it wouldn’t be the last with their close friendship. Even as councilman and king, Nerevar saw them as close friends above all else. The closest friend he had, honestly.

Yet, as he laid there he found himself feeling… Uncomfortable. The air wasn’t stifling after Voryn calmed down, but Nerevar’s clothes felt… Itchy. Not to mention he was starting to feel feverish. Maybe that wrestling wasn’t a good idea if he was coming down with something, but he didn’t want to leave yet--he was mid conversation, after all, and it seemed like Voryn was still relaxing more and more. But, it wasn’t long until Nerevar was tossing and turning on the bed, trying to feel comfortable. Despite being fully dressed he got that same paranoid feeling he had being out in the open on the battlefield: antsy and exposed.

“Are you alright?” Voryn had finished by now, coming to the bed to look at him.

“Yeah just--” Nerevar sighed. “Uncomfortable.” Then, realizing how that might be interpreted, tried to cover for it. “Not that your bed is uncomfortable, I just feel… Off, all of a sudden.”

“How so?”

“My clothes feel itchy--” Nerevar was already scratching at his arms, writhing slightly to try and itch at his back. “It’s not flees, I just bathed… Not to mention it’s not like, bug bite itchy but like my clothes are way too rough…”

“Stress?” Voryn asked, looking at his arms to ensure he didn’t have a rash. “I could always look at your clothes to be sure.”

“Not a bad idea.” Nerevar began pulling his shirt up over his head to hand to Voryn who combed it over. Sure enough, the clean cloth had no parasites or bugs crawling around in it, but already Nerevar felt relieved. He kicked off his trousers while he was at it, left only in his undergarments and much more comfortable.

“Well the fabric is particularly rough.” Voryn remarked. “Thick material, more so used for keeping warm and dry rather than relaxing. Rolling around wrestling in it probably irritated your skin.” Nerevar snorted at that, especially as Voryn tossed one of his own silk robes on top of him. He used to have no problem wrestling in the ash and dust, but now slightly rough fabric was what was going to do him in? Although… The silk robe was a lot more comfortable, the soft fabric almost soothing his skin as he curled up with it on and tied shut, breathing deeply. Voryn’s sheets were also nice and soft…

“You are also feeling warm though…” Voryn brought the back of his hand to Nerevar’s forehead. “Not to mention I actually beat you at wrestling…” He looked concerned, “You weren’t mucking around the bitter coast again were you? Swamp fever has been on the rise there, and I know how much you love mudcrab hunting more than your own good--” Nerevar rolled his eyes.

“I came straight here from the propylon chamber, Voryn.” He did wear weather appropriate clothes given it was the cold and rainy season in northern VVardenfell, but that was just a precaution. “I wasn’t running around the bitter coast catching mudcrabs, I can assure you.”

“Here,” Voryn stood up now, pulling the pillows and blankets back on the bed to make Nerevar more comfortable. “Why don’t you just lay down for a few minutes and see if it goes down. If not, I have a cure disease potion around here somewhere…” He then got up after piling them all back on, rummaging through his shelves stocked with an astounding amount of alchemical books, ingredient chests, and potion bottles. ‘Controlled chaos’ as Voryn would say, though Nerevar could never make sense of it. But right now he was more than content to just lay there in the pile of pillows and blankets, breathing in nice and deep as his body started to go from uncomfortably hot to warm and fuzzy.

“I found it,” Voryn kneeled beside him, beckoning Nerevar to sit up properly. He groaned in annoyance; he just got fucking comfortable, now Voryn wanted him to sit up? But one look at Voryn’s eyes told Nerevar it was just for his own good, so reluctantly and without much fuss he sat up slightly, letting Voryn tilt his head and press the potion bottle to his lips. It briefly occurred to him he could drink it himself but… Well, Voryn was just being a loyal retainer and friend right? Ever loyal, doting Voryn.. Nerevar found that trait of his kind of endearing.

“Normally when I have to give you medicine you make such a fuss,” Voryn smiled softly, “You’re being a good boy right now, I see.” At the ‘good boy’ comment Nerevar’s breath hitched slightly as he sunk back onto the bed to lay on his side, Voryn piling more of the blankets and pillows around him so he was comfortable. Then, a hand threaded into his hair, rubbing at his scalp just like Nerevar liked, making him positively melt, mewling and moaning softly in pure delight.

“That’s it…” Voryn purred, “Such a good boy, aren’t you…?” Voryn then laid down behind him, nuzzling against him, his hands brushing across Nerevar’s chest and stomach in soft strokes…

Ah, Voryn was scenting him, something that wasn’t unwelcomed in the slightest. It was nice; being wrapped up in that warm, musky scent was only making him feel better. People would be able to smell Voryn on him after all, all over his body from his clothes to his hair and skin… Then again, he felt like he never wanted to leave the comfort of Voryn’s bed right now. He was content to just lay there being tended to, Voryn nuzzling him, feeding him, guarding him…

“Oh Neht,” Voryn buried his face in Nerevar’s neck, breathing in his scent directly, before his tongue swiped at a scent gland. That caught Nerevar’s attention, making him moan louder, squirming in Voryn’s arms.

“Hey--” Nerevar protested weakly. His mind felt fuzzy, but he knew that was crossing a line at least. “Watch it.”

“You smell divine…” Voryn purred. “Nice and sweet…” He resumed the licking, leaving Nerevar whining softly, his hips moving in small circles until Voryn pressed his hips firmly against Nerevar’s ass, holding him still with a growl. His cunt throbbed at that, suddenly overcome with the realization he was empty right now, so fucking empty--he needed something in him. Right now. Fingers, a toy, a cock, just something filling him up--

Then, Voryn was pulling back suddenly, jerking his hands away as though he was burned. Nerevar looked up at him confused and dazed, Voryn’s face flushed red.

“You’re in heat.” Voryn murmured, suddenly realizing what was going on. Nerevar, however, took a few moments to process his words, before anxiety bubbled up inside him.

“No I’m not--” He wasn’t the type to go into heat smelling an alpha in rut. He had never done so before, and he wasn’t due for his heat for a few months anyways. Besides, when he was in heat he was nesting and--

Nerevar glanced at the pillows and blankets Voryn had put around him, realizing when he had done so Nerevar felt much more secure and comfortable. He’d been antsy before, paranoid and feeling exposed until the soft, plush walls were around him. He also felt more sensitive to his clothes, feeling warm and aroused--

“I-I hate people touching me in heat,” Nerevar tried to explain quickly, sitting up and panicked. “I can’t be…” That was right, he couldn’t be. He hated being touched during his heat, growling and hissing as the touch was physically painful. But Voryn touching him hadn’t hurt at all, it felt…

Nerevar’s hands were trembling as he got up quickly, tugging the robe shut firmly and making sure the tie was secure, before he took off running for the propylon chamber. He wasn’t thinking clearly, he just knew he needed to not be there anymore. Something was wrong with him after all; very, very wrong with him. He paid no mind to Voryn calling after him, even as his anxiety spiked hearing the concern and anger in his voice; he just kept running through the halls, sprinting past servants and attendants until he made it to the chamber, giving quick orders to send him to Mournhold before he was teleported away.

At the palace, Nerevar didn’t stop to catch his breath either. The air felt cold and stifling as he continued running, spriting like a mad man until he made it to his room where he swiftly locked the door. He drew the curtains, blocking out the light until it was dark, his anxiety still not ceasing. He tripped on a chair in his scramble, swearing up a storm as he kicked and snarled, breaking a leg off the chair. He then grabbed it as he stood, throwing it to the wall resulting in the wood splintering against the heavy stone and knocking several tapestries down. Now in darkness he retreated to his bed, trying to curl up to find comfort.

His bed felt wrong. Wrong, disgusting, cold, uncomfortable… Even as he moved the blankets and pillows he just felt worse. None of them were as comfortable as Voryn’s bed, covered in his scent…

Nerevar tugged the robe off, burying his face in it, whining softly. The scent, despite being musky and strong, was so comforting. He never used to find an alpha’s scent so soothing before, why now? Even when he was in heat he’d growl if any alpha even so much as came near his room, so why this? Why now?!

A few servants knocked on the door, calling for him alarmed. Then a few healers. He didn’t respond to any of them, laying there in silence, too ashamed to even tell them to leave. It felt like his skin was crawling, and he simultaneously felt both hyper-aggressive and like he had no strength in him. Then it was Almalexia, knocking.

“Nerevar?!” He growled weakly; he didn’t want anyone to see him, let alone a different alpha--no, he needed to get rid of that mindset. Voryn wasn’t special, at least, not as an alpha. Voryn was his closest friend yet, but if he didn’t want to be seen by anyone, that meant anyone. Especially not Voryn, an alpha in rut, when he was obviously in heat.

“Are you injured?” She asked. “What happened in Kogoruhn--” A few more people spoke quietly to her, their voices too hushed for him to hear. In the back of his mind, he knew it was only logical she’d ask; he did come sprinting through the palace in one of Voryn’s robes, running like a pack of nix-hounds were trying to kill him. What was supposed to be a political meeting ending in such a sight would be a great cause of concern--one Nerevar should smooth over before anyone marched to Kogoruhn accusing Voryn of treason. But he didn’t have the energy to do so; all he wanted to do was curl up and forget the rest of the world entirely.

“Nerevar,” It was Vivec now, knocking at his door, voice level and a bit softer than how he usually spoke, “The healers are here, will you let them in?”

“I don’t need to see a healer.” He growled, enraged. It was stupid; Nerevar knew something was wrong with his body, but the idea of being seen by a bunch of strangers right now poking and prodding at him felt like a fate worse than death.

“Voryn is here.” A sensation ran straight through Nerevar he didn’t have a proper name for. Anticipation? Anxiety? Want? It was impossible to place, but it made him feel restless. “Would you prefer to see him?”

“No!” Nerevar suddenly snapped, his voice much louder than it had to be. He was terrified of what would happen if he saw Voryn again right now. Part of him wanted to, deep down; he wasn’t this restless and anxious simply laying in Voryn’s bed. In fact he felt nice--warm and fuzzy and safe. But he didn’t know what was going on, or what would happen if he followed that thread of desire to the end.

“Did Voryn hurt you?” Vivec asked, trying to get answers.

“He didn’t hurt me--” Nerevar snapped at that as well. Voryn would never hurt Nerevar. He knew that much. His whole body was screaming, suddenly offended at even the idea. Voryn had been trying so hard to take care of Nerevar, made sure he was comfortable, fed him medicine and even made a nest for him… A wave of heat washed over him quickly at the memory, followed by a spike in anxiety. “I just--I don’t know what’s going on!”

A few moments of silence followed, before Vivec sighed. “Let me come in.” That seemed less risky than healers he hardly knew or an alpha. Nerevar’s brain, as was so common while in heat, was in survival mode after all, constantly looking out for any potential threat. But Vivec was another omega, and a bonded one at that. Someone close to him and trusted.

After Nerevar gave a quiet answer, Vivec unlocked the door with a spell, slipping inside and then shutting and locking the door behind him. He approached the bed slowly, not sitting on it or touching him.

“Tell me what happened and I’ll tell the others.” His voice was quiet, knowing just how jumpy and aggressive an omega could get in this state.

“I…” Nerevar swallowed. He didn’t want to recount it, embarrassed now that his luck had in fact run out just like Voryn said it might. “Ruts don’t usually trigger heat in me.” Nerevar said, his voice wavering.

“I’m aware.”

“But it was…” Nerevar gave a shaky sigh. “I don’t… Know what happened. My body just started… Going into heat all of a sudden while I was laying on his bed, without me even realizing it.” Normally he could tell the warning signs of an impending heat: irritability, hunger, defensiveness, physical discomfort, even a sensitivity to light. “I also hate being touched when I’m in heat, it fucking hurts,” He hissed softly, remembering the warm, welcomed touch of Voryn’s hands on him as the other scented him. His skin burned despite no one touching him at the moment, and he wanted the relief of Voryn once again. Vivec still raised an eyebrow at that. “It always does but then I… It didn’t hurt when he was touching me. It felt… Nice. Relaxing.” Vivec hummed contemplatively at that.

“When he realized I was… Going into heat he pulled away. And I realized it too and panicked and ran back here.” He did regret making a scene but he didn’t know what else he was supposed to do.

“I’ll speak with the healers.” The most they’d be able to do was a suppressant, but at this point Nerevar would take it. He wanted this feeling to stop. Desperately.

“Nerevar?!” He heard Voryn’s voice outside the door. “Nerevar, are you alright?” The concern in his voice had Nerevar’s heart racing, but he was still anxious about what would happen if he saw Voryn again. The sensation he was losing control was terrifying, after all.

“I think it would be best you see him, Neht.” Vivec said simply, moving towards the door. “He’s going to tear the palace apart trying to get to you.” Nerevar’s anxiety only grew at that; what if Voryn got hurt? What if people assumed the worst? Not to mention it was only making the other, strange feelings inside him grow all the more strong at the notion Voryn desperately needed him.

“L…” He hesitated, before he tugged the robe out from under him and back onto his body to make himself decent. “Let him in.”

As soon as the door was opened, Voryn shoved his way past the guards and Vivec into the room, Vivec retreating outside once more to hush the angered guards, attendants, and healers who wanted to drag him back out.

“Neht,” Voryn’s voice went hushed as he quickly made his way to the bed, climbing on without a care. Nerevar had half a mind to snap at him, before Voryn was stroking at his skin and scenting him again. He felt himself melting already from the familiar scent filling the room, along with the soothing touch on his skin. “Thank gods you’re alright.” The room still felt wrong, but he felt a hell of a lot better being tended to like this, the burning under his skin slowly fading.

“Voryn…” He murmured, closing his eyes. He tried to will himself to feel more comfortable; he was in his room, the same place he always was for all of his heats. Maybe it was because there were people outside his door? It was possible; he hated being bothered when he was in heat.

Then the door opened after a few, pleasant moments, Voryn growling with pure rage. The healer who entered was an older beta woman, but even she shuddered.

“I mean his majesty no harm.” It was a healer he saw many times in the past. She then glanced at Nerevar in the dim lighting. “I know what happened, Lord Nerevar.”

Nerevar sat up at that, eager for answers, but Voryn kept an arm wrapped around his waist securely.

“... In all honesty,” The healer began, sounding exacerbated, “I have never seen a case like this in all my years. But there is only one answer I can come to based on everything else.”

“Go on.” Nerevar tried to keep his voice level rather than annoyed. Azura knows how terrified most people got when he was angry.

The healer pinched the bridge of her nose.

“How familiar are you with fated mates?” At her question, Nerevar froze, stunned, before he gave a loud bark of laughter. The healer, however, did not laugh or smile back, and instead only looked more resolute.

“... Be serious with me.”

“I am being serious, Lord Nerevar.”

“Are you--are you seriously trying to say Voryn is my--”

“I understand how strange it sounds at first.” The healer cut him off. “Typically when someone meets their fated mate they determine it quickly. It only takes a few heat or rut cycles before the draw is undeniable.” She sighed once again. “I can only assume because you knew Lord Dagoth before either of you presented, the draw was less noticeable.”

It kind of made sense, to a degree. When people wrote about fated mates it was usually that they had a scent that was undeniable. Even passing by them on the street, you couldn’t get the scent out of your head for days on end, trying to find it again and again. Even those who tried to deny it couldn’t refuse the pull forever; heats and ruts were unbearable, the longing overwhelming the pair. No one had ever recorded an account of a fated pair who knew each other prior to presenting though; fated mates were absurdly rare, after all. They were more common in fiction than real life, and only the most hopeless of romantics ever went out actually looking for one. Most people just found a mate they liked rather than chase after some destined person, and why fated mates even existed was a mystery. Did everyone have one but distance kept them from finding one? That didn’t seem likely; the most common belief was that some people were born with them--not many members of the population, anyways--and even fewer actually found their ‘other half’. Someone meeting a fated mate before presenting, when you were children not off exploring the wider world yet, was even more unlikely.

Dumac told him the dwemer scholars believed it had something to do with ‘reproductive compatibility’. Not that it was a mystical, god given connection like some believed, but rather those with a fated partner were less compatible with most of the population, so when they did find someone they could produce children with easily, the desire to mate was enhanced strongly. Nerevar didn’t know if he liked that explanation either though. He found the ideas the gods made destined partners to love each other forever as too romantic of an idea for reality yes, but presuming there must be something wrong with them instead wasn’t much better.

It didn’t seem likely that he and Voryn could just ignore the draw for decades though, right? Surely that wouldn’t be possible. The draw was supposed to be strong, impossible to deny past a certain point.

Sure, when he was younger and Voryn was in a rut he always came by to check on him before he was shooed away, but that was just boredom. And when he was in heat Voryn would pass him notes under the door from time to time that he’d bury in the nests he made, but that was just because being in heat made him feel sensitive and sappy. Nothing more. And shouldn’t there be something more if they were a fated pair?

