#ego fic
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No-One Is Above A Smile ~ A Markiplier and Ethan Nestor Ego Fanfic
Hello again! This time we're writing from a fab prompt from @coolm456 featuring not just Unus & Annus, but Darkiplier too! This is a fun one, so without further ado LET'S DO THIS!
TAGGING: @darkipli-ler
The primary living room of the ego manor was usually very sophisticated, full of leather furnishings, fine mahogany, with a colour scheme of dark browns, reds, and glimmers of gold. Today it was still sophisticated, but there was more of a monochrome vibe filling the room courtesy of the trio using it as their “hangout” space. Dark was in his favourite armchair, scotch resting on his knee as he let himself relax. Annus was reclined on one of the sofas with his eyes closed, a peel-off charcoal face mask in place. Meanwhile, Unus was sat cross-legged on the carpet with about six blankets covering him, and Dark Chica was laying in his lap and boofing softly for tummy rubs. It was an unusual scene for sure, but this time of decompression was much needed for the trio, just to have a little break from the chaos for once. It was mostly silent other than steady breathing, but every few minutes Unus would snort or giggle as Dark Chica spontaneously licked his cheek or ear. At the sound of his giggle Annus smiled subtly, and Dark raised an amused eyebrow.
‘Having fun Unus?’
Dark asked, and Unus grinned. Today he’d swayed away from his stoic side to his more giddy self, mainly due to having Dark Chica’s attention.
‘Yohour dog is the behest!’
He replied, and Dark Chica immediately boofed and licked at his neck, which happened to be a particularly ticklish spot. Unus scrunched up with a giggle as Dark chuckled and Annus rolled his eyes. The elder of the existential pair sat up on his sofa, peeling his face mask off effortlessly as he smirked.
‘I swear you somehow get more ticklish every day.’
‘I do not.’
‘Yes you do.’
‘No I do no–AH!’
Annus’ fingers darted out to flutter at the back of Unus’ neck, coaxing out yet another torrent of giggles which in turn excited Dark Chica more so she licked one of Unus’ ears. The younger man’s cheeks reddened as he batted Annus’ hand, attempting to clear his throat as he glared up at him. Dark bit back a chuckle as he observed, shaking his head lightly as Annus mocked.
‘I hope I didn’t embarrass you.’
‘Annus I swear I will go for your armpits if you don’t shut up.’
‘Oh my, is that meant to be a threat?’
Annus taunted. Unus appraised him, all stretched out without a care in the world. In a flash Unus suddenly darted his hand out towards one of his armpits in a feint, and Annus suddenly lowered his arms to protect himself, letting out a nervous noise from his throat. Annus frowned as Unus grinned at him, giggling and returning his hands to Dark Chica’s belly.
‘That’s what I thought.’
‘Oh… shut up.’
Unus snickered as a slight smile appeared on Annus’ face. Dark rolled his eyes at the pair of them, amazed that two existential beings such as them could be so endearingly ridiculous and wholesome. He sipped at his drink and remarked amusedly.
‘I had no idea you two were getting so soft.’
Annus raised an eyebrow at Dark as Unus gaped, the two replying in tandem.
‘Excuse me?’
‘We are not soft!’
Unus’ particular indignance made Dark snort as he set down his drink, and Annus narrowed his eyes as the shadowy man replied.
‘And yet those tickle spots of yours suggest otherwise.’
Until that point Dark Chica had been flopped fully horizontally and on the verge of a nap, but hearing the word “tickle” from her dad’s mouth made her perk up. Suddenly she was paying attention, but no-one else quite noticed.
‘Those don’t indicate anything of the kind, everyone has them.’
Annus retorted, and Dark sneered.
‘Do they?’
‘Don’t you?’
‘Oh please.’
Dark chuckled, and Unus and Annus shared a blatantly surprised look at the implication. Was Dark… not ticklish? Both of them racked their shared memories, certain that they’d heard somewhere that Dark was ticklish like every other ego in the manor. And yet… the conviction with which he spoke, the casualness, was undoubtedly very convincing. Unus couldn’t help but gape at him, the idea of someone not being ticklish just baffling him.
‘You can’t be serious?!’
‘I’m always serious, Unus. I’m sorry to disappoint you.’
Dark replied with a little grin, internally crowing at himself at the prospect of actually getting away with this. This had to be the most bold-faced lie he’d told in a while, and the idea that it was actually working rather tickled him, if you’ll pardon the pun. Meanwhile, Unus and Annus felt bamboozled, which was a rare thing for the pair. Dark had been the one to educate them on tickling in the first place, but now they thought about it they’d never seen him getting tickled himself. Could it really be true?
Amidst all of this… Dark Chica’s attention darted from the shocked pair, to her smug dad. Despite her being a supposedly “dark” puppo, she was in fact a very good girl and very smart girl indeed. She was taking in the interaction with far more intelligence than you might think – in fact, she was always able to sense when her dad was telling a sneaky lie. She also remembered hearing the world “tickle”… and everything made sense in her belly-rub-loving brain. So, she figured she’d get in on the fun.
In an instant she’d popped up on her feet, and bounded to Dark whilst wagging her floofy tail. Dark naturally reached out to give her some chin scratches, which she let herself enjoy for a few moments… but then to everyone’s utter shock she chomped down (harmlessly) on one of his shins and pulled him out of his chair onto the carpet! Dark yelped out as he landed on his back with a thump, making Unus and Annus bite back laughs.
‘Wha– Chica?!’
Dark looked at her in disbelief – he knew she was playful, but this was a lot! Dark Chica boofed at him and put a paw of his chest so he couldn’t sit up, before looking at Unus and Annus. The silence made it clear that everyone was confused, until the duo watched her start nudging at Dark’s and neck with her wet nose as Dark spluttered. That was when they realised. She was trying to tell them something very interesting indeed, and Dark had realised it too. He let out a casual chuckle, clearing his throat a little as he tried and failed to sit up.
‘Hah, alright Chica alright, we can play just–’
‘Hold on there Dark, I think Chica’s trying to show us something.’
Annus interrupted, a thin grin on his face as he and Unus shared a devious look… before pouncing together and pinning Dark down properly. Dark Chica barked with excitement, her tail wagging as Dark grunted and struggled and let out a number of vague threats… until Unus started fluttering his fingers down the sides of his neck.
‘What have we here?’
‘Nothing!’
‘Are you sure? Chica seems to think it’s something.’
‘Unus, Annus, let me go!’
He grunted, but the wobbly smile on his face made Unus and Annus share another grin. Dark Chica boofed again, and Annus chuckled as he scratched fondly behind her ear.
‘Is your master lying to us, hmm? Is he ticklish?’
Dark’s face reddened as Dark Chica boofed, wagged her tail harder, and licked Annus’ cheek for good measure. That was all the confirmation they needed. Dark let out another series of grunts, gritting his teeth and trying not to giggle as Unus’ fingers kept fluttering.
‘Unus!’
‘Yeah?’
‘D-Desihist this!’
‘Desist what?’
Dark went to speak again, but ended up snorting and chuckling as the flutters snuck behind his vulnerable ears. He tossed his head weakly, his fresh giggles taking all the heat out of his growl.
‘I’ll gehet yohohou fohor thihihis!’
Unus grinned and snickered, whilst Annus leaned over Dark with a twinkle in his eyes.
‘Did you just threaten my other half?’