“Your other symptoms make me more certain of it.” The healer continued, pulling him from his thoughts.

“How so?” Nerevar raised an eyebrow.

“It isn’t healthy for an unmated omega to be around an alpha in rut.” She replied, a fact that always made Nerevar roll his eyes. “It causes excess stress, even if it doesn’t trigger a heat. Unless you are drawn to the alpha in question as a potential partner, usually a rut is off putting, distressing, or nauseating for an unmated omega.”

“They’ve never bothered me to that extent.” Nerevar snarked.

“Precisely.” She locked eyes with him. “You handle it more akin to an omega who’s already been mated, despite not having the scent of one.” Nerevar tensed at that. He hadn’t thought of it like that in the slightest; why would he? He wasn’t mated. Anyone could smell on him that he wasn’t. “Those who have met a fated partner experience mated behaviors before the bond is even set. Rejecting other suitors, unbothered by others in a heat or rut,” She sighed. “Lord Vivec even explained you were giving off the same scent as a bonded omega whose mate was absent.” Nerevar’s cheeks flushed at that.

“That’s--” Nerevar tensed slightly, “I wouldn’t go that far.” Surely Nerevar wasn’t. He wasn’t fucking bonded, why would he be throwing out the same scent as an omega who went into heat, begging for their mate to come tend to them?

“You were.” She asserted, though she did have some sympathy in her gaze at least. “Unfortunately, the best I can do is, if you truly don’t want the bond, I can give you suppressants. They won’t actively stop it right now given you already went into heat, but they should calm some of the worst side effects for a time.” Nerevar already knew what she was going to say next though. “But your next one will be much the same. The side effects will continue to worsen.” Short of running away to the other side of the continent and burning anything he owned that Voryn had ever so much as touched, he would be able to smell Voryn faintly, after all. In the palace, on his belongings, anywhere Voryn had been might trigger the worst of the symptoms all over again now that he had a heat triggered by his rut no doubt.

“At the very least, Lord Dagoth is in control of his emotions.” Voryn’s brow twitched at that, his arms tightening. “You can spend ruts and heats together without actually mating, until you come to a decision on how to proceed. It should alleviate both of your struggles.”

Shit, Nerevar hadn’t even considered what Voryn must be going through. Was his irritation and lack of eating because he subconsciously knew Nerevar was supposed to be his mate but wasn’t there by his side? When he was younger was that out of character, violent rage because he knew, right there in the stronghold, his mate was being kept from him? No doubt the next rut Voryn would be uncontrollable; before he could hold back because he wasn’t consciously aware of what he wanted, but now that he knew it was Nerevar…

Nerevar felt himself getting all the more wet at the prospect of Voryn tearing his way across the country for him, earning a low growl from Voryn and the healer clearing her throat.

“I’ll leave the two of you to discuss it.” She said, now turning to leave. Nerevar felt his cheeks flush in a rush of embarrassment; no doubt because he was in heat the arousal led to a surge of pheromones in the air all but begging for Voryn to fuck him. “We will be waiting outside for your answer.”

As soon as the door shut, Voryn was fussing over him again, marking him with his scent by nuzzling into his hair and against his cheek. But quickly the tension was melting off of Voryn’s body as he began apologizing.

“I’m so sorry, Neht.”

“This isn’t your fault.” Nerevar huffed. “I’m the idiot who deliberately stuck around after you told me not to.”

“You didn’t know either.” Voryn sighed. “I could have made you leave but I… I felt more comfortable with you there.” If it was anything like what Nerevar was going through he could understand it. “Besides… If what the healer said is true then this was bound to happen.” That was also true; it was a miracle it hadn’t happened until now. If it wasn’t Nerevar insisting on spending time with Voryn during a rut, it could just as easily be Voryn stumbling upon him in heat, or anything else really.

“Do you want to take the suppressants?” Voryn asked, and Nerevar sighed, shaking his head.

“No,” He rubbed his eyes, feeling sluggishness settle into his body. “It’ll help only temporarily, and make it worse next time around.”

“But they might help you think clearer.” Voryn countered. “I don’t want you making any decisions with a clouded head.”

“I’m not completely out of it, Voryn. A bit anxious, yes, but it’s not like I’m drunk.” Nerevar hated those kinds of assumptions; the stereotype that omegas were just needy, pathetic little things that couldn’t think for themselves once they were in heat was the most infuriating one.

At his anger though, Voryn hushed him, nuzzling into his neck apologetically and licking a scent gland. Nerevar huffed at first, still rigid, until the affection soothed him, now groaning softly in delight instead as he head fell to the side to give Voryn more room.

“Then,” Voryn began, “Would you prefer to stay here?” His hand rubbed soothing circles on Nerevar’s lower stomach. “Or do you want to return to my room?”

“Mm…” Nerevar knew it would probably be easier if he stayed here; he had healers and attendants he was used to, not to mention he knew the layout of his room well and kept it stocked with toys, erotica, anything he needed to help him get off. Even if the two of them only went so far as masturbating together rather than mating, those would be helpful.

But the room didn’t feel entirely comfortable, even with Voryn there. Damn hormones were likely acting up on that front, but no use arguing with something illogical.

“Your room is probably better.” He admitted, pulling himself out of Voryn’s arms to start packing. “Let me just get a few things and we can head back. Hopefully without the whole damn palace gossiping about it…”

“It’ll be alright.” Voryn reassured him, rubbing his back gently. “The palace was mostly quiet today.” He then coughed awkwardly, “Before I… Came running through after you.” Nerevar snorted at that. “After how thoroughly I scented you though I doubt most will be able to tell what’s going on.”

“Hopefully.” Nerevar wasn’t keeping it a secret he was an omega exactly, but he didn’t want to go shouting it to the world either. It was better to keep people guessing rather than anyone giving him shit for it unnecessarily. He still grabbed his travel pack, carelessly shoving some comfortable clothes and sleeping robes in, along with a few changes of underwear, and a favorite pillow of his. He also managed to cram in a few toys and a steamy novel he enjoyed, able to smell the spike of Voryn’s arousal at the sight from how strong his pheromones were.

Another trip through the propylon chamber later--this time less hurried and better dressed, and they were once again walking back to Voryn’s private chambers. On the way there Voryn ordered attendants as they went, requesting a large dinner to be brought to his room that evening for Nerevar too, as well that Nerevar would be staying in Kogoruhn for several days. It didn’t take a genius to figure out Nerevar was going to be spending Voryn’s rut with him, the servants all scrambling at the knowledge.

Just before they reached the room another healer appeared, handing Voryn several vials of potions, before giving a respectful bow and leaving. Voryn’s cheeks were more red at that, but he took them regardless, letting Nerevar enter the room.

It was mostly as he left it, albeit with a few blankets and pillows knocked off from his speedy exit and a few tapestries fallen off the wall from a door slamming. A wardrobe was left open, probably from Voryn’s scramble to make himself semi-decent before chasing after Nerevar.

He tossed his bag to the side of the bed, already feeling relieved to be back. Voryn locked the door behind them, moving to draw the curtains shut as Nerevar began fussing over the pillows and blankets, making sure the bed would be comfortable for him. With more than enough room for Voryn this time, something that had excitement bubbling away in his chest.

“What are the potions for?” Nerevar asked as he added his own pillow to the bed, still arranging it. It was annoying to do it in heat--normally he got started a few days prior, but whatever.

“... Birth control.” Voryn admitted, and Nerevar’s hands stopped briefly.

He knew that was only logical. Even if they ended up going further, actually having sex or mating entirely, most didn’t want to have kids the first time. It took a while to adjust to a mate, see if you wanted to keep the bond… Then again, it was said fated mates couldn’t remove the bond once they did mate.

Still, hearing ‘birth control’ made it seem that much more… Real. They were going to spending Voryn’s rut and Nerevar’s heat together. Very easily one thing could lead to another, and he could… Actually have sex with Voryn.

“... Better to be prepared than not.” Nerevar finally replied, resuming his work, before flopping into the nest he made. As soon as he was situated, Voryn stripped out of the additional robe he threw on top of his night clothes for decency, climbing in to lay beside Nerevar.

“Did you eat properly?” He asked, fretting over him. Nerevar snorted.

“Says the one who forgot to eat.” Nerevar teased.

“I was…” Voryn sighed. “Too anxious to eat. I get wound up during a rut, and the idea of eating was nauseating.” He closed his eyes. “Until you showed up.”

“Well I’m glad I made it easier for you.” Nerevar smiled. “And for your information, yes. I did in fact eat a large breakfast and lunch, as always.” He always had a big appetite after all, though he was especially ravenous during heats. “Though I wont say no to a big mudcrab feast for dinner~” Voryn laughed loudly at that, head thrown back and canines glinting. Nerevar swallowed roughly at the sight, subconsciously rubbing his own neck.

“I’m glad you’re well fed then.” Voryn was still smiling warmly. “Hopefully you won’t eat me out of house and home.”

“Get a bigger house then if I do.” Nerevar teased back.

“I certainly will have to, won’t I?” Voryn was smirking now, rolling on top of Nerevar. “I have to keep my mate well taken care of…” Voryn went back to his neck, kissing and licking now, earning several long, breathy moans from Nerevar.

Gods, did Nerevar know what Vivec meant when he said heats were so much easier like this. Nerevar thought obviously a mate or even just a potential one you spent a heat with would make it a bit more bearable. But this… He didn’t feel nearly as irritable as he usually was, now feeling quite secure, not to mention his arousal wasn’t frustrating it just…

“Mmm…” Voryn groaned softly, grinding his hips against Nerevar’s. “Such a sweet scent when you’re aroused…” Voryn nipped at his ear next, making Nerevar arch up and keen.

“Ah,” Nerevar gasped, grinding his hips in return, “Is it?” He didn’t have many people telling him he smelled sweet; usually he was compared to things that were fresh and bright, like citrus or herbs.

“Delightfully sweet.” Voryn purred. “Perfectly so, just to my taste…” Voryn then pulled up from his neck, taking his chin in hand.

Nerevar’s heartbeat accelerated from the look in Voryn’s eyes. In every raunchy novel he read, alphas were described as ravenously hungry when they stared down omegas, like a predator having just caught its prey. But here Nerevar didn’t feel like prey; Voryn’s eyes were hungry, yes, but more so they were warm, affectionate and…

Loving. Devoted. Like he would do anything and everything for Nerevar’s sake.

Nerevar’s eyes fell half shut as he found himself leaning up, Voryn meeting him halfway to connect their lips in a soft, gentle kiss.

It was entirely out of order; normally you kissed and courted someone before you invited them to spend a rut or heat with you, contrary to many smutty novels and ballads where the couple spontaneously fell into bed together during one. By Azura, the two already knew each other for so many years too, and they were just barely kissing…

Gods, no wonder people described it like fate. It felt insane that they hadn’t kissed before now. That it took so long for them to get here, sprawled out in bed together. The scent from Voryn was intoxicating as the kisses warmed up from slow and soft to passionate ones that made Nerevar feel entirely breathless. When Nerevar swiped his tongue into Voryn’s mouth, flicking briefly against his fangs, Nerevar shuddered, slipping one hand down between his thighs to rub back and forth against his dick.

“So eager…” Voryn moaned against his lips, his own hand joining Nerevar’s. Even through the fabric the touch was electric, Nerevar’s body trembling slightly. “Did you want a toy inside you then?” Voryn asked, his voice low and deep, the sound going straight to Nerevar’s cunt.

“Yeah…” Nerevar moaned softly. “A toy, your fingers…” Voryn was already undressing him, throwing the robe open and sliding his underwear off, “Anything…”

“My cock?” Voryn offered with a smirk, only joking. Still though, Nerevar groaned at the thought; fuck yes did he want Voryn’s cock in him, fucking him to completion and then knotting him. He was already dripping wet at just the idea, after all. But he also knew they should take things slower.

“T-toy for now…” Nerevar groaned through grit teeth, before hissing as Voryn played with his dick while fishing around in the bag beside the bed.

“Which one?” Voryn asked, still not letting up his teasing in the slightest. It felt so damn good, but Nerevar felt too empty! He threw an arm over his eyes, panting.

“Th-the…” Using his words was more difficult than he thought. “The one with the… Big knot~” A moment later, Voryn pulled it out, sliding the tip against Nerevar’s entrance. “Hah~!”

“Is this one your favorite?” Voryn asked, a devilish smirk still on his face. Nerevar didn’t even have to look, he could feel the pleased look on his face as he started to tease it in.

“Mm, when I’m in heat, yeah~” He could have lied, but what was the fucking point? Voryn was already fucking him with the damn thing, why play coy? Voryn slid it in a few inches, groaning softly as he watched it vanish into Nerevar’s body, before thrusting it in and out. It was a different rhythm than Nerevar used, but like everything else today it wasn’t unwelcomed.

“Oh I’ll bet…” Voryn purred. “When you’re in heat you love taking a nice,” He gave a sharper thrust, letting Nerevar take it all up to just before the knot, but not quite pushing it in, “Big knot in your greedy little cunt, don’t you?”

“Yes!”

“Would you fuck yourself to completion and then take the whole thing?” He continued moving at that sharp, hurried pace as he slid it in and out of Nerevar.

“Fuck, yes—yes!!” He was panting desperately now, savoring the feeling. Voryn’s dirty talk was making this all the better—how had he gone so long without this?! If he’d known it would be this good, he’d have climbed into Voryn’s bed long before this.

“Imagining someone breeding you up?” Voryn was panting too, watching Nerevar with rapt attention.

“Please,” Nerevar pleaded, feeling how close he was to an orgasm just hearing that. “Please, please~!” He tried grinding his hips down on the toy, desperate to feel the knot slipping inside him, but Voryn kept it from doing so.

“My knot is the only one you’re going to feel this time, Neht.” Voryn growled low in Nerevar’s ear. “Only mine.”

In response, Nerevar growled in return, quickly flipping positions as he climbed on top of Voryn instead. The toy completely slipped out, soon lost in the piles of pillows and blankets, as Voryn growled in return. The two were wrestling once again, though this time it wasn’t quite as playful. Honestly, Nerevar probably would have won this one by how seriously he was taking it, but heats made his body so groggy he wasn’t up to his usual strength.

“Get inside me then.” Nerevar demanded through grit teeth as Voryn shoved him back down, prying his legs back open.

“Lay there and I will.” Nerevar still snarled, thrashing. “Now hold still or I’ll make you.” The threat made his cunt ache again, a long moan crawling out of his throat.

“Potion—“ Nerevar freed one arm, reaching for them. Voryn grabbed one, placing it in Nerevar’s hand as he finished undressing himself. Nerevar uncapped it and threw his head back, chugging it.

To Oblivion with taking it slow. He needed Voryn—all of him.

He tossed the potion bottle aside, wrapping his arms around Voryn as he nuzzled his face into his neck, now being the one to lick and kiss at a scent gland, almost intoxicated by the spice and musk.

“Neht,” Voryn hissed.

“Let’s mate.” Nerevar whispered, before feeling Voryn tense up. Silence followed, except for Voryn’s heavy breathing.

“Nerevar we don’t have to mate just to—“

“I want to.” Nerevar pulled back enough to look at him. “Be honest with me Voryn, who else am I going to mate with?” The very idea Nerevar could mate with someone else made Voryn’s anger spike, clear from the scent he gave off. “And even if we just tried to deny mating, just spending heats and ruts together, we’ll both lose it eventually.” The draw was supposedly undeniable, and Nerevar wanted to do it at least semi lucid without pain and desperation making the experience less enjoyable.

“Besides,” Nerevar now gave a warm smile, the low light still twinkling in his eyes. “You’re a very devoted, loving, strong alpha…” Voryn shuddered. “Making sure I’m well fed, giving me medicine…”

“I have to take care of you…” Voryn whispered. “You mean the world to me.”

“Exactly.” Nerevar was still smiling, now thumbing at Voryn’s lower lip as he cupped his cheek. “Who else could possibly take care of me as well as you? You’re the one who’s always been there for me. You guarded my back in war, supported me on my quest to become hortator, and even long before I was a hero, just some canvasari not even wanted by his own house, you took care of me and showed me respect.” Just as easily, Voryn could have tossed him aside. Childish friendships with lower classes didn’t need to be kept by chimer nobility. Any other would have probably ‘outgrown’ Nerevar, but Voryn didn’t. Because Voryn didn’t just see Nerevar as a toy to be played with and tossed aside but as himself.

Honestly, even being tossed aside by another noble would have been a good outcome. Many would have also taken Nerevar as a concubine after he presented, or sold him off given he had nowhere else to go. But Voryn always saw him as a friend he treasured.

“But,” Voryn gave a sigh, “You don’t love me.”