Dark couldn’t ignore the chill he got down his spine, Annus’ voice echoing a little in his ears. Then before he knew it, a laugh had exploded out of him as Annus’ hands delved beneath his shirt, scratching swiftly at his sides. Dark jerked and twitched, but his hands were pinned beneath Annus’ knees, and he had no chance of freeing them now.
‘Yehehes! Yohohou wohon’t gehet away wihith thihihis, eheither of yohou!’
He exclaimed, trying to maintain some semblance of a tough façade. Unus giggled as Annus smirked.
‘Somehow that doesn’t fill me with dread.’
Annus continued his scratches as Unus’ fingertips zeroed in behind Dark’s ears, tracing the shells as Dark tried to toss his head even more – he was refusing to admit to himself that he was screwed, even though it was so adorably obvious.
‘Dahamnit gehehet ohohoff mehe!’
‘Aww, this doesn’t tickle does it–?’
‘SHUHUT IHIT!’
Unus snickered at Dark’s outburst as he and Annus continued their tickling, Unus’ fingertips now teasing right behind Dark’s earlobes – an utterly maddening tickle spot, by the way – whilst Annus’ thumbs were massaging circles into the dips of Dark’s fleshy sides. All Dark could do was belly laugh and thrash about, meanwhile Dark Chica was sat and watching with a happy look on her face – though occasionally she did playfully nudge Dark’s shirt or lick his face.
‘Sounds like Chica loves that laughter of yours Dark, I wonder if we can make it louder?’
Annus mused, and started squeezing Dark’s sides rapidly to make him cackle – it got so intense that Unus had to abandon his ears to hold his arms as he tugged at them. Unus had Dark in a half hug, giggling as Dark howled with a red face, his eyes flickering with crimson and blue flashes.
‘AHAHANNUS DOHOHON’T!’
‘Listen to that laugh! I think he’s enjoying that Annus.’
‘I quite agree Unus.’
Dark’s laughter was deep and warm as it reverberated around the room, like his mirth was a mighty opera. His hair was quickly becoming dishevelled as he struggled vainly against the tickling (which he was secretly enjoying, but Unus and Annus didn’t need to know that). It had been quite a while since Dark had been tickled so thoroughly, and honestly? It was even more fulfilling than he’d remembered. Though, Dark couldn’t help but kick as the tickles at his sides grew deeper and more intense, his instinct to wriggle free irresistible.
‘UNHAHAHAND MEHE!’
‘Why should we do that?’
‘BEHEHECAUSE IHI SAHAID SOHO!’
‘Hmm, I suppose that is an option…’
Annus remarked. Then Unus grinned and piped up.
‘Maybe if you admit how ticklish you are we’ll let you go.’
Dark’s lips parted in shock. The audacity of the demand was one thing, but the embarrassing nature of it was what really took the damn biscuit!
‘I would be amenable to that. What do you say Dark, will you confess?’
Thankfully Annus eased up on the tickling for a moment, allowing him to catch his breath, before he spluttered his indignant response. As if Dark would give in so easily!
‘Absolutely not!’
Dark started kicking again in an attempt to escape, though the existential duo didn’t miss the smile he was wearing – the fun of the whole thing was obvious, and they were happy to keep playing. Unus laughed as he hugged Dark’s torso again to try and keep him down as Annus resorted to grabbing at Dark’s legs, his hands gripping his knees and squeezing them… which drew out the most colossal shriek from Dark. There was a moment of silence as everyone looked at each other. Unus grinned, Annus raised an eyebrow, Dark Chica boofed, and a wobbly smile appeared on Dark’s face as he cleared his throat.
‘Annus.’
‘Oh dear, what’s this?’
‘Annus, my friend–’
‘I think I know just how to persuade you.’
‘Annus wait I–AHH! NOHOHONONONO NOHOT THEHEHERE!’
Dark was a hysterical mess in seconds. Gone was any semblance of the smart elegance which hung from his figure every day, for here now he was merely a man whose kneecaps were ticklish as hell. Annus was delightedly squeezing them, pinching them, rubbing them with his thumbs and forefingers as Dark cackled and jerked. Meanwhile Dark Chica had started barking along excitedly and doing tippy-tappies, happy to see her dad laughing this hard. Unus giggled along, giving Dark’s arms a squeeze.
‘I think you’ve got his sweet spot.’
‘Mm so do I, I wonder if he’s considering a little confession yet?’
‘It’s hard to tell, I think we keep this up for a few minutes.’
‘Fine by me.’
And so they did. Five minutes objectively is not such a long time, unless you’re being tickled of course. Then it might as well be five centuries! Dark was helpless as his knees were tickled within an inch of their life, his suit trousers offering no protection as misty grey tears built in his eyes. Eventually he knew he had to do it. He had to admit defeat, though it pained him to even think of it.
‘THIHIHIS IHIS TOHOHORMENT!!’
‘It doesn’t have to be a torment, you know what we wish to hear.’
‘YOHOHOU AHARE EHEVIHIL!!’
‘I shall take that as a compliment.’
Annus smirked as Dark let out yet another howl of laughter… before he finally conceded.
‘ALRIHIGHT ALRIGHT IHIHI’M TIHICKLISH DAMNIT IHI’M TICKLIHIHISH!!’
Unus and Annus shared a satisfied grin, before they released him carefully from their tickly grip. He remained on the carpet, and slowly rolled into his side and tucked his knees up to his chest as he panted. He closed his eyes for a few moments, his smile lingering as he felt himself start to calm down. When he opened his eyes, and before he could say a word, he was greeted by Dark Chica lying by him on her belly. She licked his cheek, and he huffed fondly.
‘You were absolutely no help.’
She boofed happily and licked his nose, making him laugh as he sat up – naturally she flopped in his lap, earning her some affectionate belly scratches as her tail thumped rhythmically on the floor. Dark looked between Unus and Annus, his eyes narrowed yet warm.
‘You’re both lucky I value our friendship.’
‘And we value yours.’
Annus replied as Unus grinned, before sitting close so he could scratch behind Dark Chica’s ears softly. Dark smiled lightly as he and Annus shared another look… and Dark was surprised to see Annus’ expression turn soft.
‘It’s endearing.’
‘What is?’
Dark asked. Unus and Annus shared another look, and Unus replied.
‘To know you’re as ticklish as the rest of us.’
Dark huffed and rolled his eyes, but nevertheless felt the warmth of the sentiment the existential pair exuded as they all sat there together. It didn’t take long for them to get comfortable in the soothing room with countless blankets, with the sweetest (and most attention-seeking) puppo in existence. They were a dark group indeed, right to each of their cores… but even so, there was no-one there who was above a smile.
WOOOO HOPE YOU LIKED THIS FIC (SORRY IT TOOK A WHILE!) LEMME KNOW IF YA DID WOOO LUV YOUS!!
#markiplier#markiplier egos#unus annus#unus#annus#darkiplier#dark#platonic#sfw#prompt#ego fic#ego fanfic#tword fic#tword fanfic#tword#twords#twording#twordish#luv these spooky lads
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lupine
Summary: Dark gets himself in trouble, and the PA is the only one who can help. (werewolf!Dark au)
Pairing: Damien/Dark x DA/PA
Warnings: None really, just awkwardness, fluff, and angst
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It started with, of all things, a handkerchief.
One wouldn't think it, given the absolute state of devastation the studio is in. Lights and cameras alike toppled, glass littering the ground, holes in fake walls and shredded fabric draped over the skeletons of sets; a haze of smoke even hangs over the studio like an irritable cloud, the crackle of flames in some distant corner the clear culprit.
Above it all, the screaming.
“You mopped up all your blood with my hanky! I think that’s a problem, Host!”
“The Host scoffs. He never stole Bim Trimmer’s handkerchief; he would at the very least ask permission.”
Dark groans. Even from the void, the screeching and the arguing worms into his skull, pounding against the walls until it aches. That shouldn’t even be possible, given the circumstances, and yet.
Bim marches up, tossing the blood-dotted cotton cloth at Host’s chest. It connects with the softest thump and tumbles to the floor. “Who else is bleeding all the time? You’re paying for my dry cleaning!”
“The Host-“
“Oh, I was wondering where that went.” Wilford pops in from nowhere in particular to scoop up the crumpled hanky, wrapping it around one finger. “Say, thanks for finding it.”
Dark groans again, his impossible headache multiplying at both Wilford’s obnoxious aura and the extra noise. Cursing under his breath, he crosses through the void to appear before the three men. “That’s enough,” he grumbles, extending just a bit of power to darken the room. A bit of presence never hurt. “Wil, give it back.”
“But I have butterfly knife cuts,” Wilford protests, just as Bim squawks a scandalized, “Not with his blood on it!”
“The Host would like to remind Bim Trimmer that he does, in fact, eat raw humanoid meat.”
“It’s not raw,” Bim snaps, then turns to Dark. “He should at least clean it first. I demand—“
“But yours are the softest and most absorbent—“
“The air flickers as the Host describes it, flashing red and cyan—“
Gritting his teeth, because his borrowed heart pounding so hard can only be a precursor to even worse havoc, Dark takes a void portal out of the studio.
It’s only gotten worse over time. Everyone arguing over this, that, and the other, living in each other’s pockets— it was all bound to end in some kind of fight, given everyones volatility.
Starting with squabbles over dinner, over driving, escalating to room assignments and scheduling conflicts… now, apparently, over personal property.
He used to get headaches, being the mayor of such a large city. The stress of his job practically guaranteed it, a dependency on caffeine and workaholism resulting in little sleep only compounding the issue. Hell, before that night he was finally wearing down enough to see someone about it.
Now, the doctor’s out of the question, and they’re closer to a bomb going off inside his head.
Run it off, hunt, fight.
Dark sighs. The wolf doesn’t help matters.
Ever since he took this body— he regrets it, regrets it every day— he took in the wolf, as well; it’s the District Attorney’s long-held secret, finally come to light.
For the most part, it’s just another aspect of his new life. He’s a bit more irritable, his senses more powerful, but the wolf is content to take a back seat to more pressing matters it doesn’t have the cognitive wherewithal to care about.
When he gets frazzled, however…
He opens his eyes to find himself outside the manor, not in the void as he’d intended. Likely, the result of his wolf sensing conflict and wanting out, which explains—
Run it off!
It itches under his skin, tugging like— well, like an overexcited dog on a leash.
He isn’t fond of his friend’s final gift to him. Rolling his eyes, he shrugs off his suit jacket. No need to shell out for a second suit in a year.
He tries not to indulge the beast too often; God only know what may happen if he loses any more of his humanity to some creature he didn’t ask for. That said… it’s theirs, a last connection to who they once were.
In a strange way, taking care of their wolf feels like the least he could do, after…
Besides, the feeling of fully stretching into his paws, shaking out his thick black mane of fur just can’t be beat.
With surprising speed given his enormous size, he lopes off from his stash of clothes, paws pounding the grass and leaf litter. His markers aren’t fresh enough to the wolf’s liking, and it takes great care to sniff out the proper places to refresh: near the front gate, carefully skirt King’s grove so as not to interrupt, into the deep woods.
It’s where the wolf feels most at home, a great canopy overhead and underbrush hiding the most delicious and interesting scents. Thankfully, his body has no need for food, and so the wolf isn’t going to chase if he allows his mind to wander a little.
At least it’s a nice evening: a lovely sunset off to the west, visible in gaps through the trunks; a gentle breeze slowly cooling off the heat of the day. It’s enough that, with the exercise, he can start to cool his own ire and frustrations.
It’s simple enough to fix, really. A small portion of Bim’s costuming budget can cover new handkerchiefs, another restock of the first aid cabinet if Wil insists on practicing his butterfly knife.
Host can be left to his own devices, mostly, and the good doctor patches his eyes regularly.
No harm done. If only he’d kept his cool head after that night— goodness knows that’s what he really needs. Then again, what is the PA for?
Breaking his heart all over again, it seems. Their reactions, their looks, their mannerisms… it’s all his old friend, every last inch of them.
Just without the parts that remember.
Not for lack of trying, and not that they don’t remember, it’s only… faint. Patchy. A sense of deja vu or odd familiarity as opposed to smiling so big and bright when they see him, like they used to.
A whine bubbles up from the wolf’s throat involuntarily, and Dark quickly tries to shake it off. He can’t cry, and there’s no point in it, anyway. No matter how badly he’d like to.
It whines again, despite his control. Before he can begin to wrest away even more and properly manage his emotions, the wolf yelps and leaps back, scrabbling over the ground.
The sharp pain hits Dark just a moment later.
It’s like a wasp sting, sharp in his foreleg, and a burn spreading through the limb soon after. His attention now caught, Dark brings himself back to the front, scanning the ground for whatever may have caused it.
No snakes, no actual wasps. Just a patch of flowers, mixed in with the brambles.
Softly draped petals, a soft purple occasionally lightening to a lilac in the middle of the petals. The scent stings his nose powerfully, forcing him to draw back.
Aconite. Wolfsbane. Shit.
He bends his great head down to sniff out the damage. The brambles are easy enough to pick out, and the burn fades as quickly as they leave his skin, but it still smells of the stuff.
Unpleasant, but not deadly, not with such a small wound and concentration. Probably.
He doesn’t think he can die, anyway.
Regardless, this plant needs dealt with before he can run into worse trouble with it. He can’t touch it, but that’s the one positive side to his unholy powers: he doesn’t have to touch things to move them. He closes his eyes and thinks his way back to humanoid.
…
He peeks one eye open. He’s at the same height, a long furred muzzle right there when he crosses his eyes to look down it.
He shuts his eyes and tries to refocus. Humanoid. Skin. Two feet.
He feels no shift in perspective, no cool air against bared skin, nothing. Just a massive black wolf in a lot of trouble.
Shit.
—
Dark waits at the edge of the woods, debating himself.
On one hand, telling everyone about this will just make it more complicated for him. Only the good doctor really knows of his condition, medically necessary for the sake of keeping others at bay during full moons and other… unfortunate occurrences. Everyone else will either panic, try to use his new form for ill, or make fun, and none of those sound like a mess he wants to deal with.
On the other…
He feels a begrudging fondness for his collection of Mark’s cast-offs, and he knows that it’s returned, if only as an equally-begrudging respect of his position. If he were to go missing, the entire manor would worry.
The entire manor would mount a search party for their wayward leader, and likely get into even worse trouble along the way. Not even to mention the disasters that would occur without him running around and putting out fires.
They’d even rope in the PA, and that…
That would happen either way, wouldn’t it? They’ve never been able to leave him to his own devices.
He at least tries to make himself smaller as he pads up to the back door, finding only a touch of difficulty with the handle. His forepaws are hand-like enough that they retain some dexterity; it’s the fitting through the door with his bulk that’s the problem.