Ah. Nerevar didn’t think Voryn was the type to only want to mate when you truly loved someone. It only made sense he supposed, most people did, but he was used to seeing things in terms of practicality.

“Voryn,” He stroked his cheek, “Maybe I don’t love you romantically… Yet.” Nerevar wouldn’t discount that at all; if he’d fall in love with anyone, right now he imagined it would be Voryn. “And I don’t really know… What it’s even like to fall in love with someone completely like that given I’ve only had a few flings and a political marriage but,” He looked up into Voryn’s eyes, never more certain in matters of the heart than he was now. “I do know I care about you deeply. More than anyone else in my life.” Nerevar licked his lips. “And there is no person in the world I’d rather be mated with than you.”

Silence then followed, Voryn staring at him in shock. Suddenly nervous, Nerevar began to backpedal slightly.

“Of course I understand if you want to wait. I-gods, it would probably be easier for you if we did the whole courtship and dating thing first, wouldn’t it—“ He was then cut off by a kiss, Voryn’s tongue swiping into his mouth.

“I want to mate with you, Neht.” Voryn whispered, as he pulled away with a smile. “Tonight.”

“Are you sure? I—“ Nerevar swallowed roughly as he felt Voryn lift one of his legs up, his own instincts screaming at him that he needed this—that he needed to stop talking and get fucked right then and there.

“I’m certain.” Voryn said, his tone unwavering as he kept that warm smile on his face, his eyes shining. “Do you want me to mate with you before, during, or after?”

Nerevar licked his lips, thinking it over. A claiming bite was said to be extremely pleasurable, once the initial pain wore off. Some preferred to get it out of the way before sex, enjoying their new bond before warming back up. Some preferred the orgasmic rush that came with a claiming bite in the middle of sex. Others preferred to claim their mates while they laid together, panting and connected after being knotted.

“Not before,” Nerevar answered, his whole body still feeling warm. “I can’t… I can’t wait that long.” His body was still screaming at him to move, push the alpha on top of him down and ride him if he wasn’t going to take Nerevar already. He was squirming, antsy under Voryn’s gaze, and feeling too fucking empty again to think properly.

“Here,” Voryn whispered, pressing the head of his cock to Nerevar’s entrance. Nerevar’s breath hitched, before giving a long, drawn out moan as Voryn slid inside. “Why don’t we just see what feels right in the moment…”

“Voryn~!” Nerevar arched up, trembling slightly.

It felt good. It felt right. It occurred to him, at that moment, that this was what he’d wanted every heat. Every struggling minute of desperation, every orgasm that didn’t quite feel satisfying enough—he wanted Voryn.

Voryn threaded his fingers with Nerevar’s, pinning both of his hands to the bed as he gave a slow thrust, kissing him for all he was worth. No wonder his heats were so much more unbearable after he moved to Mournhold—he had assumed it was the heat and stress of being king, but he knew now it was his body screaming at him to return back to Voryn. To lose himself in Voryn’s embrace, just like this.

“Fuck…” Voryn groaned as he pulled away from the messy kiss. “Incredible—you feel incredible~”

Such a comment only stroked his pride, adding to the pleasure. He was making his mate feel good. He was making his mate feel just as good as he felt. It was enough to make his head spin, as every thrust quickly matched that sharp, hurried pace Voryn had set earlier with the toy.

“Claim me~” Nerevar whined, turning his head to expose his neck. Nerevar could feel it—he wanted to be claimed. Oh gods did he want to be claimed! Before he felt disgust whenever alphas glanced at his neck, trying to determine if he was a claimed omega or a beta of some kind. But now though he wanted it more than anything—

Voryn complied, moving down quickly, not letting the pace of his thrusts falter as he growled, nuzzling Nerevar’s neck. He licked and kissed, listening to every sharp whine from Nerevar that followed, before finally biting.

Nerevar’s mind went blank the second Voryn bit him, his eyes rolling back as he orgasmed.

It felt unreal—every fucking novel he read left him sorely unprepared for the pleasurable rush that hit him. It was pure bliss; every nerve in his body burning brightly from ecstasy, as Voryn growled deeply.

He was officially mated. He belonged to Voryn. He found his mate and everything felt perfect, sparks still shooting up and down his spine as Voryn pulled his teeth out, panting and growling even more harshly as his hips somehow moved faster and rougher. He could feel Voryn’s knot forming too, pumping in and out of his cunt in a way that hit his sweet spot every time.

“Tight—!” Voryn snarled. “So tight, so damn tight… Neht!”

“Knot me…” Nerevar moaned, coaxing Voryn further, feeling intoxicated from the pleasure still coursing through him. “Knot me, breed me up~” He ground his hips down at every thrust inside him, forcing Voryn to change the rhythm. Now, every thrust in he stayed a moment longer, grinding down, his knot catching on Nerevar’s entrance.

By now, Voryn had let go of Nerevar’s hands, face still buried in Nerevar’s neck as he moaned and growled into his ear. “I’m going to,“ Voryn panted. “I’m going to breed you, knot you until I know my seed takes—!” It wouldn’t, not after the potion Nerevar took, but he wasn’t thinking logically at the moment. All he was thinking about was how great it felt being fucked and bred by his mate, his alpha. “Mine! You’re all mine! Mine mine mine mine mine—!”

Finally, the knot refused to slip out. It swelled up completely, pressed firmly inside him, and Nerevar gasped as a new sensation overtook him.

He felt himself tighten even further, making Voryn moan long and loud, as the two were now firmly locked together. An orgasm hit him next, even more intense than the one from the claiming bite. If the bite was an intense, all encompassing blast of fire—like a star going supernova—this one was a drawn out burn. His mind didn’t go blank, instead forcing him to focus on the pleasure, as he felt heat inside him.

“Fuck~!!” Nerevar yelled, practically screaming, dragging his nails down Voryn’s back as his body shuddered, his cunt clenching and milking the cock still firmly sealed inside him.

He knew what it was, yet he never really experienced it, so his knowledge was only really how it would be in theory. He never let an alpha knot him, after all; even if he had to have sex for political reasons he doused himself in perfume oil to hide his pheromones and always made sure they pulled out. Supposedly an omega locking happened much more commonly in heat, tightening around the knot as they orgasmed, keeping every drop of seed in to ensure conception…

Nerevar felt another wave of the long orgasm following, a broken, garbled moan spilling from his lips as Voryn rocked his hips.

“Stop moving!” Nerevar pleaded. If he kept rocking his knot right there—right against Nerevar’s sweet spot—he was never going to stop climaxing.

“Stop cumming!” Voryn hissed back, before groaning. “Oh gods you’re milking me for every drop!” He continued the slow rocking, as Nerevar felt fuller and fuller, his vision going hazy as tears rolled down his cheeks.

“I can’t…” Nerevar whined. “Too full…” Nerevar groaned, still trembling. “It’s too much….” There was too much inside him—before he felt painfully empty, and now he felt far too full. Voryn’s cock, his knot, and every drop of seed was filling him—

Another wave of pleasure followed, as Voryn growled.

“Your body wants this so badly…” He snarled, nipping at the claiming bite he left. “Get pregnant!” He hissed, enjoying the way Nerevar’s body tightened around him once more. The command was enough to make him shudder, yet another wave of pleasure following. “Get pregnant, get pregnant!” Voryn urged with a bit more rocking, before Nerevar tugged him into another messy, open mouthed kiss.

If it wasn’t for the potion, Nerevar knew he would be. It seemed impossible for him not to conceive when it felt this good—when he was so full and not a drop spilling out of him despite Voryn’s movements…

Eventually the pleasure subsided, Voryn’s movements slowing as their kiss went from feral and intense to something slower and lazier, kissing each other over and over as Nerevar ran his hands through Voryn’s long hair.

“Fuck…” Nerevar groaned, breathlessly. “Intense…” It felt like an understatement, but that was the only word that came to mind as Voryn panted.

“Gods…” Voryn groaned. “You were… Tighter than I had expected…” He hissed, shifting slightly again, but this time just to help them lay more comfortably.

“It still feels too big…” Nerevar groaned. Now it was slightly uncomfortable, but he knew the more they did this, the more his body would adjust. To help ease his discomfort, Voryn pressed a few gentle kisses to his face, keeping himself still.

“Is it too full?” Voryn asked, and Nerevar nodded. Voryn sat up slightly, and the pressure being taken off his lower stomach was a relief, especially as Voryn caressed it.

As Nerevar looked down, he could see why: there was a slight swell in his stomach from the pressure. He groaned, already regretting the decision to have sex on his back. He knew now why omegas preferred mating face down, and that it had nothing to do with submission and instead purely comfort.

“Don’t worry,” Voryn reassured him. “Just a few minutes…” His voice trailed off as his eyes went dark, taking in the sight of Nerevar under him, panting and covered in sweat, filled with his seed. Nerevar could tell what he was thinking from the change of the scent in the air, sparks from their newly formed connection.

“Like what you see…?” Nerevar asked with a toothy, cocky grin, only to groan as he felt Voryn shift again.

“Keep acting like that and I’ll only want to take you again…” Voryn replied, his voice low. Nerevar still felt rather proud at that; his mate didn’t like a soft, demure, and submissive type of omega like he always kind of worried an alpha would demand once they mated. Instead, Voryn seemed to enjoy him earnestly, even with all of his showboating and teasing.

“Maybe you should…” Nerevar purred in response. “We can have dinner, a relaxing bath to recover…” Nerevar’s eyes were half lidded as he spoke. “And then you can fill me up all over again…”

The warm, messy kiss Voryn gave him was all the answer Nerevar needed.

#nerevoryn #nerevar #indoril nerevar #voryn dagoth #ill edit this and post it on ao3 later #curse all the citizens of the fanfic website #my writing #not sfw #i already have more curse omegaverse ideas for these idiots #like neht going into heat suddenly while still a canvasari and voryn having to protect him all the way back to kogoruhn #but i will let you all suffer with this #for now

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haruhey · 1 year

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It’s Not Enough Anymore

check out my masterlist!

Word count: 3.3k

Angst | Follows the events of Season 7, episode 1: A Day Will Come When You Won’t Be | Thank you to @belatalbotgf and @dxrylswalker for betaing

Everything that could go wrong goes wrong.

A full-throttle dive into the Negan plotline after avoiding it forever.

It wasn’t supposed to end up like this.

When you went out, the only goal in mind to get Maggie to a doctor because she looked so sick and so fucking pale, it wasn’t supposed to end up like this.

Abraham wasn't-

Gravel digs into the knees of your sweatpants, the blaring lights blinding you into deafness, and the throbbing in your head is accompanied by a scorching numbness down your cheeks. You look a mess. You feel it, too - a mess of tears, of sweat, of shaking limbs and bloodshot eyes - but everyone does. Knelt here, in front of these people, everyone you care about and have cared about is a mess.

The only ones who don’t are too familiar with the warfare hung at the tip of this asshole’s bat.

You can barely hear Sasha whimpering to your left as you watch each swing - your own sobs threatening to bubble up from your throat and rip past the quiver of your lips. The rush and deflate of adrenaline making your head feel like cotton - and even though you want to, you can’t look away. Abraham’s head is pulp battered into the ground, some of his blood running almost black against the shine of headlights as streams of it map down whatever is left of his neck, and you hate the gait of the man in front of you.

Negan twirls his bat then, too carefree and too jovial, and in a second, something hits you. It’s warm, the streak of it marking across your forehead and gathering where your eyebrows furrow, and it takes a second before you realize what it is.

It’s Abraham.

It’s his fucking blood.

You can’t even will yourself to move and wipe it off. The second Negan opens his mouth, you freeze, each neuron in your body refusing to fire as your chest tightens up again. Hands balled up against the middle of your thighs, you think you can feel your fingernails through the layer of fabric you’re clenching, Your head drops, the shock holding your eyes open finally slinking away, and fat teardrops wet your knuckles, blurring your vision.

Maybe it’s for the best, the fact you can’t see through the haze of your own torment.

But you can hear him. You can hear him move. He walks away from you, the crunch of gravel sounding with each step, and you whip your head in his direction when it stops.

No.

Rosita.

It’s frantic, the way you wipe away your tears, liquid coating the flesh of your thumb, and when they come into your view, they’re red, a sick mixture with Abraham’s blood painting wet on them. Bile rises from your stomach to replace your swallowed-down scream, and the mortified look on Rosita’s face haunts you from across the lineup.

He just took one or six or seven for the team, Negan taunts, so take a damn look.

His voice sounds like scratching, like rope burn against an open cut and the twist of a dull knife.

So take a damn look.

Then it all happens so fast; the spring of a bulky figure rising to his feet, the hard right hook he lands on Negan, and the only person you could think of with enough courage and stupidity to be that fucking headstrong is-

“Daryl-“

Your throat is dry, the length of it feeling cracked from breathing in the miserable midnight air, and his name barely even comes out above a whisper. Your body surprises you with the way it moves - an inch, maybe, your knees driving your upper body forward - but you know you can’t get to him.

Even if you could, what would you do?

It’s not the forest he knows like the back of his hand. It’s not some abandoned warehouse or apartment building you and Daryl were assigned to scavenge. It’s not digging out a bullet he took a little too close to the femoral artery. You know this. After all that’s happened, how could you not?

The two of you against the world, it just isn’t enough.

Not anymore.

But it doesn’t stop you from moving, your shoulders sitting past your knees as the skin on your palms rip from the jagged rocks on the ground. It’s stupidity that fuels you. It must be. Daryl’s misplaced courage and his overwhelming stupidity must have rubbed off on you, but you’re not as headstrong as him.

In the same way it had propelled you forward, your body stops you, freezing you rigid as Negan’s men tackle him to the ground. You hear him then, another twist of the blade as he yells his disapproval towards Daryl, but then you hear him chuckle - watch him amble in a circle and crouch down to where his people are holding Daryl down - and you’re terrified.

This is the end.

A man comes running out of the crowd then, half his face burnt and a mop of thin blond hair, and it doesn’t take long for you to realize the crossbow he’s holding is Daryl’s. You know that crossbow - you’ve held it and laughed when Daryl watched you miss the practice targets, felt the sore weight of it in your arms as you became accustomed to its draw, took it apart and cleaned it when he broke his finger tinkering with his bike - and you’ve saved his life with it more than once since the prison.

But it’s just a crossbow, no matter how much it means in your hands or Daryl’s, and the man holds it as such, pointing it at Daryl’s head as if he was an animal meant to be put down.

He looks it, swollen eyes darting around and held to the ground, a hand pulling his hair like he’s meant to be inspected.

Your blood runs cold as you watch, helpless and shrinking while Negan toys around with Daryl’s fate in his head, and the only thing you can do is hope and pray to a god you’re not sure even exists that Daryl will come out of this alive.

But then Negan says no, and it takes you aback, a relief washing over you as he gets dragged back between Rosita and Michonne, but it doesn’t last long. The second Negan starts up again - a hand on his hlp and a gesture of his bat - there’s no relief to be found anywhere.

The first one’s free, then what did I say?

It torments, his tongue, dancing along weighted syllables.

I need you to know me

You feel it crush your lungs, and it steals your ability to breathe, the implications of his words dawning on you.

He’s going to kill someone else.

He’s going to kill someone else and he’s going to make you watch.

Again.

In a split second, he turns, his back to you as he lifts his bat, and though it happens so quick, time stands still.

You hear Glenn’s skull crack on the first swing, and you physically recoil. The second one makes you sob, and you’re sure it’s not him, but the force of Negan’s swings makes it feel like the ground is shaking. You wish it was. You wish the earth would tear apart and swallow you into it whole. You wish anything would just happen so you wouldn’t have to just sit and watch and listen.

Negan taunts. All he fucking does is taunt and taunt and taunt. He laughs and patronizes and leans in close as if fascinated by the blood rushing down Glenn’s face and the eyeball popped out of his socket. He plasters on fake concern, a fake apology lining his lips as if he felt any semblance of actual remorse for his actions while Glenn gathers the last bit of coherence he can to talk to Maggie, but he can’t fool anyone.

Each time he brings his bat down, it’s an ever-present ringing in your ear. Again, again and again - laughing, laughing and laughing.

You can’t be here.

It feels like a nightmare, but each time you breathe, you can feel a breeze on your wrist, the arms propping you up falling and surrendering your weight to your forearms instead. No matter how much you try to convince yourself this isn’t real, each broken puff of air reminds you it is.

So you close your eyes.

You rest your forehead on your stubborn wrist and close your eyes and hope that if you just blinked hard enough, you’d wake up. That this, this would stop.

It doesn’t. It doesn’t stop because it’s not how reality works.

But he does. Eventually, when his arms tire and there’s nothing left that you can recognize as Glenn, Negan stops, his voice straightening you back into a sit.

You were supposed to watch, and you’re terrified of what would happen if he had caught you.

Even after he stops, reprieve doesn’t come. The smell of metal lingers in the air, stinging your nose and making your skin crawl, and the only thing you can hear are the sobs ripping through Maggie’s throat. It’s muffled at first, the water you’d felt like you were under ebbing away, your brain returning to you as if it had shut off to keep you from even conceptualizing what you’d just seen, but its efforts can’t stop you from replaying every single goddamn thing.

Time drags on forever, drawing the sun up from under the horizon and painting a haze of fog over the trees, and exhaustion pulls at you. You’re in a limbo, teetering on the edge of fatigue and anxiety-induced restlessness. Your arms have long since forced themselves into a rest - somewhere between Rick getting into that RV and the overwhelming waves of nausea - but you’d long since given up on trying to control your body.

It’s your head that you need to control.

Because you keep seeing Negan’s first swing - keep seeing Abraham brace for it - and you can feel his blood on your forehead.

Then it’s Glenn, the crack of his skull and the twitch of his lifeless body.

Then it’s everyone.

You watch it happen to Rick, to Michonne. You watch it happen to Eugene, to Sasha, to Aaron and to Carl. It’s so vivid behind your eyelids that you’re not even sure what’s real anymore. You want to scream into the gravel just to feel the raw tear of it at your throat, but you can’t find the power to do it. You’re not even sure you can lift your neck from the way it falls limp toward your chest.

Steadying your breath, you clench your fingers to force blood to return to them as you hear the engine run closer, and you pull your arms up from underneath you, lifting your head. Your breath is trapped in your lungs as you watch the RV roll in, your gaze passing brain matter and guts before it’s stuck on the front door. Rick’s been gone for hours by now, and you’re not sure if he’s even still in there.

The door swings open then, slamming against the side of the truck before Rick’s thrown out of it. You swallow hard at the way he hits the ground, shoulder first and dazed in a way that you can’t find any words to describe. Negan comes soon after, a nonchalance in his swagger before he picks Rick up by the collar, and the way he drags him across the gravel punches up into your chest.

Rick’s struggling to keep up - to find his bearings - but he never does, palms breaking against the ground for some semblance of balance and a panicked look on his face. He lands that way too, on shaking knees while Negan spews another monologue, the same twist, twist, twist of that dull knife returning to you.

You’re not sure you’ve ever seen Rick like this - this defeated.

There was always a drive in him to accomplish. He needed it to continue. It drove everything he’s ever done to show Carl that there was a whole future out there that was possible, but that drive in him is slowing, almost speeding to a stop.

He’s weak on his arms as his eyes dart around him, all of you listening as Negan just keeps talking and talking and talking. You hate the sound of his voice, but you find yourself wishing that it was all he would do. If he just talked then he wouldn’t be able to really do anything.

It’s all hope, though. All useless hope because it doesn’t take long for him to gesture with a gloved hand and for a cacophony of subservient triggers to sound behind you. You can feel cold metal lingering just an inch from the back of your head, and you bite your lip until it bleeds when Negan calls Carl up.

Michonne tries. Even through her tracks of tears and her quivering voice, she tries to reason with Negan, but nothing gets through to him. Rick knows already. Rick understands - probably better than anyone, you want to scream it out to him - but you know it won’t do anything. So you keep your mouth shut and fight the pool at the corner of your eyes as you avert your gaze for your own safety, the hopelessness in you churning and churning into something more explosive.

Nothing messy, clean, 45 degrees. Give us something to fold over.

God, does he ever just fucking shut up?

Rick’s begging easily cuts through your thoughts, crying and pleading for it to be him - for it to be him and please not Carl - but Negan berates him, screaming and yelling so loud it sends you into yourself, flinching away and trying to get as far from them as possible. Your head knocks against the gun behind you and there’s a forceful push to your head to get it back to where it was, and the air around you sears your lungs as he counts down.

It’s some sick game for him, you know it is, and all you want is for it to be over.

Metal slides against rock a few beats after Negan’s one, and though you’re not even looking in Rick and Carl’s direction, you squeeze your eyes shut, waiting for the squelch of sliding flesh and the sharp thunk of it meeting bone.

It never comes, though.

Thank God it never comes, but when you look back, there’s nothing in Rick’s eyes. As Negan yells at him and chastises him, there’s nothing but surrender and yielding. The drive is gone, replaced by an all-consuming fear of what’s next, and your stomach is unrelenting in the knots it twists.

All you can do is hope that it’s over - that you’ll be able to carry Abraham and Glenn back to Alexandria and give them a proper burial - but, there’s an odd feeling within you. While Rick’s fire is gone, yours is sparking, kindling alight. You’re exhausted, the fatigue weaving into your joints and the fibers of your muscles, but something swims volatile within it, too.

Maybe it’s anger, maybe it’s determination and fury and resentment mixing together and settling in the night that’s passed. You’re not sure. All you know is that it’s consuming you, burning away at your numbness and your hopelessness.

It powers you enough to finally lift your eyes and drag them over everyone else. They look the same way you do, tracks down their cheeks and shoulders slumped, empty eyes and shaking breaths, and you can’t even bring yourself to look at Maggie. You can hear the way her sobs linger in her throat, and even if you try to force a glance, you’re scared you’ve cried all your tears and something inhumane will come up instead.

Please, just let this be over.

And it almost is. God fucking damn it, it almost is, but nothing good’s happened today.

Why would it change now?

Why would you hold on to that idiotic idea?

Negan calls a name then, a familiar one - the burn stamped to his flesh flushing up the memory of the crossbow pointed at Daryl’s head - and just as his arms loop underneath Daryl’s, the streak of red down his open chest blurs in your vision.

No. No, he can’t-

Despite everything - despite your shaking legs and your burning lungs - you lunge for Daryl as he kicks at the ground in a frantic attempt to secure his footing. Blood still lingers on your palms from the last time your body acted before your brain, and you realize, no, this is the stupidity. This is that dangerous mix of Daryl that you must have picked up, but it’s not just him. It’s also desperation.

Desperation not to lose him. Desperation not to feel alone again.

No, no, no - they took Abraham, they took Glenn - you’re not sure if you could handle-

“Daryl!”

There’s a grab of your shoulder then, pulling back with such force that it knocks you down to your side, a kick to your rib rattling through your torso, and you don’t have the energy to fight the pain searing through you. They’re too strong and you’re too drained, thick soles of hiking shoes and steel-toed boots digging hard against your bones, and the ground’s sharp rocks indent your skin as if to humiliate you further.

“No! Get off’a-”

They hold you down by the hem of your shirt and by the collar of your jacket as Daryl yells, his shoulders jolting against the hands on him with the same desperation yours are. He’s never had someone like you - everything that was good and could still be good, he believed in them because, even though he fought it, your stupid smile twisted his pessimism and tore it into hope - and he can’t be the reason you’re gone too.

It’s barely a scuffle - it takes no time for the two of you to be overpowered, both of you held in clammy, trigger-happy hands - and you watch from the ground as Daryl’s thrown into the car, hunched over and shifting on his feet as if waiting for an opening.

It never comes. His crossbow is pointed almost mockingly at him, and when the doors pull shut, there’s no proof he was ever there except the ground where he was knelt. The pebbles that once lied even now piled up around the clearing his knees had made.

They don’t let you up until Negan’s done talking, something about liking Daryl and how Rick shouldn’t try anything unless he wanted him back in pieces taunting you in the back of your mind. When they finally let you go, they look down at you with nothing but duty in their eyes - an upturn of disgust on their lips - and there’s no remorse to be found anywhere on their faces.

To them, you’ll never be anything more than a nuisance. Nobody here could be, Negan made sure of it. You could barely even be considered a threat in the state you’re in, your cheeks stained with dried tracks and your hair streaking down your forehead from cold sweat. No, to them, you’re a chore.

They look at you and can smell the hopelessness permeating your body and swimming through your veins if they even cared to linger for more than a fleeting glance, but after they load back into the trucks and peel out, leaving you to pick up each piece of yourself and wipe away the haze of tears and bruises and blood with your trembling hands, something new settles within you.

Finally, anger comes, rooting deep in your chest. It burns through your blood and shakes each breath.

They took Abraham - they took Glenn - there’s no way in hell you’ll let them take Daryl, too.

#haruwrites #daryl dixon #daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon the walking dead #daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl dixon oneshot #daryl dixon imagine #daryl dixon angst #the walking dead fanfiction #the walking dead daryl dixon #daryl dixon x you #the walking dead oneshot #twd

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mhathotfic · 3 months

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Help, my mom discovered omegaverse fiction and now I’m plagued with this knowledge. Worse she knows I write smut and is insistent that I let her read more of my work.

Funny side note though, she seems to think my headstrong attitude makes more an Alpha if she were to assign me a dynamic and considers herself more of a Beta. Make of that what you will.

#I told I think I’m more an omega and even nest like one #but she insists I’m too ‘take charge’ for that #I think I need to introduce her to different reading material with more rounded omega characters because she seems to think meek = omega

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silver-embersss · 24 days

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This is actually the first oneshot in my Google doc and it was NOT beta read, so, have fun?

Weep, Little Lion Man

Ray had always considered himself good with children. Sure, he thought most of them were inconsiderate yuppies, but he had the talent of being able to ignore that in favour of the few kids that he actually liked.

So when Rookie called one July afternoon (the 5th, as it was every other month), a dark-haired, dark-eyed toddler in the crook of his arm, Ray made the appropriate cooing noises and tried to ignore the screaming voice in the back of his head that yelled 'SINCE WHEN DID ROOKIE HAVE A KID?!' over and over again. When they called again in September, and Rookie had to step away because of the screaming in the background, Ray suggested he set the kid down in front of the camera and take a nap, while Ray dealt with the toddler. Within five minutes, Rookie was conked out on the sofa and the kid was giggling along with him as he read one of the sillier folk tales from his books.

When their calls went from every other month to every other year, Ray mourned the loss of that bright, giggly minx. He watched Rookie's kid go from a happy toddler to a pensive, brooding child, who Knew things he shouldn't, as much as Rookie tried to shelter him from it. Often, the child would sit cross-legged in front of the camera, silent until his father left the room, where he would whisper to Ray about the things he saw and felt, about the children at school, and what they did behind his back. Ray would nod and hum sympathetically and hold back the urge to make the child tell his dad.

One year, Ray was so caught up in his bookshop, busying himself to drown out his thoughts, that he missed Rookie's call. The next year, Rookie didn't bother, so Ray didn't either.

And then, one July afternoon some years later, a dark-haired, dark-eyed almost-man showed up at his bookstore, and Ray thanked whatever deities were out there for his second chance. The thoughtful, brooding child was so close to being an anxious, headstrong man, but as Ray gathered him close, tears soaking his cardigan, all he could see was that little boy sobbing in his father's arms after a 'nightmare', and he also thanked those same deities that he was as good with children as he was. Who else would be there for the kid if not him?

(And if he, too, cried when Pheo called him 'Uncle Ray' for the first time in 10 years, then that was his business, and his alone.)

#little lion man (pheo)#ember writes #ghostbusters #ghostbusters oc #ghostbusters sona #ghostbusters spirits unleashed #ghostbusters rookie #ray stantz #claircognizance #ghostbusters tvg #ghostbusters afterlife

7 notes · View notes

pjohoo-reclists · 8 months

Text

Percy Jackson/Rachel Elizabeth Dare Fic Recs

insomniacs plus skatepark dates by blackpercy

G | 200 words | Complete

Percy Jackson/Rachel Elizabeth Dare, Percy Jackson & Rachel Elizabeth Dare

it's a date at a skatepark. but it's 2 am. and they're best friends.

I’d Stay In Your Arms Forever If I Could by robindrake93

T | 500 words | Complete

Percy Jackson/Rachel Elizabeth Dare

Fluff, Light Angst, Implied Sexual Content

Rachel and Percy spend the night in Paul’s car.

Not Your Missing Half by lyssq

G | 700 words | Complete

Percy Jackson/Rachel Elizabeth Dare, Percy Jackson & Annabeth Chase

Alternate Universe, Soulmates, Soul Identifying Marks

Despite the summer heat, Percy Jackson was wearing a hoodie over his camp t-shirt. Rachel Elizabeth Dare was the only one who knew why.

obligatory underwater kiss by newrome

G | 700 words | Complete

Percy Jackson/Rachel Elizabeth Dare

Underwater kiss, Camp Half Blood, Canon Universe

it's an obligatory underwater perachel kiss, exactly what it says

at least the moon is the same for both of us by lilllac

G | 900 words | Complete

Percy Jackson/Rachel Elizabeth Dare, Percy Jackson & Rachel Elizabeth Dare

Fluff, Romantic Friendship, they're both troublemakers and I love them

Rachel was a reminder that there was a good reason - a mortal as well as a divine one - to still be giving so much of himself in that war, even though Percy sometimes felt that he was handing over more parts of his soul than he would have remaining, in the end. (could be read as either platonic or romantic, it's up to you).

it's a demigod thing by newrome

G | 1.2k | Complete

Percy Jackson/Rachel Elizabeth Dare

Canon Compliant, Goode High School, Post The Battle of the Labyrinth

“Imagine being some normal kid in Roberts’ Pre-Calc class and looking at the Percy Jackson and not knowing he’s some superhero who bends spit.” “Don’t forget toilets,” I joked. “That’s my specialty.”

You’re gonna hear me roar by voices_in_my_head

G | 1.3k | Complete

Percy Jackson/Rachel Elizabeth Dare

First Kiss, Book 5: The Last Olympian

"“I’m sorry, that was stupid of me. You don’t have to kiss me if you don’t want to, of course,” Rachel was babbling. (...) “No, I want to,” he interrupted her, not even sure what she had been saying but to be fair, he thought that Rachel herself didn’t know anymore what she’d been going on about, just trying to fill the silence with words." Set during the beginning of "The Last Olympian." What if Beckendorf had arrived a few minutes later to take Percy to war?

Broken Nose by robindrake93

T | 1.6k | Complete

Percy Jackson/Rachel Elizabeth Dare

Percy Jackson has Nightmares, Sharing a Bed, Established Relationship

Percy has nightmares that make him lash out in his sleep.

and i know that we're headstrong, and our heart's gone, and the timing's never right by shayvanburen

T | 1.6k | Complete

Percy Jackson/Rachel Elizabeth Dare

Alternate Universe - College/University, Art Galleries, Canon Divergence

five years after his fight with kronos, percy bumps into rachel one wintry day in new york.

Cover Up by robindrake93

T | 1.7k | Complete

Percy Jackson/Rachel Elizabeth Dare

Tattoo Artist Rachel Elizabeth Dare, Established Relationship, Future Fic

Percy asks Rachel to cover up his SPQR tattoo. Rachel agrees.

Red and Blue Make Violet by Takara_Phoenix

T | 2.0k | Complete

Percy Jackson/Annabeth Chase

Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Family Fluff, Future Fic

After the wars, Rachel passed the spirit of the oracle on, because she had only taken it to help. Now, she wants other things in life. Ten years later and she has everything she ever wanted.

Paper & Trust by robindrake93

T | 2.0k | Complete

Percy Jackson/Rachel Elizabeth Dare

Future Fic, Romantic Fluff, Falling in Love

Rachel and Percy have always been in love.

A harbor from my storm by dcninja

G | 2.0k | Complete

Percy Jackson & Rachel Elizabeth Dare, Percy Jackson/Rachel Elizabeth Dare

Friendship/Love, Slow burn, Percy Jackson Needs a Hug

At some point he realizes it’s something he’s always done, from the first moment he met her at Hoover Dam. He uses Rachel’s mortality and the clarity of her sight as a shield from the world he lives in, from all the gods and monsters and prophesies that try to do him harm.

Lighting Candles by robindrake93

T | 2.1k | Complete

Percy Jackson/Rachel Elizabeth Dare

Romantic Fluff, Established Relationship, Kissing

Percy goes to Rachel's cave and they make candles together to liven the place up.

It's a Goode Reunion by Kingdom_Melody

T | 2.1k | Complete

Percy Jackson/Rachel Elizabeth Dare

High School Reunion, Post The Trials of Apollo, Percy is Old

Percy and Rachel return to Goode High School for their year's 10 year reunion. Where they run into some old "Friends"

send me your location. by LovelyVerisimilitude

T | 2.2k | Complete

Percy Jackson/Rachel Elizabeth Dare

Established Relationship, Arguing, Long Distance Relationship, Fluff

“I think we need to talk,” Rachel says, unhurried. “About the other day.” Percy’s grip stiffens, and his throat almost closes up when he says, “What’s there to talk about?” “I just feel like―like we’re drifting apart.” She turns to him, her mouth physically frowning, her brows crinkled in concentration. “And I hate that.” (MODERN AU ― Rachel’s been away, Percy’s been stuck at home, and somehow, neither of them seem to get along like they used to.)