Mid-wedging himself through the door, his sensitive ears catch a ping, the rush of electricity that signals a Google is on the way. In less than a second, their home defense officer— Red, as the most outwardly aggressive— stands before him.
“Stand back. Unidentified Intruder, you have approximately five seconds before—“ He pauses, brow furrowing. “Hold for a scan.”
If this is how he would treat any intruder, Dark thinks, it’s a good thing he can feel anyone getting too close, himself. He grumbles at the ticklish beam of light sweeping over his front.
Red reads the scans, but his abnormal confused expression doesn’t change. “What? You can’t possibly be—“
Dark gives him an icy stare, the deepest rumble in his chest he can manage.
Red simply blinks before his chest light blinks on. “… Paging Dr. Iplier.”
--
"Well... are you sure you aren't dying?"
Dark curls his lip, showing one fang lethal white.
"Right," Edward Iplier sighs, pushing back even further from Dark's hulking form on his wheeled stool. He can't get much further than a few inches before bumping into the wall of the clinic. "Well, you aren't. Your scratch is healing up, you aren't sick. You're just stuck."
Dark snorts. He had figured out as much on his own, and it didn't take a doctorate-- or a fake doctorate-- to do it.
"Unfortunately, I'm not exactly an expert on lycanthropy. Hell, you gave me the basics of the condition when I wasn't even sure if it was real." Edward spins a bit towards the counter, flipping through Dark's file. "Though I don't think any of the mythology mentions a werewolf getting stuck as a result of wolfsbane. Lost clothes or true love seeing them, perhaps, but not wolfsbane."
He looks back over his shoulder with a small grin. "Unless you happened to see the PA out on your adventure."
Immediately, Dark bares his full array of teeth in a snarl. As he does, however, the room flashes in red and cyan, the first expression of his power since his unfortunate brush with wolfsbane.
Edward looks up to it just as he does, mystified. "Fascinating," he murmurs, and then-- "Hold on... actually, that just might explain it. We have no idea how varying sources of magic interact. Perhaps the sources that give you control of the void and this wolf form are at odds; the wolfsbane is only the catalyst."
It would sound stupid, and he might scoff if he weren't in this particular predicament, but...
Well, it's a better explanation than any other they've had thus far.
"The only issue there is, well... when it wears off." Edward frowns, drumming his fingers on his knee in thought. "I can do some research. Look into people more well-versed in magic than myself. If not a ready solution, they may be able to whip something up."
Dark stares him down.
"... it might be a while," Edward says sheepishly. "I can't guarantee finding someone fast, or how long any cure might take. You'll have to be a wolf for... a while. I'm sorry."
He'd say he isn't proud of snarling in the terrible doctor's face and storming out, but... he is.
--
He can’t do his job like this.
He has no powers like this— at least, not without extreme emotion— and his canine muzzle and throat make speech impossible. Even his forepaws, human-like as they are, are too unwieldy and large to write little notes on time sheets properly.
Besides, the gentler egos like Eric are terrified of him.
… More than usual. He just catches whiffs of clean laundry and pants-shitting Terror. Figuratively.
God, is he thankful it’s figurative.
Eventually, he just storms off the set, wedging his way out of the door and padding up the stairs. He’s no use being present for the filming, not until they need a massive wolf-creature for some project.
… Which might be an idea, really. He’ll… try to write it down. Perhaps writing big is the answer.
Thankfully, there’s scratch paper and pens on his desk, neatly placed as he prefers it to be. Granted, it’s quickly undone by a sweep of his huge paw, but a little mess is better than a broken drawer or cabinet door off its hinges.
The pens are newly tiny, and he needs to hold them as gently as he can in order to not squeeze them and get ink all over his pads. One in paw, he slides over a fresh sheet and touches the pen to paper.
He meant to make a big and legible list for the PA to work with when they eventually arrive, but—
The handwriting looks even worse than his very first attempt. As a child.
Dark grumbles, shoving the paper away to replace with a second fresh sheet. Breathe, slower, bigger letters. Don’t think too much about it.
Better, actually legible, but he’s going to run out of paper; the title ‘PA’ takes up an entire sheet, itself.
The wolf hates the tiny, focused movements anyway, grumbling to him about the growing cramp in his forepaw. There’s no point in making strange marks. To the wolf, it’s worthless— and anything without a point is not worth its attention.
Dark casts the pen aside, giving a frustrated huff. Being unable to communicate is worthless, and if he can’t speak or write—
His eyes catch the keyboard. It’s dusty, just as the monitor and tower of his computer. It’s well past his time, not to his tastes, but the more tech savvy egos insisted he have one in his office, just in case.
There are letter keys. Probably some way to speak the words aloud. It shouldn’t be too difficult to figure out, right?
He lifts one big paw to hover over the keys.
Nope. His ‘fingers’ are big enough to hit several keys at once, and if he were to use a claw to hunt and peck, he might just pierce the damn thing.
With a groan, he lowers his massive head to the desk with a soft thump, closing his eyes.
In too short a time, his ears perk at the softest knock— a familiar one, with an equally familiar scent. Fuck.
“Hey, Dark? It’d be really helpful if you actually came down. That was a little— we’re missing you down here. Things are a bit chaotic and I can really only handle so much of…” The PA sighs wearily. “All of that.”
Dark doesn’t answer. He can’t, and barks and growls and grumbles won’t really give them the excuse they’re looking for.
“Dark? I understand that this might be your own work hours, you might be busy, but— I really need your help here.”
The doorknob rattles, then turns, his office door slowly pushing inward to let in a thin stream of golden light.
He can’t let them see him. Dark scrabbles back a bit, claws catching on the fine rug, but it’s little use; he might have midnight-black fur, but he’s eight feet on his hind paws and hundreds of pounds of muscle. His head might just duck under the desk, but his shoulders are a no-go.
“PA. What are you doing up here?”
“Huh? Oh, hi, Google. I need to speak to the boss really quick.”
Oh, bless Google. He can’t say which of the four they are from sound alone, but if it gets the PA out of here, they’ll all get a reward.
“Oh, perhaps you haven’t been notified. Dark is indisposed at the moment, he won’t be able to meet you.”
“Really?” He can hear the raised eyebrow. “I don’t buy it. He leaves his static everywhere he goes, I can feel it.”
… does he? Dark sneaks a peek at his furred arm, but his fur lies flat.
“That may be, but you really shouldn’t—“
“It’s an emergency, it can’t wait,” the PA interrupts, and then, “Okay, Google, could you go check on the brawl downstairs? Thank you very much.”
Their saccharine sweet request is quickly followed by Google’s chime, and the door pushes open the rest of the way, filling the space with light.
Despite his best efforts, he can’t make himself any smaller.
“I’m sorry for bursting in, Dark, but this is really— huh?” Their steps slow, still coming for his desk. “Are you hiding behind..? What is that?”
He can’t freeze and hope they’ll forget or get distracted; they’re too clever and stubborn for that, and he knows it well. With a groan, he scoots back and allows himself to peek over the polished top of his desk.
Framed by the hall light, the PA indeed looks just the same, but more ruffled, hair and clothes mussed and the bloody scent of blooming bruises and cuts on their skin.
Beyond that, their jaw hangs open, eyes wide; they remain this way, simply staring, for what seems like hours. Then, very quietly, they manage to say, “Dark?”
Begrudgingly, he nods.