Look Out To The Horizon (To Infinity) by ashilrak

T | 3.0k | Complete

Percy Jackson/Rachel Elizabeth Dare

Deity Percy Jackson, Established Relationship, Bittersweet

“Apollo’s watching us, me, you,” Rachel said, seemingly out of nowhere. “Keep an eye out on him.” He blinked, confused. “What’s that got to do with anything?” “You’ll see.” Her smile was sad. “But he’ll be with us along the way, and you need to be prepared for that.” Of course he would be. Apollo was close to the Oracle of Delphi. As far as Percy knew, that’d been true for much of history, though the relationship took different forms. Rachel was different though, someone Apollo considered something of a friend. “I love you,” she said. “Don’t ever forget that.” — Or: Percy lives as a new God, never leaving Rachel's side. As the years go by, Rachel grows older and Percy, well, doesn't. Percy deals with what it means to love a mortal and Demigod dreams that never went away. Apollo waits.

#percy jackson #percy jackson and the olympians #pjo #ao3 #rec list #rick riodan #rrverse #heroes of olympus #hoo #rachel elizabeth dare #percy x rachel #percy jackson x rachel elizabeth dare #perachel #apollo #oracle #percy & rachel

18 notes · View notes

chanelslibrary · 1 year

Text

Perceiving You - Prologue

Pairing: Chris Evans/Reader

Word Count: 4,576

Warning: Mention of weed, mention of alcohol [rating will go up with later chapters!]

Summary: You had always been overlooked and labeled an Outcast. That didn’t stop you from being hyperaware of the Popular Jock Chris Evans, and secretly harboring a crush on him while navigating high school with your best friends Pete and Crystal. Seventeen years later, you have to wonder is it coincidence that Pete, Crystal and Chris show up in your life again around the exact same time?

You’re older, wiser, and definitely more stubborn nowadays, so is it just another twist of fate when you suddenly start getting mysterious and threatening letters in the mail, or will your headstrong nature push away the Hollywood heartthrob that is back in your life and finally noticing you.

Authors Note: This is my first fanfic (sorry its so rough!), but I am looking for betas if anyone is interested. Please message me, and thanks for reading. Hitting like and reblog means a lot! AO3 Chapter 1

Credits: dividers @firefly-graphics

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・

Flashback

September 1998, Senior Year

“TOUCHDOWN FOR EVANS!!! THE WARRIORS WIN!”

The crowd in the stands next to you erupts, and the shadows from the bleachers fall over Crystal’s austere face. All you can see is the orange tip of what could be, but isn’t, a cigarette in her mouth. You can hardly hear Pete’s sigh and defeated words.

“Guess that’s it folks.”

Crystal whines and and offers you a hit off the joint her and Pete have been passing back and forth the entire game. You decline with a shake of your head as the band and cheerleaders ramp up their end of the game celebration on the football field. Crystal stomps out the joint before a passersby could see your illicit activity.

“Oh, come on guys! It’s not like you were enjoying the game anyway,” You say, trying to cheer them up.

“Yeah, but I was just getting my high going!” Crystal fires back with glazed eyes that contradict her words.

“Hey, Schlozinger!”

Pete, you and Crystal, turn to see a tall boy with brown skin, white teeth, and a blue and red letterman jacket yelling from the main entrance into the stadium. Swarms of students are walking past him cheering and heading towards the parking lot, but he stands tall–like a pebble caught in a rushing stream. Pete nods to the boy as acknowledgement.

“You coming to Parker’s party?!”

“Eh…?” Pete looks at you, clueless. You had driven everyone to the game tonight.

The boy continues… “Everyone’s celebrating man! Come to Parker’s crib!”

“Uh, can I bring friends?” Pete asks.

“Yeah, man!” The boy smiles then turns to his friends, two other boys who have joined him in the crowd wearing basketball jerseys and they walk off together.

Pete turns back to your and Crystal’s expectant gazes with a sheepish smile.

“So, want to go to Parkers?”

Crystal beats you to the punch.

“Who is Parker? And why did Cory Jameson invite you to a party?!”

Cory Jameson. That’s who Letterman Jacket was. You knew you recognized the starting basketball player, not from going to the games or anything, but from seeing him and all the other Jocks in the hallways.

“Parker. Justin Parker?! The starting quarterback!! How do you not know who he is? Doesn’t matter. We’ve just been invited to a football party. It’s gonna be all that and a bag of chips!” Pete exclaimed, looking so excited.

“Correction: YOU were invited. WE weren’t. Also please, stop with the chips comment,” Crystal implored.

“Pete, how do you know Cory Jameson enough that he invited you to a party?” You asked.

You were so confused. The reason your little group worked so well was because Pete, Crystal and you were similar, all loners and outcasts within your high school. This is what made you all bond. Pete making friends with Jocks like Cory Jameson and Justin Parker changed things. You didn’t want to begrudge him friendship—that is how you guys ended up forming your own group, by not having friends in the first place—but what would happen to your group if one of you became popular? This was a question you constantly thought about, not in any real capacity, more in an abstract way. Because one of the deepest secrets that you had not told anyone, not even your two best friends, was that you had the biggest crush on Certified Jock, star of the football team, and most popular guy in the school, Chris Evans.

“Well, I’ve been helping to tutor some of the guys on the basketball team after school.” After seeing Crystal’s confused look he elaborated.“Mr. Moore asked me if I could help a few guys because they were struggling in their science classes, and I said yes. And it turns out they are pretty cool,” He finished with a shrug. “I know you guys would like them if you hung out with them. Can we go? Please!” He begged looking at Crystal.

“Why are you begging me?! She’s the one with the car,” Crystal pointed at you.

Pete turned his pleading eyes to you. You felt trapped, and pressured.

Did you want to go to a loud, chaotic party with Jocks, Cheerleaders, and Popular People? No. Did you want to let down one of your best friends? No. Did you want a chance to see Chris Evans? No. (Yes.) Did you need alcohol to make it through the night? Yes.

You swallowed. “Okay, let’s go.”

“YES!” Pete fist pumped, and we moved toward the claustrophobic crowd of students headed towards the stadium gates.

Justin Parker was rich. Like we-have-tons-of-ugly-but-expensive-art rich. By the time you pulled up to the modern mansion that bordered West Concord the party was in full swing. Pete led the way past the glass front door which was unlocked, and you were instantly assaulted with the opening beat of “Too Close” by Next. Pete started looking around, past the gyrating bodies in the foyer, for friendly faces. Crystal’s face screwed up in detest.

“I need alcohol! My high is wearing off!” She yelled in your ear over the beat. You nodded, and motioned to Pete that you were headed to the kitchen in search of drinks. He had just spotted what you assumed was a Jock based on the bright red Lincoln-Sudbury Regional High School jersey they were wearing, and took off towards him. Crystal and you navigated through clusters of classmates in the once roomy, now stuffy living room, towards where you thought the kitchen would be. You passed through an archway into a formal dining room, where the table was being used for beer pong, and dodged flying ping pong balls as you exited through a side entryway.

“Finally!” Crystal yelled when you made it into the spacious kitchen. People were scattered throughout the kitchen, taking shots on the large island, digging through the pantry in the back, and in the center of the room, near the sink was Mr. Quarterback, Justin Parker, surrounded by Popular People holding court. He had a red solo cup in one hand and his arm around a Blonde Cheerleader. You had never bothered to learn most of the Popular People’s names, Chris excluded, and the girl hanging on Justin cackling at his jokes, overly make upped face screwed up in glee, just further proved why you never would. Crystal and you shared an annoyed look as you headed toward the counter where all the liquor bottles and cups were. While she mixed a concoction together you discreetly looked around the room for a familiar face. Possibly trying to see another Popular Person that happened to play on the football team. Crystal nudged your elbow. Your drink was ready.

“What is it?” You looked into the dark liquid in the cup.

“Just try it!” Crystal pushes the cup towards your mouth, while she takes a sip from her own cup. You take a sip. It’s strong! But the coke flavor helps to drown out the burning of the liquor.

Did she give you rum?

You take another swig and smile at Crystal. She smiles back.

“Let’s go find Pete!”

Fifteen minutes later, you guys find Pete in the fully furnished, walk out basement playing air hockey with some of the football team. He doesn’t see you past the large crowd surrounding the table. When you walk up and crane over heads to see the action, Pete assists Big Popular Jock–a burly guy with shaggy brown hair that keeps falling into his face, and a few pimples on his forehead—with a goal, and all the Jocks and Popular Girls surrounding the table explode into cheers, clapping Pete on the back.

“Well, that isn’t a sight you see everyday!” Crystal murmurs with a shake of her head. She’s not used to seeing Pete surrounded by Popular People either. He’s the 6 '4, slightly pudgy guy with glasses who always tries to make himself smaller by curling his shoulders inward to avoid scaring people with his height and stature. Or the guy who lights up when he sits at the abandoned lunch table in the back of the cafeteria with you, talking your ears off about the latest computer software he downloaded. No one would let you guys sit at their tables the first week of classes freshman year, so somehow you all found yourselves at what you call “The Slab”. It’s just a lopsided lunch table around the corner from the rest of the cafeteria, but it gives you the illusion of privacy and superiority.

“Let’s just go get another drink and wait until he’s finished. It looks like he’s having fun,” You say while tugging her arm. You pulled Crystal further into the basement seeing the familiar faces of classmates, but even with the effects of the rum starting to flow through your system the feeling of Other still followed you around. You were used to it at school, that was part of why Crystal, Pete and you became such fast friends that first day freshman year at that lunch table. You guys spotted that you were all Others in the Jungle of Jocks, Cheerleaders, Populars, Goths, Druggies, Band Geeks, Theater Kids, Anime Club, Nerds, Artsy Kids, and Floaters. But it was bizarre that the imprint of that identity was still on you in the world outside of Lincoln-Sudbury Regional High. You needed another drink.

The two of you weaved in between bodies towards a bar/kitchen where more alcohol was being passed around. Crystal pushed her way past a Goth couple standing in the entrance to the bar area playing a game of hockey of their own, but with tongues. You followed, while she headed straight for the refrigerator. 2Pac started singing about California, and you nodded your head to the beat as you turned to look at the rest of the room over the bar, and immediately noticed him. You stiffened. Chris was in the family room leaning against the back of a couch talking to a Jock. He looked cute? relaxed? happy? like he belonged. He had a lazy smile on his face while he listened to Jock gesture and ramble–probably about the final seconds of the game–and in his right hand was a Solo cup he periodically took sips out of. You would have been content to just stare at him like that if it wasn’t for the Brunette Cheerleader on his left who was clinging to him figuratively and literally. The front of his red LSR Football shirt was clutched in her bright pink manicured hand, and she kept trying, unsuccessfully, to get Chris’ attention by interrupting Jock’s story to bring the spotlight back on her. Your face must have shown your disgust because Crystal's face popped into your line of sight.

“What’s got you looking so sour?” She says as she hands you a Bud Light can. You take it and shake your head. She turns her head to look at where you were staring. “Oh! The Populars?! Forget about them. Come on, I thought I saw a game room back this way.” Crystal grabs your hand and heads toward the other entry of the kitchen. You follow, but not without a backwards glance. Jock is gone, and Brunette Cheerleader is standing in front of Chris trying to talk to him, but he’s ignoring her looking around. His blue eyes catch yours for one second, then Crystal grabs your arm and pulls you around a corner.

Justin Parker’s game room was the size of your bedroom. After you both walked in and closed the door to a blaring Semi-Charmed Life, Crystal looked around in amazement. To be honest, you were impressed too. The Parker’s had two televisions with what looked like multiple gaming systems–those were not your forte– a modern IKEA desk and chair in one corner of the room, on top of the desk was a state-of-the-art blue IMac computer, a black leather couch and matching recliner sat in front of the T.V.s, and a gray bean bag chair was positioned in another corner of the room. Crystal darted towards the gaming systems calling out names which would probably mean more to Pete. “Nintendo 64! Sega Dreamcast! AND PLAYSTATION!”

You went and plopped down on the bean bag, replaying the last minute in your mind, while Crystal booted up a game. As you steadily sipped on your beer, you wondered what would have happened if Crystal hadn't dragged you away. Would you have turned around? Talked to him? Punched Brunette Cheerleader in her big nose? Who's to say. It wasn’t like you had a chance with Chris—him being Mr. Popular, Captain and Wide Receiver on the football team, boy-next-door handsome, charming, and the lead in almost all the school plays! The guy could be a Jock and crossover into Theater Kid and not get bullied. He defied high school laws. But that’s probably why all the girls wanted him. He was “sensitive” or “passionate” or whatever bullshit he spewed to get girls to sleep with him.

Had you mentioned you weren’t happy you had a crush on him?

Your stupid heart and brain just had to have a soft spot for the Chris Evans. The first incident that made you start to look at Chris differently happened in the fall of Sophomore year. By that point Pete, Crystal and you had already bonded over your uneven table and knew your place in the high school Jungle. A new kid had moved in next door to you named Collin, a Nerd if you ever saw one. He was short, red headed, with acne covering his whole face, and you felt for the guy. You tried being nice and made some small talk with him on the bus to school, but he was so shy it felt like pulling teeth. You vowed then to look out for him as much as you could, and spread the word to Crystal and Pete for them to do the same. Pete earnestly agreed, and Crystal rolled her heavily charcoaled eyes and begrudgingly accepted. They both knew there was only so much you guys, as Others, could do in the Jungle. One day in late October, it had just snowed—which wasn’t uncommon in Boston in fall—but this day it was warmer, slowly melting the last few patches of ice and snow that lingered on the high school parking lot. You were walking across campus leaving European History, your last class of the day, being swallowed up by the student body exiting Building B–the middle of the three buildings that make up LSR high—when you saw Collin alone 20 yards ahead in the parking lot, walking towards your bus stop at the end of the lot. Before you could try to catch up with him, a group of Jocks walked out of Building C, the southernmost building, heading towards the football field and they caught up with Collin first. The group of four guys yelling startled Collin and he must have slipped on a patch of ice that was along the edge of the lot, because next thing you know Collin was flat on the ground, and books were sprawled everywhere. Jock #1, who you found out later was another Wide Receiver named Anthony Fieldstone, led the group in laughing at Collin and saying what you could only assume were mean remarks (you were still too far away, fighting your way through students walking across campus, to hear). Jock #2 and Jock #3 laughed along and even pointed when Collin tried getting up and slipped again. But it was Jock #4 (later identified as Chris Evans) who had laughed at first, but after seeing Collin continue to struggle turned to his friends and said something. Anthony ignored Chris, and went over to Collin and pushed him down and kicked one of his textbooks into a puddle, turning to Jocks #2 and #3 for reactions. By this point you were within 10 feet of them, and heard Chris this time.

“Guys, stop! Just leave him alone,” He muttered, while their laughs increased. Then you saw Chris turn his head, look at the ground with his brows furrowed, and a look of determination came onto his face. By now, you were within 5 feet of Collin, who had gathered all of his books and was sporting what looked like two bloody knees through his jeans, and fresh tear tracks down his pale face. Chris took a step towards his friends and made a comical, slip-on-a-banana-peel fall on his back. This immediately got the Jock’s attention. They started roaring with laughs.

“Evans, you’re just as clumsy as Red here!”

“Oh snap!”

“Yeah, yeah. You guys gonna help me up here?” Chris gave a sheepish smile and held out his hands. You had arrived at the scene and caught Collin’s eye.

“Collin! Are you okay?” You asked, as you gave him a once over and looked around for any books he might have missed on the ground.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” He sniffled. You put your arm around him while he clutched what seemed like at least five textbooks.

Does he always walk around with his entire locker?!

By the time you turned to walk away, Chris had been helped up by the Jocks, and now they were distracted with teasing him and each other, and were headed towards the football field. You turned Collin toward the direction of the bus stop, but not before taking another look at where Chris had fallen. There was no ice there, no snow, nothing. Being on the Varsity Football team as a Sophomore meant he definitely wasn’t clumsy enough to trip over his own feet, which meant he had faked his fall.

Why? To take the spotlight off of Collin? To stop his asshole friends from bullying another kid? To be nice? Why would Popular Chris Evans need to be kind to Nerd Collin Peery?

You didn’t find the answers to those questions that day, but for the rest of that school year you started observing Chris Evans. Discreetly of course, Crystal and Pete would have wondered why you suddenly had an obsession with a Popular Person. You noticed that although at first glance he seemed like a regular Jock, (he made the Varsity Football team his Sophomore year and would later become Captain his Junior and Senior years), he actually defied stereotypes when Sophomore year he tried out for the spring production of Run for Your Wife and got the lead part of John Smith over most of the upper class guys. The charming, British accent he put on for that role, and how he effortlessly hit his every cue and jokes endeared him to the audience—at least that's what you assumed happened on opening night since you didn’t actually go and see him—but you were certainly captivated listening, hidden in the upper rafters of Kirshner Auditorium Tuesdays and Thursdays that spring while you waited for your older brother to finish Track practice.

He also volunteered. And not just the forced community volunteering all the Jocks had to do for their team, but he did it in his spare time. You found out at the start of summer between Sophomore and Junior year. Crystal’s family dog, Lester, had just died and she was extremely devastated. Her mom told her getting a new one might help ease her pain, so you suggested she look at the Pound. That is how the two of you found yourselves leaving the Buddy Dog Humane Society on a Saturday, with a black Lab/Border Collie mix named Mabel, and as you were checking out, and getting final forms for Mabel, you noticed from the corner of your eye a teenage boy hauling a couple of trash bags down a long hallway toward an exit. Your parents had been hounding you to get a job the past few months, and the idea of extra work didn’t sound too terrible if you were able to hang out with cute dogs. So you asked gray haired Sharon, the nice lady helping you, if you could apply for a job there even if you hadn’t turned 16 yet. She told you the Shelter didn’t hire anyone under 21, and she must have seen the confusion on your face when you glanced at where the teenage boy had just exited. “Oh! That’s Chris. He volunteers here on the weekends. You’re more than welcome to volunteer! We could always use an extra hand around here. Let me get you a form,” She stated as she walked away. It didn’t click in your head that she meant Chris Evans until you and Crystal were walking down the sidewalk a couple minutes later—Crystal cooing at Mabel while she steered her toward the backseat of her black 1990 Acura Legend—when you saw him dumping more trash bags into a giant industrial trash bin on the side of the building. His dark blue t-shirt had ridden up, and you must have been staring too long because Crystal called your name through the window of her car to get in, and Chris looked up to lock eyes with you. He gave you a slight smile as he pulled down his Humane Society shirt over his khaki shorts. Your eyes widened as if you had been caught in a salacious act (was checking out a Jock salacious?), and your heart started racing, so you did the most logical thing and abruptly turned and dove into the front seat of Crystal’s car. On the drive back to Crystal’s place you made a mental note: Chris Evans volunteers to help puppies and has nice abs.

There were also other small things you noted about him throughout your Sophomore and into your Junior and Senior years, such as how he would treat people in the classes you shared with him. Instead of ignoring or outright bullying kids who were overweight, gay, or nerdy he would talk to them when he was sitting next to them in class or if they were doing a project together, and after play practice he would socialize with the crew working behind the scenes, and the actors who were stand ins and extras.

So…what? He’s not an asshole, unlike the rest of his Jock friends. That doesn’t mean he’s an amazing guy—it just means he’s not an asshole—and now you have gone and developed a stupid crush on the guy!

Why does your inner cynic sound eerily like Crystal?

This is why you had to keep your crush a secret. Because Crystal, or even Pete, couldn’t fathom why you would like a Popular guy like Chris. Although maybe Pete wouldn’t be so judgmental based on how comfortable he looked with the Jocks earlier…

“What are you daydreaming about over there?” Crystal’s voice snaps you back to reality.

“I wasn’t daydreaming!” You protest, as you notice you had emptied your beer can while you sat reminiscing. Your head feels light and fuzzy. “Sure, you weren’t. Come over here and play Smash Bros with me!” She insists while her fingers fly over the controller.

“Nah, I’m good over here,” you stated and slumped further into the bean bag and closed your eyes, trying to get comfy. Your limbs start to feel loose the longer you sit, and apparently so does your mouth as you say, “What do you think of Chris Evans?”

Crystal doesn’t stop playing as she asks absentmindedly, “The star of the football team?”

“Yeah,” You confirm.

“He’s a meathead Jock. What of it?” She responds over the sound of her game.

“Doesn’t he have pretty blue eyes?” you asked dreamily, thinking about your eye lock with him minutes before. It took you a minute or two to realize that the sound of buttons clicking had stopped, and Crystal was being extremely quiet. You slowly blinked your eyes open to see her looking at you with an inscrutable look on her face, and you replayed your question in your mind. Crystal reacted before you had a chance to, with an eyebrow raise and the question, “You like Chris Evans?”

Yes. No. Kind of.

“No!”

“But you like his eyes?”

“I mean…”

“So, you like him?” She was looking at you. Why did it feel like your answer was so pivotal?

“I just want to kiss him!”

Where the hell did that come from?! We were talking about his eyes!

You swore you were never drinking again after tonight. Crystal’s hazel eyes shuttered and her mouth pursed.

“You want to kiss him?! Why? He’s just an idiot with good hair and an over inflated ego, who can catch a ball!” She blurted as she stood up from the floor and walked towards you. “You and him aren’t even on the same level! You are too good for him. You're smart, sweet and so unbelievably beautiful,” She pressed while looking in your eyes, and placed her hands on the bean bag close enough to your legs you could feel their heat, while she knelt on the floor. You gave her a drunk, bashful smile, and she returned a heartfelt one.

“Crystal, thank you. But it's nothing, really! Plus it’s not like anything is going to happen anyway!” You chuckle, trying to convince her and yourself. She only gives a strained smile and a huff of a laugh as she moves to stand, then quickly changes the topic.

“It’s getting late. Let's go find Pete and get out of here!” You wobble as you try to maneuver out of the bean bag, but Crystal helps you find your feet. “I’m driving,” She adds as you leave the room. The two of you find Pete sitting on a couch in the upstairs family room chatting with a random collection of people. He doesn’t protest when Crystal tells him you guys are leaving and if he wants a ride he better say good-bye to his new friends. As the three of you head towards the front door Cory Jameson flags down Pete in the foyer, and breaks away from a group of Jocks in the corner.

“Hey Schlozinger, glad you stopped by man…”

You tune out their conversation because past Cory’s shoulder you see garish pink nails card through the back of short, brown hair that you would be able to recognize anywhere. The guy the brown hair belonged to, was pressing Brunette Cheerleader into the foyer wall and kissing her like his life depended on it, and solidifying his identity was his last name printed on the back of his shirt: Evans #13. You turn before you see them do anything more. Crystal had seen it too. Pete is done with his good-bye, and you can’t get out of that house fast enough. You can slowly feel your buzz wearing off as your mind spins.

Crystal was right. You and Chris are not on the same level—he is so out of reach it’s laughable! So, maybe it was a good thing to see that little display. You and Chris Evans may go to the same school, but you are from two completely different worlds, and you needed to remember that and forget your stupid crush.

Pete follows your lead to the car, humming a 2Pac song, and Crystal is behind him smiling to herself, suddenly in a good mood.

#chris evans #chris evans fan fiction #chris evans fanfic #chris evans au #chris evans x female reader #chris evans x you #chris evans rpf #chris evans imagine #chris evans fic #chris evans x reader #chris evans x original female character

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subliminalbo · 7 months

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Introducing Betas

I joke sometimes about how unapproachable my stories can be, and I get it. I know it's a big ask for people to invest their time into a fucking mind control smut series featuring dozens of original characters with tons of parallel and intersecting plotlines. But that's also kind of the point to it all? Like, if these characters don't have unique identities and personalities, why should it matter when the mind control starts and all of that is stripped away?

Betas is kind of an evolution of that idea. Before Betas, each series existed in its own space. Carpenter State is a connected world, of course, but when you're reading an Assimilation story, you wouldn't expect any Alphas stuff to show up in it. This kind of story segregation has had a few effects on my writing. Most important is how slowly things move when you're juggling four or five series at once. With Betas I thought, why can't I write a series that's everything?

So here it is: my most intimidating and unapproachable series yet. It took me a whole year to even bring it to the Tumblr because I wasn't sure if I'd established Carpenter State enough here for people to care. Maybe I haven't, but I just really like this series. So I wanted to share al little bit of background about it in case anyone wanted to take shot at it.

The story so far...

Betas takes place in the immediate aftermath of Alphas. After brainwashing her entire sorority into loyal soldiers, Madison Wells turns her focus to Greek society. Madison is successful in dissolving several other sororities into the Alphas house, but when a favorite slave betrays her, she's forced to flee Romero. With Madison in the wind, the Alphas are disbanded. Its remaining members are deprogrammed by Dr. Sylvia Fielding and return to their normal lives as if nothing happened.

Despite their deprogramming, few of the former Alphas choose to return to sorority life. This leaves Beta Phi Alpha, one of Romero's oldest sororities, with only five members: Ana Marino, headstrong leader left shaken by the Alpha storm; Morgan Jones, the kind and loyal number two; Taylor Byrne, sagely elder statesman and simultaneous wild child; Sydney Harris, the young and carefree blonde completely oblivious to anything around her; Andrea Rubin, a mysterious upperclassman pledge tasked with spying on the sorority against her will; and Magan Reed, the sole defector who's chosen to return to the Betas after the collapse of the Alpha house.

But as the Betas tackle the question of how to rebuild their house to its former glory, they're unaware of the forces beyond human comprehension that have begun to invade Romero and even the house itself.

If I had to pick a specific series that Betas fits in with, it would be Assimilation. But it's also just a story about Romero, and the students of Carpenter State who navigate through a world that's filthy with mind control around every corner.

This first chapter took me days to write, and I've been slow in following it up with a second, partly because I haven't gotten a ton of feedback on it and also because of a feeling of obligation to actually finish Alphas. But I really hope that people enjoy what I've written so far.

#series: betas #inside hypnoball

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astragreenwoode · 10 months

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The Spitfire Curse - Chapter Four

Previous: Chapter Three • Next: Chapter Five • Masterlist • AO3 Version

Rating: Explicit (18+ ONLY)

Pairings: Billy Hargrove x Fem!OC (Only Mentioned)

Warnings: Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-Con, Non-specified Mental Illness, Self-Harm, Drug Use, Hypersexuality, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Hearing Voices

Genre: Adventure, Thriller, Horror, Slow-Burn Romance, Angst, Hurt/Comfort. Smut, Fluff, Slight Canon-Divergence, Fix-it fic

As always, thank you @take-everything-you-can for your beta reading and all your feedback!

Chapter Four: Filled With A Distrust In Authority

Word Count: 8,374

Chapter Warnings: Disembodied Voices, Police Brutality, Anxiety, Self-Deprecating Thoughts, Assault, References to Murder and other Criminal Activities, Mentions of Drug Use, Self-Harm, Mental Illness

Chapter Summary: Maeven reflects on her relationship with cops before her nerve-wracking meeting with the police chief of Hawkins, who turns out to be the complete opposite of what she expected.

June 1982

Billy and I had our fair share of run-ins with the cops. I can count on both hands the times we were caught smoking weed, trespassing in abandoned buildings, or fooling around in his Camaro. We were only arrested or put in a holding cell twice, but it was twice too many times. Mom and Dad gave me hour-long lectures that ended up with me running to my room and slamming the door on them as I yelled back, “I FUCKING HATE YOU!”

I never used to do that before.

I wasn’t always frightened of cops. Up until I learned about the Gay Liberation Movement from my uncle, I saw them as people I could trust with my life and safety. But even then, I always felt some uneasiness shaking up my body. Even though I knew I was supposedly ‘safe,’ their presence filled me with a fear similar to the kind when I would get in trouble with a teacher when I didn’t even understand what I did wrong.

After my uncle told me his story of being in so many protests and what cops did to people like him, like me, my seemingly pointless fear of authority figures was validated. This wasn’t long after I had my first kiss with a girl in Middle School.

Even if this sudden realization made my life feel on edge from there on out, something that was constant during this period in my life was my Dad; I never felt unsafe with him. And I had a better understanding with him about why he’d have Max and I favor him instead of the cops in terms of our safety. The waters of doubt became clearer after I was arrested for the first time.

My friend, Emily Bernard, was my first ever kiss and almost girlfriend, but we were awkward with each other whenever we weren’t making out. Her brother, Jordan, was my first-ever boyfriend. He was my first everything. On one hand, being his girlfriend kept me safe from the possible bullying I’d get if it got out that I liked girls. On the other hand, I genuinely did like Jordan. Being with a guy could be just as charismatic and breathtaking as being with a girl.

Sure, he was a bit clueless and headstrong, but he meant well. He was reckless with himself for fun, and I was always the one to talk him out of making bad decisions. It was exhausting at times, but we really enjoyed each others’ company. I was naive enough to think that maybe, just maybe, we’d be together forever. Maybe it was my inner child still trying to hold onto that fantastical hope that disappeared the older you get. Maybe it was my brain telling me how much I needed close bonds like this in order to survive, the way animals do in the wild. But I wasn’t a princess. I wasn’t an animal. I wasn’t in a fairytale. Life wasn’t perfect.

When I was a freshman in high school, two years into our relationship, I found out that Jordan cheated on me. He was my first heartbreak, the last first he’d ever be to me. Even when he tried to deflect my anger toward the girl he hooked up with, I stayed mad at him. He was the one in a relationship. Jordan could’ve simply told her that, but he didn’t. It was the fact that he chose not to that made me so mad, and it was insulting to try and make himself out as the victim.

After a week of burying my heartache in ice cream and horror movie marathons with Max and a month of avoiding eye contact with Jordan at school, I went to his house to drop off a box of his things we kept in my room. I was also hoping to get my stuff from his room in return. It was what adults did; it was the mature thing to do. I had come to terms with our breakup and was ready to move on.

But we weren’t adults; we were kids. And more often than not, kids are villainously petty. The day I came back to the Bernard family home to return Jordan’s things, I went from mature to petty in a flash. It was a cool summer night as I was about to ring the doorbell, I heard Jordan curse out in the backyard.

“OW! GODDAMIT!”

When I trailed around the house, I found him tripping over a bundle of tree branches. He was really good at building fires. We used to camp a lot. As soon as I saw I box with all my things I left with him next to the roaring fire pit, I lost my shit. It was the first time I heard the jumbled voice that taunted me with intrusive thoughts and impulsiveness.

They told me, “Fuck being the bigger person! He’s about to burn all your shit! Are you gonna let him get away with that, Maeven?”

Without even realizing it, I snuck up on Jordan so that the next time he turned around, he’d scream and fall backward.

“What the hell are you doing?”

He screamed like your average horror movie victim; it was probably the reason he didn’t like to watch them with me. Jordan could be tough and headstrong in certain situations but was a clumsy scaredy-cat once he stepped outside of them.

“Oh, hey, Mae-Mae! Hi, uhmmm, what. . .what’re you doing here?”

“You don’t get to fucking call me that, Jordan! Not anymore! So, I’ll ask you again; what the hell are you doing?!”

As he awkwardly looked me up and down, he frantically gathered the branches and threw them into the fire pit with some old clothes I didn’t recognize. It must’ve been for kindling.

“What’re you doing here?”

I rolled my eyes. Did he honestly think I was that stupid? Did he not see the completely obvious box of his things I had in my hands?

“I asked you first,” I sneered at him. He jumbled on his words momentarily, making random vowels and sounds before straightening his train of thought.

“Spring cleaning?” He gave me a nervous smile that said ‘please buy it,’ as he began sweating.

“It’s June, and that’s a fire,” I pointed out.

His pupils dilated with panic as he stood up before a lame attempt was made to hide my box of stuff behind his dumbass legs as if I hadn’t already seen it. One of my worst pet peeves of his was how he refused to admit when he was cold. I rarely saw him out of shorts.

“My turn. What’re you doing here?”

“I was gonna be the bigger person and return the stuff you left at my house before proceeding to never speak to you again.” I gestured to the box of his things in my grasp before placing my hand on my hip and tilting my head.

“Good for you, Maeven. I’m proud of you,” he said so matter-of-factly. I could tell he was bursting with the energy he needed to make a run for the house.

“Yeah. But now. . .now I’m having second thoughts.”

The closest thing to Jordan shitting his pants was his heart dropping into his stomach. He had never seen me this angry before, but I had been bottling up all the bullshit he made me endure these past two years.

“Really? Why is that?”

If it were possible, he’d fill a barrel of nervous sweat like an old cartoon.

“Because you’re burning my shit, Jordan! That’s why!” I almost cut him off, my intrusive thoughts and instinct response jumping against his verbal attack.

“No I wasn’t,” he defended himself, surprisingly calm. “Can I have my box back now?”

Yes. This was the hill I was willing to die on.

“I don’t know, Jordan! Can I have my virginity back?!”

The world around us suddenly went deadly silent and laced with tension. Jordan’s eyes widened in shock, but he remained speechless. If I’d been able to see beyond my anger at his betrayal, I would’ve noticed the small changes in his body that indicated when his heart split in half.

“I didn’t even burn it, yet!” he whined.

“But you were going to,” I clarified. His eyes widened as he realized he was caught red-handed in a lie.

“. . .shit.”