After a second, they mirror his nod. “Okay,” they reply, a touch faint. “Well- first things first, do you think you can scare them straight? Ah… out of trouble?”
Adaptable and unflappable, that’s his— that’s… admirable.
A little scare would do them all some good if they’re forgetting human fragility.
He passes them on all fours, hoping to be a bit less intimidating and perhaps fit through the door better. By their muttered curse— “What the fuck?”— and his stilted push through the frame, one shoulder at a time, he fails on both accounts.
There’s a brawl, alright— he can hear the shouting before he even reaches the studio door. God only knows what it could be about.
Or, perhaps, the PA. He glances back over one shoulder.
They’re following him, at least, and they hesitate only a step before sending him a shrug. “I don’t even know with them, sometimes. They won’t listen to me. Or the time out alarm. Or klaxon. Or siren.”
Then it’s definitely an emergency— the siren usually does the trick, if not the klaxon. Good thing they came up to find him, if only to keep everyone from finally managing to kill each other.
Permanently, that is.
He only takes a moment to survey the scene once the PA opens the door. Much like last time, lights and chairs have toppled, shouting matches in each corner.
Dark sends one more pointed look back before taking a deep breath and letting out a piercing howl, cutting through the din and echoing off each wall.
When the sound finally stops resonating, both in his chest and off the walls, he takes a look around with his best glare. One could hear a pin drop, the squabbling egos looking over with wide eyes and thundering hearts.
Unfortunately, he can’t smile in this form.
“Alright,” the PA calls, coming from behind him with their hands still firmly over their ears. “You heard him, that’s enough. Now, clean up so we can get back to work? We’re behind enough as it is.”
Any almost-rebuttals quickly fall silent as Dark turns the full focus of his stare, and before long the multitudes are cleaning up in dutiful silence.
Really, he ought to do this more often.
Beside him, the PA sighs and lowers their hands. “Thank you, Dark. I wouldn’t have bothered you if I’d known… how did this whole thing happen?”
Dark huffs, ears twisting back.
“You can’t talk— I’m guessing it’s also a long story?” They wince sympathetically when he manages a nod. “Well… I know you’re pretty self-sufficient, but… if there’s anything I can do for you?”
Not unless they know magic, and… he wouldn’t ask it of them, anyway. After everything that happened…
Once more, without his permission, the wolf whines. He really needs to get himself—
“Oh, no, hey…”
The gentleness in their voice forces him to look, and they’re so soft. Their eyes to their soft frown to the gentle and careful hand reaching out for him; they’re soft and caring and them.
Trying so hard when his father died, even though he was a bastard no one should shed their tears over. When he didn’t make councilman his first attempt, arms tight around his shoulders.
When Mark—
He growls and backs up a step, only showing a hint of teeth. He’s not about to bite, or even snap, but he can’t.
Their hand pulls back instantly. “I’m sorry,” they murmur softly. “I won’t touch. I’ll see what I can do to help you out, okay? I’m sure you miss being… you.”
They have no earthly idea, and it kills him.
—
He opts to stay in the studio for the next while. Perhaps he may be unable to write time codes or give verbal direction, but no further outbursts occur with him sitting behind the cameras.
It isn’t to say that no one gets close, but as hearts race and scents turn acrid, the involved parties give him a quick, nervous glance before dropping the matter. If he’d known it’d be this easy, he’d have been in wolf form quite a bit more.
Perhaps not, though, as now that the issue is dealt with, the wolf gets… distracted.
It’s not an unusual thing, the wolf going off on some tangent or rabbit trail, following what piques its interest rather than what Dark would like it to do; fair enough, considering he’d rather it rest very quiet and patient in the back of his mind. This, however…
Sunscent blood. Who? What? We have to take care.
Firstly, sunscent. Undoubtedly its name for the PA, a scent and presence as close to a sunny meadow as he’s been able to feel in ages, and now marred by the metallic twang of blood.
Not that he likes it much, either. Even were he humanoid, he’d rush them off to Edward’s office before returning with an even firmer hand. It’s a poorly-kept secret how deep his fondness really lies.
The wolf, though, is a different story.
It wants… things. Things he’d be mortified to express, and the simple thought of it embarrasses him enough, already.
Herd them off to be treated, then somewhere safe and quiet. Tuck them in and curl around them so that they’ll be well-protected and warm, nuzzled into his fur.
At the very deepest part of him, how different is it than what he wanted as Damien, really? Wanting to keep them, however he could, to the point of flying in the face of his entire political career. He always wanted that.
The freshest deer is a bit of a change, but the principal is the same as their favorite meal.
And that’s not even getting into how much it wants to—
He groans to himself, ears hot, putting his head on his paws. Of course the wolf would also be… less proper.
The PA peers back at him, brow furrowed in concern. “Are you alright? It won’t be too much longer, but if you need to go, that’s okay.”
He gives a single thump of his tail, remaining immobile otherwise. He’s not going anywhere.
Not that the wolf would let him if he even wanted to.
That’s why, when he opens his eyes from a slight doze, the fact that they’re gone sends him into a bit of a panic.
He can’t get control of the thing before the wolf scrambles to its paws, shoving out past the chairs and cameras to the door, sniffing. The scent trails down the hallway, up the flight of stairs, and he follows it like a homing beacon.
All the while, Dark scolds and threatens. Damn it, you cur, calm down! They’re somewhere here, you don’t need to follow their every move!
Find them. Hurt, have to look after.
They aren’t that hurt. They probably went to the doctor, if anything, so can you calm down?
The wolf doesn’t calm down, but ceases to sniff in order to make a beeline directly for Edward’s office. As he approaches, his ears perk up, catching soft voices on the other side of the door.
“… you don’t know what to do.”
Edward sighs. “I’m no magician. I can patch up a cut, but something like this—“
“Well, you need to try harder,” the PA snaps, their hissing at the end coming from a place of pain rather than anger. “There has to be something to bring him back.”
“I am trying.” Though he sounds like a wellspring of patience, there’s a twinge to his stinging antiseptic scent that belies his frustration. “It’s not easy to find a magical expert, you know.”
“Shows what you know. I know—“Then, hesitantly… “I’m sorry, I… I don’t know where that came from. I don’t know. I’ll get to looking, too, see what I can find.”
They know… what do they know? As far as Dark’s aware, the only mage they’ve met in any capacity is…
They couldn’t remember Celine, could they?
“I accept the apology. I understand you’re worried, too. Anything to help would be much appreciated.” A drawer closes, and fingers drum on a solid surface briefly. “… you know, while we search, I think there’s something else you could do.”
“What is it?”
Dark also leans forward, intrigued.
“He seems more settled around you, always has. I think it’ll do him some good if you stick around until we find a solution; it might help him stay himself, and less upset, besides.”
What would be better for him and his meddling: a ripped up lab coat, or a new set of equipment? Both, perhaps, given the double-edged sword either option presents. Either stay himself at the cost of being reminded of the old them every moment, or be able to avoid the memory at the cost of losing himself to the wolf; either way, it’s a rotten deal.
“… I think I can make that work,” they murmur. “As long as I can, anyway. Mark can get… you know.”
… He can handle the memories.
Not wanting to be caught eavesdropping, he makes himself slink back to the studio. Once back to his spot, he curls up and pretends to doze once more.
They’ll come looking for him soon enough, and when they do…
Their babysitting won’t be hell on Earth. Mostly.
—
He escorts them to their room the next day when they arrive with a larger suitcase than usual.