As if he was an animal using its defense mechanisms, he took one of the branches out of the fire pit and swung it at me, hitting my arm as the flames burnt my skin. It felt like someone pushed me into a hot grill.

“Are. . .you. . .SERIOUS?!?!”

My face scrunched up in anger as I subconsciously threw his box on the fire pit. I didn’t feel the pain in my knuckles until after it collided with his face; at least it didn’t hurt as much as my arm burned. It shouldn’t have felt as good as it did to see him clutching his face on the grass like that as he pinched his nose to stop the flow of blood. He was pathetic before, but he looked even more so now.

“What’re you two idiots doing??” Emily yelled at us as she stood on the porch.

“I’m not an idiot!” Jordan and I yelled in unison.

“Right,” she rolled her eyes. “Hey, Idiot and Maeven. Knock it off.”

I let out a laugh so unnecessarily loud, making me feel even better than before now that I knew at least someone was on my side. . .for now.

“Whose side are you on??” Jordan whined again, getting up to walk towards the porch to his sister.

“Let’s see who wins first, then I’ll decide,” she replied.

“She burnt my stuff, Em!” he yelled, using his now blood-covered hand to point at me like a tattling toddler. “Skating and rock music have driven her to violence!”

I walked right up to him as he backed off like a cornered rabbit. I got up right in his face as I narrowed my eyes.

“You were gonna burn my stuff first, Jordan! And the only thing that has driven me to violence is you, you small-dicked son of a bitch!”

At my last syllable, he stumbled backward on his feet and knocked the back of his head on the wooden railing of the porch.

“HA!” Emily laughed before covering her mouth with her hand.

Jordan got up almost immediately and towered over me, ready to defend his honor.

“I told you never to mention that!” he yelled, shoving my shoulders, forcing me to step back from him a bit. I turned my eyes toward Emily.

“Will you please talk some sense into your lunatic of a brother!?”

She exhaustedly groaned, tilting her head up to the sky.

“You’re both acting like lunatics! And if you don’t knock it the hell off, someone’s gonna call the cops!”

In her defense, we were pretty loud.

“Fine. I’ll go as soon as you apologize and give me back my stuff,” I said, turning my head to Jordan. He had gotten what he deserved. I burnt his stuff, gave him a bloody nose, and announced the size of his dick to his whole neighborhood. That should’ve satisfied me, I should’ve known when to walk away, but I didn’t.

“Apologize?!” he laughed in my face. “I don’t have to apologize for anything, Maeven! You punched me in the face and burnt my shit! And technically, you don’t get a say in what I do with ‘your’ shit. You left it at my house, therefore, it's mine.”

I considered punching him again, but I didn’t. It would’ve landed me in more trouble than I already was about to be in.

“There she is! Right there!”

I turned around to see Mr. Bernard pointing his finger at me, two cops behind him as they stomped their way toward me. One of them took out their set of handcuffs.

“Dad?” Emily asked him. “What’re you doing?!”

“Oh, shit-AAAHH!!”

Before I knew it, one of the cops shoved me in the chest and sent me falling backward on the grass. My head collided with the ground and made my ears ring as I tried to find my bearings.

The one without the handcuffs aggressively turned me over onto my stomach before proceeding to push his knee into the small of my back. It forced the air out of my stomach and lungs. My brain tried to force my body to move, but I was frozen in place. I understood now that it was my body’s way of keeping me safe; it knew better than my head that I couldn’t fight this situation.

“What the hell!? I didn’t do anything!”

He shoved my head into the grass with his hand as his partner bound my hands. They hauled me up by the chain of the cuffs as they dug into my wrists, roughly grabbing my arms as they dragged me away.

“You’re under arrest for domestic violence and destruction of property. You have the right to remain silent-”

I blocked them out and turned my eyes to the Bernards.

“You’re arresting me for a bloody nose and a bad breakup?!” I scoffed. “Are you fucking kidding me?! He’s the one who burnt me!”

I couldn’t prove it, but I swear that one of them dug his fingers into the fresh burn on my arm. My feet refused to move as they dragged me along the grass from the backyard to their squad car; it was hard to believe this was really happening. It certainly wasn’t necessary for them to be this aggressive with a 5’4 fifteen-year-old girl.

“Dad, what’re you doing?!” Emily yelled behind me.

I could hear them trailing behind us as one of the cops kicked at my feet, forcing me to stand and walk with them.

“She assaulted him! It’s the least she deserves!” Mr. Bernard replied to his daughter.

“Dad, it’s just a bloody nose! I’m fine! Just let her go!”

That was certainly a surprise. It was the first time I heard Jordan show any type of courage. Even after I burnt his things and punched him, he wanted to help me.

“Maeven, it’s gonna be fine! I’ll call your mom!”

“What?! No!” I turned to Emily as the cops pushed me into the back of the car. “She’ll kill me! Call my Dad!”

“I don’t have his number!”

“Fuck! Okay, just. . .just don’t worry about it, Em. Okay?” I yelled through the glass. “Don’t call anyone. I’ll call him when I get there.”

As they drove me away to the station, I wasn’t certain of it, but I thought I could see Jordan mouthing ‘I’m sorry’ to me. I shut my eyes and did my best to put my mind anywhere else but here. I wasn’t being arrested. This wasn’t happening. I was with my Dad and my sister in the woods. We were having fun. Everything was fine. It felt like heaven.

That trick never worked, but I still try it to this day.

A week later, I found my box of stuff returned to me on the front steps of my house, along with a note I didn’t have the strength to read. Jordan was officially the bigger person in this equation.

. . .

Without his morning cup of coffee, Jim Hopper couldn’t comprehend the busy sounds of the police station; the ringing of the phones, Flo’s daily notifications about his upcoming meetings, and the occasional pats on his back for just being present before noon. The small coffee machine was a gift from God, he convinced himself. A sip from the strong, fresh-brewed cup of coffee melted away all his sleep deprivation, muscle tension, and lingering hangover; as well as the headache from taking care of a certain little girl whom he shared his cabin with.

Taking a seat at his desk, his vision cleared and focused as he stared into his cup as he added his desired amount of sugar and a splash of the thick creamer. Hopper faced the tower of manilla folders, stacked as high as they could go without tipping over. He flipped open the folder on top before being interrupted by a rapid knock at the door.

“What?” he groaned out. There was never a moment of peace around here.

“Well, good morning to you, too, Hop. Or should I say ‘afternoon?’” Flo let out a laugh. She flopped yet another Manilla file on his desk right in front of him, almost tipping over his coffee. The digital clock on his desk read 3:26 PM in red letters.

“Flo, why would you do that? Can you seriously not see the big stack right next to me?” he whined, palming his face and rubbing his eyes with both hands. Flo rolled her eyes.

“This might just be my personal opinion, Hop, but if you didn’t spend most nights drinking and your mornings nursing your hangovers, maybe that damn stack wouldn’t be as tall as the Empire State Building,” she retorted back at him, hand on her hip.

“You’ve never been out of Hawkins, Flo. How do you know how big the Empire State Building is?”

“Just read the damn file, smartass. It’s the most recent one, anyway. You got a meeting with them in about a half hour, so study up.” Flo had worked with him long enough to know he needed a playfully harsh nudge to get his ass going in the morning. She wasn’t gonna let him get off that easy after showing up late and only working for a couple of hours. And Hopper thought it was the coffee that did it.

Before strutting her way out of his office, she turned to him once more for a final note. “Also, you’re four o’clock is running behind, so don’t expect to be out of here before five tonight, you big oaf,” Flo added, one hand on the doorknob while the other pushed up her glasses. Hopper softly banged his head against the top of his desk in response, pointing to the hot cup of coffee in his fist.

“You want this open or closed?” she laughed out.

“Closed.”

Flo left the door halfway open; a compromise.

The Chief picked his head up and let out a long and therapeutic groan, blindly opening the folder in front of him. He kept his eyes closed for a short moment of calm to officially prepare himself for the rest of the day, however long that ended up being. The contents of the now open file caught his eye, as it was faxed to him all the way from San Diego. How did someone end up in the back-forty of Indiana from the busy city streets in California?

Margaret Maeven Mayfield, it read, a month away from turning eighteen. Hopper could’ve sworn he had heard ‘Mayfield’ somewhere before. It sounded like a distantly blurred name of someone from his military days. Now wide awake, he actually took his time to thoroughly read it in all its details instead of just skimming over the fine print to get each case knocked out as soon as possible. ‘Maeven’ was certainly a unique choice for a middle name. He wondered what it meant.

Despite being reported as being intimidatingly smart and well-behaved by all the staff at her old school and the San Diego police, Margaret had made quite the case for herself as a rebel. Her first arrest was when she was fifteen. The charges, in order, were Domestic Violence, Destruction of Property, Drug Possession, Vandalism, Public Indecency, Public Intoxication, Assault, Inciting a Riot, and Manslaughter. What was even more enticing was that most of all these charges were dropped against the girl, and she was sentenced to community service instead of jail time. Apparently, she was very enthusiastic about her punishment and was rewarded for her work by the community. Who does that? Certainly, not anyone Hopper knows.

Her mugshot emanated an unsettling tone of both heartbreak and terror. She was randomly splashed with blood as she held her name up in front of her, her eyes sunken in. They were dark, both in and under, but still wide as if she had just come face-to-face with the devil himself. She looked so scared. Margaret had a past as wild as Hopper’s entire life had been, and she hadn’t even finished High School yet; expelled from School after her assault, a history of fighting and drug problems, and three months in an In-Patient Mental Institution was enough to grab anyone’s attention, let alone a Police Officer’s.

He knew appearances could be deceiving, but the known victim and suspected criminal looked nothing more than a scared little kid. It reminded Hopper of the Munson boy; practically stolen after his mother’s overdose, both done by the hands of his father, Al Munson. Poor little Eddie just got dealt the wrong cards and had no choice but to accept his place in society as the future resident burnout, both put in place and enforced by the league soccer moms in Hawkins. Hopper wasn’t sure any kid deserved that, even if Munson and Maeven weren’t really kids, anymore. How could someone so young and full of life be accused of so many horrific things?

Jim let his mind wander for a moment back to the times when he himself was a dumb teenager who didn’t know any better. Under the young girl’s circumstances, he could definitely see how and why wrongful accusations could be made against her. He saw himself in the file; a misunderstood kid from the other side of town guilty of nothing but defying their ‘destiny’ and tainting their reputation as a straight-laced good kid. In small towns like Hawkins, you cross a certain street and it’s like a whole other world; divided between the shabby cabins and trailer parks with the so-called ‘town bums’ and the suburbian paradise the soccer moms and their nuclear families shielded themselves within.

The ringing of the phone interrupts Hopper’s thoughts, and he’s suddenly now aware of how he’s been studying the Mayfield file for so long that the red digits on the clock suddenly read 4:32 PM. He huffed out a long sigh before picking up the phone and pressing it to his ear.

“What d'ya got for me, Flo?”

“Mrs. Hargrove and her daughter are here. Should I send ‘em in, or are you still nursing that hangover?”

“Yeah, yeah, send ‘em down. . .smartass.”

. . .

Maeven missed her long hair.

As a child, she wanted nothing more than to have what she, Max, and her parents dubbed ‘princess hair.’ Rapunzel was always her favorite, and she had complained multiple times that the Walt Disney Company was yet to make a movie about her. But she always pictured herself being a wild princess who runs through the woods with leaves and twigs in her hair.

It took her a while to learn how to properly take care of it. She was always so sad when it had to be cut shorter; a result of her failed attempts to grow it out ending in a barrage of too many tangles and knots. After a few too many cuts than she was comfortable with, Maeven finally grew old and patient enough to settle into a good hair-care routine when she was around ten years old.

She loved having so many ways to flaunt her wavy red locks; ponytails, pigtails, braids, and buns. But her favorite way to wear it was to just let it flow down past her shoulders, below her breasts, stopping at the small of her back, so wild and free. Maeven loved the way her partners stroked or tugged on it whenever she was intimate with them. Billy once told her when he fucked her on his lap that running his hands through her hair felt like he was touching the setting sun.

Having Maeven’s hair draped across his body like a silk curtain was one of the only places he felt truly safe. Of course, he had never admitted it aloud to her. It was partially to keep up his tough reputation, but he also didn’t feel like he needed to tell her. Maeven already knew, he could tell. She was always good at reading him.

Maeven’s hair was always the first thing people noticed about her. It was the first thing they noticed about Max and their Mom, too. Besides the blue eyes and the freckles, it was the Mayfield ladies’ defining feature. It was why everyone was so disappointed when she cut it all off so suddenly. One night last February, she woke up from yet another nightmare, a flashback, that someone chased her, hunted her down like a wild animal, and caught her by her hair.

New Year's Eve, 1983 ruined a lot of things for her; parties, drugs, nighttime, and outside, just to name a few. But the worst part of it was no longer feeling safe in her own body. It was the feeling that she was no longer safe being herself. So, acting on sheer impulse and instinct, Maeven took the sewing shears from her mother’s craft room and hastily cut off her long ginger locks until her hair ended up choppy, just below her ears.

She wasn’t sure if she should’ve felt sad at what she had done to herself, or feel relieved now that the cause of her paranoia was severed from her head. All she did know was that she had one less thing to worry about; one less thing that people liked to take advantage of. She didn’t want to be hunted, anymore. She was a little bit safer. . .for now, Even though her emotions weren’t certain, she still cried her eyes out that night.

After letting it grow a bit and finally evening it out, Maeven did her best to embrace her new look. She just decided that she wasn’t going to look at herself in the bathroom mirror unless she absolutely had to brush her hair or put on makeup. It was easier that way; less painful. As the cold, autumn wind passed through Hawkins and made the back of her neck chill that she missed her former length the most. It helped that she never needed a scarf in the winter, as she could always use her hair to cover her neck.

Maeven scratched the back of her neck, running her fingertips over her hairline and short fuzz to soothe herself. She twirled her short locks around her finger and pulled hard; a not-so-healthy way to cure her boredom and keep her anxiety occupied. It was times like this she regretted cutting away her hair the most. The times when she wanted nothing more than to hide her face behind her firey red locks and just sink into herself.

She had slowly gotten used to the constant presence of police since her first arrest at fifteen and all the times that followed afterward. Whatever name you give them, cops, police, pigs, dicks, every officer of the law was different in their own way. Maeven had met maybe a handful of them who actually seemed concerned for her well-being and genuinely wanted to help her. That didn’t make their looming presence any less threatening to her. More often than not, they were the kind to attack first and ask questions later.

Since being discharged from inpatient psychiatric treatment, Maeven did her hardest to appear non-threatening and be on her best behavior, especially around the police. She steered clear of them. Even though she tended to steer clear of everyone these days, she avoided confrontation with police especially. With all the charges that had been brought against her in the years following her first arrest, Maeven knew that whatever was on her permanent record, it wasn’t a flattering portrayal.

The treatment program she went to maybe have helped her with a lot of her many mental issues, but Maeven still felt broken. Even if she recovered, she didn’t feel quite like a human again, and she secretly wished she could just change. It didn’t matter what or who. Honestly? She wouldn’t mind being a rock or a dying star, an animal or an insect. It wasn’t important to her. All that mattered was that she wouldn’t feel like this; being a human was a messy, painful merry-go-round of inconsistencies. It wasn’t worth it, anymore.

Maeven wasn’t sure exactly what was keeping her alive. She felt it getting stronger once they moved to Hawkins, and she was determined to find it. But, for now, her life would just be a mundane and painful routine of various medications, her many coping skills that ranged from healthy to unhealthy, visits with cops and therapists, and trying to stop herself from getting in her own way. It was working. . .slowly. But that's the thing about healing; it isn’t always linear.

She didn’t even hear the receptionist call to her and her mom until she felt her grab her hand in an attempt to bring her daughter along to, . .

“Wait. . .where are we again?” Maeven thought allowed, not even realizing it until her mom looked at her with wide eyes, a mixture of disappointment and concern. It hurt to look at.

“The Police Station, Maevey. You have a meeting, remember?”

Maeven said nothing, her brain still catching up with the rest of the world and the concept of time. She dug her sharply manicured nails into her palms, taking a moment to swallow her anxiety down before smiling and nodding at her mom.

“That’s right,” Maeven silently remembered. After the tour of the school, Neil dropped her and Susan off at the police station. Billy took Max to the arcade and he was no doubt killing time by using the back roads of Hawkins like his own personal race track.

“You were disassociating again, bitch,” the voice scolded.

As her mom gently tugged her along toward the Chief’s office, Maeven felt like the world around her was growing smaller. Technically it was; the walls narrowed as Susan led her down the hallway from the front desk. It wasn’t long at all, or even that narrow. But that’s how it felt.

Susan Hargrove, on the other hand, walked in front of her daughter like she owned the place. Another flaw of Neil’s that rubbed off on her. Maeven wasn’t sure if she should feel scared or safe. She hadn’t felt like she needed her mom’s guidance and protection since she was little. Were either of the Mayfield women themselves, anymore?

Her mom stood halfway through the threshold of the Chief’s office as Maeven mentally prepared herself to remain calm in front of him. This man had access to her file; a collection of her worst moments where she was decided to be bad by people who didn’t know her. He had the power to use everything in that file to make her life worse if he wanted to. It all depended on his impression of her, on whether or not she can do a good job convincing him that she wasn’t the person those documents painted her as.

“I take it you’re Mrs. . .Hargrove? I thought it was ‘Mayfield?’”

“That was my last husband’s name, Mr. Hopper. I remarried this year,” Susan promptly corrected him. Hopper’s eyebrows raised as his eyes narrowed.

“Another Suburban Soccer Mom. Go figure,” he thought to himself.

“Alright, then. C’mon in and have a seat, ladies. I don’t bite,” Hopper gestured to the chairs facing his desk.

“Yeah. You might not bite. But what about you, Maevey?”

Maeven didn’t acknowledge the voice this time but crossed her arms around her middle to hug herself.

She rounded the corner and looked at the Chief. Hopper looked like someone her dad would get along with. Not the sleazy, sexist drunk ones who hovered around him in San Francisco. Out of his police garb, Maeven predicted that he’d be someone’s dad or cool uncle who takes you fishing or cooks you a classic American breakfast. She took a seat next to her mother in her matching leather office chair. The urge to play with and pick at the tears and cracks was annoyingly strong.

Maeven sat so that both her hands were tucked under both her legs, hidden underneath her skirt. She didn’t want her mom to draw any more unnecessary attention to her fidgeting. That was embarrassing.

Hopper couldn’t help but stare at the nervous girl in front of him. She was definitely smaller than he expected, maybe because of the way she carried herself as if she was trying to disappear. No matter how many years he had under his belt as an officer, the cases that involved kids never got easier. In fact, they had only gotten more difficult in the last year. Between Will going missing in a whole nother goddamn dimension and suddenly becoming a parent to a girl again, Jim had a lot to adjust to, lately. And it seemed like he certainly wasn’t the only one.

This girl was too impossibly young to know grief this large. Yet, here she sits in front of him. And even if her files were up to date, Jim had his doubts. He knew that looks could be deceiving, but Margaret Mayfield didn’t look or act like a criminal, much less a bad person. There was just no way.

“So. . .what brings you in today?”

For once, Maeven decided not to count the stains on the carpet or the scratches on the Chief’s desk. Not that she wanted to talk to him, but she just didn’t want to be silent and awkward anymore. In the past, the cops she dealt with before interpreted her silence as a threat, or a confession of her guilt. And she left the school tour feeling oddly confident after meeting Nancy and Steve.

Of course, her mother just had to speak for her.

“My husband called in and spoke with your receptionist, Flora, to make sure you got my daughter’s file from Captain Daly down in San Diego. We just moved here, and we wanna make sure she has a. . .a good relationship with the law enforcement here so that she hopefully doesn’t repeat her past mistakes,” she explained, finishing with a smile on her face.

Susan grew a little too used to assuming Maeven’s feelings. It was fine at the beginning when she at least asked for her permission via a silent nod, but it was more often than not that she just took over and micromanaged the conversation.

“Well, now she just has to pay. Go on, now.”

“No, no, no. Please just stop. Please.”

It took a moment for Jim to process what just happened. He didn’t blame Susan’s daughter for looking at her the way she did, with such frustration and annoyance as she bounced her leg. The psychiatric evaluation in her file did say she suffered from anxiety. Hopper wouldn’t be surprised if this girl listed her mother as a stressor.

“Y’know, I’d actually prefer to speak with Margaret alone, if you wouldn’t minds, Mrs. Hargrove?”

The very thought of her mother leaving the room for a little while lowered the tenseness in Maeven’s shoulders and the air suddenly return to her lungs. She tried not to let it show too much, though. Her mother developed a tendency to notice the little changes whenever her mood fluctuated. No matter how infuriating Susan acted sometimes, the thought of hurting her feelings still broke the young girl’s heart to think about. It was both an impressive and scary hidden talent, like a lighthouse with a giant eye as the light.

“Maybe you should sketch that. It’d look cool,” the voice suggested. Maeven fought the urge to reach for her sketchbook. She could already see the picture in her mind’s eye.

Susan paused for a moment as she processed the Chief’s request.

“Oh. . .sure! Of course! No problem, I. . .” Susan stood up from the chair and placed her hand gently on her daughter’s shoulder. “I’ll just be waiting outside, okay?” she reassured, her eyes turning sad when she looked at her.

Maeven blinked away her idea for a moment to give her mom a half-smile.

“It’s okay, Mom. I’m fine,” she replied, her hand squeezing, then brushing her hand off her shoulder. Susan nodded before walking to the door.

“And it’s Flo, by the way. Not ‘Flora,’” Hop made sure to mention before she had a chance to close the door on her way out.

“Yes. . .of course,” Susan stuttered as she closed the office door. The silence that filled the room after it slammed wasn’t awkward or uncomfortable for once. In fact, it was oddly freeing.

“Thanks. I, uh. . .thank you,” Maeven squeaked out as she fidgeted with her hands just itching to reach for her backpack.

“No problem, kid,” Hopper chuckled before continuing. “My wife was the same way with me and my daughter. She just worries.”

Maeven said nothing, but nodded in understanding, making eye contact with the Chief for about two seconds before turning back to her lap. Hopper could already see that his theory about her being misunderstood in her reports proved to be correct already.

“So, Margaret. Or do you go by ‘Maggie?’” he asked

“No one calls me that,” she said softly. “It’s Maeven.”

Hopper’s eyes darted back to her file just out of her sight.

“Oh, your middle name. Alright. Sorry,” he reassured. But, again, Maeven said nothing.

“Okay, then. Well, welcome to Hawkins, first of all. You like it?”

“Yeah. It’s okay,” she muttered, bouncing her right leg while swinging the left.

“It takes a little getting used to,” Jim mentioned, continuing his attempt to coax this girl out of her shell. He couldn’t help her if she didn’t talk to him.

“Mmm-hmm. . .” Maeven nodded.

The Chief exhaled loudly through his nose in contemplation, suddenly noticing that her eyes were darting back and forth between her fidgeting hands and her backpack. What did she have in there that was so important? According to her file, Maeven could be nervous about drugs in her bag. Her behavior was, after all, common for a druggie, but Hopper didn’t think that to be the case. Still, he treads lightly.

“I see you eyeing your bag, there. Do you need something?”

Maeven’s eyes darted back to him for longer, this time, her demeanor that of a cornered animal unsure how to react.

“Sorry. Do you mind if I draw?” she asked, shaking her head as if to bring her back to herself.

“Draw? Why?” he asked.

“It, uhm. . .it helps with my restlessness and keeps me focused,” Maeven fumbled to explain herself, almost defensive about her hobby. Hopper shrugged.

“If you promise to answer my questions, I got no problem,” he admitted. He really didn’t care, just a little confused.

She gave him a soft smile before immediately reaching for her bag and pulling out a black sketchbook and a small pouch of pencils, pens, and markers. Swiftly, she turned to a fresh page and pulled out a red colored pencil.

“. . .thank you,” she muttered before getting to work.

“So. . .I got a call from Captain Daly all the way out in San Diego, and he filled me in on your. . .recent situation,” Hopper explained, pausing every so often to observe Maeven’s movements as she sketched. The way her hands moved the pencil across the page was random, both erratic and calm with no clear order or pattern, but still had a sort of rhythm.

“Apparently, you had quite a reputation with your school and the law back over in California?”

At the mention of her past, Maeven’s drawing hand came to a dead stop, as if her mind was somewhere else and had to adjust to his words in her own way.

“He knows, Maeven. He knows how insane you are. One toe out of line and he’ll have you sent to an asylum. And you know what’ll happen then, right? You’ll never be seen again.”

“. . .yeah, I guess so,” Maeven admitted, trying her best to swallow her obvious fear of Daly before going back to her sketch. She had finished the basic outline of the lighthouse from a bottom perspective, continuing to draw a giant, graphic eyeball in place of the searchlight.

“Doesn’t sound like you’re too proud about it,” Jim observed.

“I’m not. I never was,” she defended, moving on from the iris to the veins. “I’m the complete opposite, actually.”

She brought the leg she was once swinging up to sit on the chair, almost melting into it. He chuckled softly. Now she was starting to act like a kid her age should.

“Do me a favor and keep your boots off my chair, Maeven.”

He wouldn’t have said anything if he knew that the girl would suddenly switch moods and sit the way a mother would nag her child to.

“Oh! Yes! Sorry, sir,” she apologized.

Hopper mentally scolded himself. She was just started to get comfortable with him and he had to go and ruin it with his big mouth and closed-minded understanding of manners.

“Have you dealt with a lot of law enforcement before, kid?”

“I. . .I don’t have any intention of causing any trouble, Officer, I promise.”

It was clear to him now that Maeven didn’t have an ideal relationship with cops. No doubt due to Captain Daly and his officers. Some of the reports of arrests in her file indicated that she fought(as any other kid would do in her situation) and the officers weren’t exactly.

“It sounds like Captain Daly gave you some hard times. I’m not gonna blame an officer for doing his job, handling your investigation.”

“I know. I don’t either. I know I wasn’t the. . .easiest person to handle,” she confessed, now sketching slowly, moving on to add the details of the lighthouse.

Her attitude toward the situation was delightfully humble, but just as depressing. It was always tragic to see someone so young also filled with so much pain. Jim turned back to her file and skimmed over a couple more pages that mentioned how she gradually started getting into more and more fights throughout the second semester of her failed Junior Year.

“It says here that you’ve had some. . .bad luck with others. And that you’ve dealt with behavioral issues. But you’re on medication now and have been managing your impulses.”

“Mmm-hmm,” she nodded, not looking up from her page.

“That’s not something to be proud of, Maeven. You shouldn’t have to rely on pills to keep from hurting yourself and fucking everything with a heartbeat.” the voice scolded in her ear.

“I don’t do that,” she argued against it, shaking her head free of those thoughts.

Hopper looked at her list of medications on her medical records, including the trials and tribulations of finding the right pills that worked for her. It couldn’t have felt too good to have to take that many pills so often.

“So. . .why don’t you tell me what happened, Maeven? Tell me about yourself,” he suggested as she relaxed her shoulders and continued to sketch. Jim didn’t want to pry. Even if it’d been a while since her incident and recovery process, she was still clearly fragile about it.

Maeven shrugged as she finished coloring the red roof of the lighthouse.

“What is there to know? You have my file. You know exactly what I am,” she pouted. It was strange to Jim that she could switch from being a mature young lady to a frustrated child so easily and quickly.

“No. I can’t really say I do,” he gently argued with her. After pausing to take a look at her sketch so far, Maeven shut her book, tapping and scratching her nails against the cover.

“Look, I know that I haven’t made a lot of good choices in the last few years. I know I’m pretty crazy, too. And I know that’s not an excuse and you have no reason to believe me, Sir, but I’m very sorry and I don’t wanna get in any kind of trouble again, and I-”

The longer she talked, the more discombobulated her movements became, and the more frantic and anxious Maeven appeared to Hopper. Her leg shakes as the tapping of her nails on her notebook turned more rapid. It became clearer to him that when Mr. Hargrove called in to say this girl was extremely fragile, he wasn’t kidding.

“Woah, okay. Just calm down, kid. Enough with the formalities,” Hopper held out his hands as he spoke as if trying to show an abused house pet that he meant no harm; the act made Maeven suddenly realized she needed to breathe in between sentences.

“Stop calling me ‘sir,’ Maeven. ‘Makes me feel like a Grandpa,” he laughed, holding out his hand as he awaited a shake. “It’s Hopper. Jim Hopper. My friends call me ‘Hop.’”

“Okay, uhmm. . .Thank you, si-I mean Hop,” she tripped over her words as she accepted his offer for a friendly handshake. “Nice to meet you.”

“It’s nice to meet you, too, Miss Mayfield.”

It had been a while since Maeven interacted with an adult this way; just a casual, friendly interaction between two fellow adults. The chief’s handshake was firm with respect and emanated a familiar warmth. It reminded her of her Dad.

“Don’t worry. I won’t make too big a deal about this. I won’t let your troubles follow you into Hawkins if that’s what you want. But that also depends on you and your choices from here on out, you understand?”

“I do, yes,” Maeven smiled, feeling a small sense of pride that she thought died on New Year’s.

“Thought so. You seem like a smart kid. Took a look at your grades from Newport. Said you almost broke some record at their school for scoring so high on the SATs.”

“Yeah. . .it’s not that big of a deal,” she laughed, humbling herself again as she looked down at her tapping nails on her sketchbook.

“It is in Hawkins, kid. Trust me,” Hopper playfully argued. He wasn’t exactly wrong, either. Even back when he went to High School, a lot of his graduating class was made up of jackasses that didn’t know their ass from their elbow. The more academic ones ended up leaving Hawkins for better opportunities. Joyce could’ve been one of those people, too. But she was happy where she was. That was the kind of future he knew Maeven could reach. She was too good for this place.

“Not a lot of our kids have that kind of potential. I’m sure you’re gonna be fine,” he finished.

Maeven wanted to accept his compliment, but the voice inside her wouldn’t let her.

“He’s lying to you. He’s just trying to be nice,” it taunted, disguising it as a warning, she was sure.

“So, we both know what your file says. But I wanna hear it firsthand. You wanna tell me about what happened to you?”

Again, Maeven could only speculate what was in that manilla folder. She remembered a meeting with Captain Daly and her mother where he slammed her case file on the table of the interrogation room. She couldn’t bare to look at it. It was painful enough watching Susan read it through the gasps and sobs. She was sure that reading it herself would tear her very soul apart more than it already had been.

“He already knows. Stop buying pointless time and just get it over with. It’ll be easier.”

Chief Hopper wasn’t Captain Daly, though. He wasn’t like any of the other police she dealt with in the past. The ones who blamed her for her fate and tried to turn her into the villain. The ones who didn’t hesitate to draw their weapons on her when they found her bleeding and begging for help in the forest.

No. Hopper was different. Maeven knew he couldn’t fully comprehend what she went through. She lived through what most people would find unimaginable. But Hopper at least had more empathy and a sense of emotional intelligence than any cop she’d crossed paths with.

“Uhm. . .I’d rather not, if that’s okay? Not yet, at least.” she asked, hoping her instincts were right, switching from tapping her sketchbook to scratching the back of her hands

Hopper frowned at the sight. Maeven’s nails were so sharp that her hands were red and threatening to break out in blood.

“I get it,” Hopper said to her. “It’s the first meeting. You’re a little on edge. I have you back here next Sunday, right?”

At the sound of his voice, Maeven ceased her scratching.

“Mmm-hmm,” she nodded, letting out a sigh of relief at his understanding. Hopper returned her nod before handing her a slip of paper he had just signed; a weekly attendance sheet that she would eventually show to her mom and Neil so they’d know she was ‘improving.’ She would probably get another one from the school counselor tomorrow.

“Just focus on getting yourself adjusted to Hawkins for the next seven days and then we can talk about your. . .situation,” Jim told her, once again treading lightly.

“I can do that,” Maeven agreed, tucking the piece of paper beneath the cover of her sketchbook.

“Alright, kid. You’re dismissed,” the chief said with a small wave of his hand. “Besides, I’m sure your mom’s probably anxious not having you around,” he joked, sure of himself that he wasn’t overexaggerating.

Maeven slipped her book and pencils back into her backpack before zipping it shut, scrambling out of her seat as she walked towards the door and pulled the knob. Before exiting, she took one last look at the Chief, still glancing at her file.

“Officer Hopper?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you. I. . .I really appreciate it,” she stuttered out.

“Anytime, Maeven,” Jim smiled back at her. As he watched her leave his office, he couldn’t help but be reminded of the little girl who awaited his return at his cabin in the woods. El and Maeven would get along well.

. . .

A/N: Sorry for the delay in this chapter coming out. I had to split it up so it wouldn't be too long. That doesn't necessarily mean that I don't like writing chapters at a longer length, but 20-25 pages is my comfort zone. I usually start by just outlining a chapter with all the dialogue I want to include and build the actions and descriptions around that.

I hope you all enjoyed this chapter! The next one shouldn't take as long as this one did as I already have all the dialogue written out for it. I'm writing both chapters five and six at once. Please be sure to leave some kudos and comments, as they are my lifeblood and are incredibly helpful whenever I need inspiration. I'm glad that people seem to be resonating with Maeven. She's definitely the hardest I've worked on when it comes to all the characters I've created over the years.

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