Sure, anyone else could, and they’ve been here often enough to find it on their own, but it’s only polite.
That, and the wolf wants to stay right by their side and moon.
He did it enough already as a human, he doesn’t need to do it more.
“I know it’s probably weird and you don’t like it,” the PA explains as they lug their suitcase into the room, “but… well, I’ll be honest with you. They think someone keeping you company will help you out while they look for an answer.”
It’s certainly weird, he can agree, but as for disliking it? He’s thankful he can’t speak. Rather, he wags his tail once.
“Yeah, okay. It won’t be so bad. I even have an idea for your communication problem, I think!” The PA unzips their bag, digging through various bits and bobs in search of… something.
Finally, when what he hopes is almost everything they carry in that damned thing lies on the bed, they pull out a notebook. “See? You can tell everyone what you think!”
He blinks at them, then slowly shakes his head. With one paw, he mimes writing with a pen before crushing it into an almost-fist.
“No, I figured as much. That’s why I filled part of it out.” With a smile, they flip open the notebook, turning pages for him to see.
He’ll admit, it’s clever; in their neatest and clearest large print, they’ve labeled pages with simple responses: yes, no, perhaps. There are even a few delineating needs like office work, down time, fresh air.
“And,” they continue, flipping to blank pages, “there’s space to add more. Like if you want to yell at someone or give some order. Or tell someone to fuck off if you want.”
Dark snorts, amused. What he would not have given to have that ability as the mayor.
The PA smirks. “I figured you’d like something like that. I think you’re allowed to say it, considering— you deal with enough.
“Also,” they continue, whipping out their pen to add to the collection, “it has thicker pages so it’s easier with your claws, and I put a long string through the rings so you can carry it around. How does that sound?”
They think of everything, don’t they? He thumps his tail in approval, bowing his great head when they reach out to loop it around his neck. It rests comfortably, little weight or texture to bother him.
“Is that good? Any changes, Dark?”
He lifts the book to scan through his responses. Finally, he settles on Not yet.
“Good! That’s what the other pages are for.” They smile at him, the sort of smile that makes the wolf want to jump up on the bed beside them and curl up. “I’m gonna settle in a little. Meet you down there in twenty.”
He forces himself down with the promise of being able to use his fuck off one time. It’s hard to choose, really, and a close race, but Bim gets it.
If Blue wasn’t going to be so stoic about everything, he’d have the honor. Alas.
—
First things first, now that he has a follower with hands, that wolfsbane patch has to go.
The trouble is in getting them to understand what he wants them to do.
“I know you want me to follow you outside,” the PA says with thinly-veiled frustration, “but why? You can do whatever it is you do out there on your own, can’t you?”
Dark grumbles and nudges at them, gently as he can. It still nearly knocks them off their feet.
“Hey! Don’t manhandle me,” they spit, glaring up at his full height. “Listen, if you want it so bad, I can go out in a minute. What do you even want me for, anyway?”
Frustrated, he flips through his pages and shrugs, lifting to them emphatically. How the hell is he supposed to do that?
Thankfully, the PA is smart enough to put the pieces together. “I didn’t cover every base. Hmm… oh, okay, just give me a few minutes— may I see your book?”
Gingerly, he hands over the notebook, watching as the PA scribbles on various fresh pages. It only takes a few minutes before they hand it back, and he curiously flips through the new entries.
“An alphabet for you,” they explain, and it is: three or four letters to a page, big enough to be visible and point to without muddying the word. “It’ll be slow, but it’s better than getting upset with each other. Now, literally, spell it out for me.”
He huffs a laugh, raising one claw. Wolfsbane patch. Remove it.
The PA mutters along, writing on their own notes to keep track. “Wolfsbane— oh! You mean that part is really..?”
He nods, shivering at the memory of burning scent and pain. Unfortunately.
“Well, if you’re going to be running around out there, yeah.” They close their notes and scoot back from the desk. “I’ll go see if I can scrape up some tools, I’ll meet you outside.”
It’s endearing, seeing them with big shears and a bucket and gardening gloves. All they’d really need is a sun hat to be the picture of a gardener. At the very least, it’s sweet enough that he doesn’t mind taking his time in walking through the woods while they pick through at their own pace.
“I knew wolves had big territories,” they comment, only a little out of breath as they slide down a small hill behind him, “but I didn’t really think you’d take the time to build one up. It… doesn’t seem high on your priority list.”
He huffs an agreement, too busy walking ahead to pull out his notebook. They’re right, a territory wouldn’t be very pressing— except the wolf needs a space to call its own. More than just the confines of a big house, anyway.
He can smell the aconite before he can see it, his lip curling in distaste as he forces the wolf to get closer to the scent of bad danger. He had to have been really lost in thought to miss it before.
“Is this..? Oh, jeez.” The PA stope beside him, eyeing the patch of flowers mixed into the brambles. “That’s… a lot of trouble.”
Dark eyes them curiously. The PA leans back away from the flowers, an uncomfortable expression on their face as they take it all in, which strikes him as supremely odd; humans can’t smell it like he can, won’t be repulsed by the mere brush of the petals against there skin. To them, it should just be a flower.
It isn’t, though. It isn’t upset at the size of the job, but the nature of the job. The flowers, not the brambles, but the PA smells of nothing but human.
… could it be a memory?
“You weren’t kidding.” The PA sighs, the tension falling out of their shoulders. “Okay, this might take a little while. Make sure nothing comes to eat me while I’m toiling away, alright?”
And it’s gone. It never lasts forever, does it? He gives them an agreeing rumble and settles down to wait, alternating watching them dig and scanning the trees.
For both of them, it’s boring work. The PA cuts, scoops, dumps, tugs and mutters at the brambles, over and over; the only sound of progress being the rustling of plant matter falling into their bucket.
As for him, there’s little to do. No creature in their right mind would tangle with the combined scent of wolf and human coming from this area. The repetitive rustling grows stale fast, and he can’t even really enjoy the PA’s subtle scent, tinged with wolfsbane as it is.
If it wasn’t necessary, he wouldn’t have insisted, that’s for sure.
When the PA is nearly done, their bucket brimming with flowers, something snaps out in the woods. They don’t seem to hear it, but Dark dials in, ears and nose turning to the sound.
Danger. Keep away from them.
He bares his teeth, a subsonic growl in his chest as his hackles raise.
“Dark?” The PA pushes back their hair, giving him a look. “What is it? What’s out there?”
He can’t see anything through the underbrush, the trees obscuring anything closer to his own height, but the wolf has other senses. Softer snapping, rustling— the sounds of eyestalking, an ambush predator waiting for the right moment.
Besides that, it smells… smells of earth and smoke and rot.
And oranges.
His growl rises to a snarl as he backs up towards the PA, keeping himself fully in between them and the being in the woods.
“Dark?” They rustle behind him, the soft thump of their shears to the ground. “Alright, we should go, then. We can— we can come back and get rid of the rest of it.”
A smart idea. As much as he hates turning his back on a threat, Dark turns around to herd the PA ahead of him, out of the woods. It’d be faster to carry them out, really, the lingering wolfsbane of their gloves be damned.
Anything to get them away from that scent.
A glass of orange juice, a veritable grove on his estate— Mark always loved his oranges.
—
No.
“You’re gross. You’re getting in the tub.”
Dark curls his lip to bare fang. No. I’m a grown man.
“You’re an overgrown baby,” the PA snaps. “A grown man would accept help when it’s being offered— I’m embarrassed, too, but you’ve been running around for a week getting into who knows what. Even if you weren’t, you still get greasy and smelly.”
He grumbles. The gall— he smells like a wolf, thank you. Just as a wolf should—
Should…
He’s not a wolf.
He may not eat but damn it if he doesn’t keep himself clean and neat. His suits are always pressed, his hair always clean.
Besides… he has been a little itchy of late.
With a second, more begrudging rumble, he lowers his head. Yes. I can do it.
The PA grimaces. “As much as I’d love to leave you to your own devices… you don’t really bend or grab well enough, anymore. Besides, you have more fur than just on your head, now.
“I don’t want to do it,” they add at his pointed look. “It’s extremely odd to be washing my boss. But you need the help and… it’s not like you’re in a human body right now. I’ve washed a dog before, it can’t be that different.”
A little hurtful, really. He’s not a wolf but he certainly isn't a dog.
“Here, I’ll cut you a deal, okay? Anything on your front and below the waist is yours to deal with. I’ll get the stuff you can’t reach.” They hold out a hand. “Deal? And I won’t use the strong scent stuff. I’ll find something mild.”
He’s still displeased, but… they aren’t giving up on this, and he’d like to not it h and shed anymore. With a sigh, he gives them his massive paw. It’s easily twice the size of their hand, but they shake it firmly anyway.
They keep their promise with the shampoo, at least. It’s in a massive container, but it has a subtle clean scent and promises to be good for dog fur. Which is close enough, if insulting.
Few bathtubs would be large enough, but Wil likes to luxuriate now and then, and he’s off doing who knows what— probably in his disco with his beau— so it’s free and clear. Small, still, but free.
The PA handles any water dealing, turning taps and testing until they’re satisfied with the temperature. “I can’t fill it up a lot,” they say apologetically, “just because of your mass, but it should cover you pretty well once you get in.”
True to their word, the warm— really, bordering on hot, how do they stand it?— water covers him a decent amount, enough to feel like he’s actually bathing and not just sitting in a puddle.
“So, um…” The PA busies themself in handing over the soap. “You can… do your half. Just woof or growl or… whatever when you’re done, okay?”
They smell of spice, embarrassment. He can’t blame them— this is the most awkward situation he’s been part of since…
Well, at least since university.
Once his cleaning regiment is finished, which is about as easy as the PA initially said it would be, given his limited mobility, he gives them the promised woof through the door.
“Good?” They peek around the corner, then smile. “Good! Okay, now just get comfortable. As much as you can, anyway— I’m probably going to have to pour the water on you. Sorry.”
He grumbles. Whatever gets it over with faster.
It’s unpleasant at first, his fur sodden and too warm, the cooler soap a shock against his skin, but…
He has to admit it. The PA has incredible fingers.
They don’t scratch him with fingernails, don’t scrub too hard, but the pressure they use is just right, soaping up his mane in repeated circles. It soothes his itchy skin, a gentle and caring touch that just makes sense from them.
He slumps further and further into the tub as they work, sleeves rolled up to their elbows as they work in pleasant silence. His eyelids grow heavy, and he rests his chin on the side of the tub, grumbling quietly.
“See? Not so bad.” Their voice is quiet, too, a hint of a smile in their tone, and their hands move to get his neck, his chin.
The wolf adores that, loving attention and deference from his—
It doesn’t matter what the wolf thinks of them, but it does feel good, and it isn’t fully the wolf that whines when they move to take their hands away.
The PA laughs quietly. “If you didn’t have fur I’d say you’ll get prunes. I’m rinsing you, just be forewarned.”
It’s not half as nice as their gentle fingers in his fur, but he must admit he feels better, clean and relieved of his burden of twigs and dirt and loose fur.
Fuck the comb, though. God, he hates combs.
—
It’s late at night, and they’re still working.
Granted the PA is in bed, but the lamp remains on and a book remains in their hands, their face determined as they scan the pages.
He knows that look. Study focus— they could be at this for hours more if left unchecked.
He grumbles from the doorway, only poking his head in.
“I’m a little busy,” they say, absently. “Just give me a minute.”
Sounds about the same, too. He pushes his way through the door and pads to the bed, placing his forepaws on the covers and grumbling again. Bed. Sleep.
“I said it’ll be a minute.” They flip a page.
They may be stubborn, but he remembers his tricks from long before their memory begins. He hefts himself up on the bed, grabs the book in one forepaw, and sweeps it under their extra pillow.
“Hey! I was reading that!” The PA glares at him, trying to reach past his bulk to grab the book. It’s to little avail, given his size; they simply end up pressing into his mane. “Move!”
Rather than follow orders, he flops on top of the pillow. No, he says with his notebook. Sleep.
“You’re such an ass,” they mutter. “I can push you off this bed, you know.”
He snorts. No, they couldn’t, not without some serious backup from someone a lot stronger. He’ll be staying right here until they go to sleep, one way or another.
Finally, the PA sighs. “Fine, I’ll go to sleep. Are you really going to hog my bed like this?”
In reply, he simply gets comfortable, curling in his hind legs and tail.
He doesn’t expect them to curl into him, burrowing into his mane, and he lifts his head curiously.
“I hold that pillow when I sleep,” they murmur. “So if you’re taking it, I’m holding onto you. If you don’t like it, you can go.”
The thing is, he does. His wolf is content with keeping them close and safe, and he’s always wanted to hold them near and dear since he was truly himself, all those years ago.
Hell, they used to do this very thing in university, after long nights of either studying or partying. It was easier and more comfortable than drawing straws over the floor, and it was never that awkward waking up in the morning sprawled across each other.
The only difference is their hand stroking his mane, rather than his their hair.
“You’re really soft. Bath was a good idea.” They shuffle a little to breathe while still remaining curled up into his side. “You really don’t mind? This isn’t just a weird power play?”
He huffs a laugh.
“I’ll take that as a no.”
They’re quiet for a long time, stroking his fur and breathing deeply. Dark is almost certain they’ve finally fallen asleep when they speak up again.
“… Your name can’t really be Dark, can it? That’s just what people call you.”
He looks down at them curiously. That’s a line of questioning they’ve never gone down before, and one he ached for them to attempt. If they knew his name in tandem with his face, with their bits of memory…
Maybe it would all come back.
“What is it actually, if you don’t mind me asking? Like— you can tell me to fuck off if you want, but… I’d like to know.”
They scoot back some so he can fumble with his notebook, flipping to the alphabet pages. Slowly, he spells it out: Damien.
The PA reads it as carefully as they do everything he says, mouthing the letters as he points them out. “Damien,” they murmur, brow furrowing. “Damien… that sounds familiar.”
His heart skips a beat.
“I’ll think of it later, I’m sure. Right now, I’m actually pretty sleepy— guess you caught me before I passed out,” they laugh. With a sigh, they tuck back into his mane. “Good night, Damien. It was nice meeting you again.”
The again catches in his mind, rolling over and over, but he can’t take a moment to really consider the possibilities; just as they snuggle back in, he feels… odd.
Not quite so big, not quite so wild. Beyond that— cold.
He looks down at himself just as a confused PA does, brow furrowed. “What—“
“Damien?” The PA’s eyes widen and the scramble back. “You— you’re back to normal!”
It’s true. No more thick black fur, no claws or muzzle or fangs. Rather, it’s his cool grayed skin, a humanoid figure with a scar in the gut, an old silvery mark on one forearm. “I… how?”
He winces at his own voice, rough from disuse, but the PA doesn’t seem to care. “I don’t know… there are a lot of legends and things, and— hell, maybe it finally wore off! How do you feel?”
Damien flexes his fingers, works his jaw. “Strange,” he replies, slowly. “I suppose I grew used to the wolf form. I— ought to leave.”
The PA opens their mouth— to protest?— before glancing down, then quickly back up to his face. “Yes, sure,” they say, staring very intently at his nose and not anywhere else. “Um. I’ll see you tomorrow, we’ll— we’ll tell everyone.”
“Yes.” He may be embarrassed at the nudity, but… “If you ever require a pillow to hold again… I’m not often busy this time of night.”
They pause, finally looking him in the eye. They search for some time, really searching for his sincerity “… really?”
He gives them a faint smile, just a corner of his mouth turning up. “What can I say? You’re awfully good at cuddling.”
Very slowly, bashfully, they smile back. “So are you. Good night, Damien. I’ll see you tomorrow— and I might take you up on that offer.”
The wolf can’t wait, and truthfully, neither can he.
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Nicotine
Read on Ao3
Pairing: Darkstache
Words: 2,040
Rating: Teen (for language)
Summary:
“Those things'll kill you, ya know,” a familiar voice chides behind him, interfering with the static of his mind.
Dark takes another drag, not bothering to look back.
“I’m already dead.”
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Past Loves
An ErSib fic based on the 2023 Turkish dizi EGO: Erkeğe Güven Olmaz, starring Melisa Aslı Pamuk & Alperen Duymaz
Due to popular demand, I have written an ErSib fanfic entitled Past Loves. It ties in the Cüneyt plot with the mysterious 3 days Erhan and Sibel spent in Antalya. As of writing, five chapters are out. I’ve cross-posted my fic to AO3 and Wattpad.
SUMMARY:
A story about ErSib from the Turkish dizi EGO: Erkeğe Güven Olmaz, starring Melisa Aslı Pamuk and Alperen Duymaz. Erhan knows Sibel is his and his alone. That she loves him as much as he loves her. He's sure that she's his soulmate, and that they'll spend the rest of their lives together.
However, Erhan can't shake the feeling that Sibel is hiding a huge chunk of her past from him. What will happen when he discovers her secret about her past love Cüneyt? And the 3 days he spent with Sibel all those years ago-how does it connect to Cüneyt and Sibel's secret?
Read it here on Wattpad or AO3 and please leave some comments and suggestions. Thank you!
📌 I’m also working on a CemKer one-shot and another ErSib fic about cheating…👀 So look out for that!
#ego#egodizi#Erkeğe Güven Olmaz#ErSib#alperen duymaz#Melisa Aslı Pamuk#ErSib fics#Sibel Koraslan#Erhan Yıldırım#ErSib fanfic#ErSib fanfics#ErSib fic#EGO fic#EGO fanfic#EGO fanfics#AlpMel#Melisa Pamuk#Melisa Asli Pamuk#dizi#caitlinfics
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Reading back all your ao3 comments is literally the highest form of self-care
#it's such an EGO BOOST#but damn it's so sweet seeing that ppl actually give a fuck about what you've written#especially for me who doesn't have object permanence#it's reaffirming seeing them and reminding myself it's all real and that I actually wrote my fic#like damn i did THAT#either way i love all of you forever <3#ao3#fanfiction#fanfic#w
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one of my favorite (/sarcastic but not really cuz its like funny idk) things in fandoms is when people make ocs or self inserts or 'x readers' being shipped with characters, but the oc/sona/reader is literally just another character from the source material.. its like youre shipping the characters but didnt want to admit it, so you made a kinsona and branded it as something else..
and its NEVER subtle, actually its super blatant every time and im always shocked when nobody points it out..
i have seen uncountable saiki k x readers where the description is like:
"saiki meets someone whose thoughts he cant read for the first time, and even though he doesnt trust her at first, she keeps proving that she is kind and has good intentions!" you mean nendo? reader is girl nendo?
"this time, he meets a girl whose thoughts honestly match up with her spoken words almost perfectly for the first time!" hairo. youre shipping saiki with girl hairo.
"saiki meets someone whose thoughts are too fast and jumbled to re-" ITS AKECHI, THATS AKECHI, ITS LITERALLY AKECHI.
"saiki meets someone whose just as immune to teruhashi as he is for the first and only tim-" this is hairo again, awe bae you secretly LOVE haisai ?!?
"saiki sees his old childhood friend for the first time in years after an incident caused them to be apart and then they fall in lov-" WHY DID YOU EVEN WRITE THIS AND NOT CALL IT SAIKECHI.
its even funnier when they say its like that characters little sister, but the way they write it is still literally just the character, like their personality, dialogue, even their relationship, is the same..
not all of them fit this exactly, but the ones that take a boy character and turn them into a girl oc to ship them with a boy, it reminds of how in equestria girls they couldnt make applejack and rarity endgame so they gave them boyfriends who looked IDENTICAL to each other.. thats what youre creating, guys, youre creating heterosexual rarijack.
#these r all very specific examples because ive seen all of them#MAKE UR KINSONAS SHAMELESSLY IF UR GONNA DO THIS BRO OMG#STOP PRETENDING ITS LIKE AN ORIGINAL CHARACTER IF UR JUST GONNA COPY IT ALL#i love kinsonas i would love to see actual kinsonas even if u structure them as 'x oc/reader'#none of these words are in the bible#say this to any not chronically online person and watch them short circuit#saiki k x reader fics are almost always like 'and then y/n SHATTERS TERUHASHIS EGO AND HUMBLES HER SO GOOD' ur sick in the head#x readers where they want to be the only person he likes and hes an asshole to everyone else also suck but-#people thinking he genuinely hates his friends is a phenomenon not exclusive to x readers lol its just far too common#sorry that was a side note#theyre not all bad#i dont even think the ones im talking about in the post are really bad- its just kinda dumb and silly#do what u want queens#saiki k#tdlosk#the disastrous life of saiki k.#saiki kusuo#meows post
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ACT 1, SCENE 3: blue lock headcanons
sae is into skincare: lotions, serums, the whole set. he and rin used to have self-care nights as children during which they would sit in bed with matching face masks and watch cartoons on the family tablet. if they were in a good mood, they would let you join.
barou listens to classical while working out. no joke. this man is so insanely focused he will shoot goals and play paganini at the same time. his work ethic is low-key why you were attracted to him the first place.
nagi is lazy to the point he will deliberately buy five pairs of the same exact pants just to save himself the trouble of having to choose an outfit in the morning. thank god for reo otherwise nagi would still be dressing like he just crawled out of bed. he still can't do much about his bedhead though.
rin desperately wanted to join sae in the deeper end of the community pool; however, he was deathly afraid of drowning. his only logical solution was to cover himself in pool floaties while he dipped a single toe into the water. even to this day, he still has traumatic memories of that experience. you need to hold his hand every time.
kaiser acts like his football prowess comes entirely from natural talent. in reality, he trains to an obsessive degree behind the scenes. you could come home at midnight, and he would still be there replaying every single highlight of his recent game. he is the type to keep detailed notes about all the players he went up against.
isagi likes to walk around his hometown of saitama and just observe the snapshots of life around him. whether it's a street vendor, children playing on a grass patch, or a couple in the sunset, he secretly enjoys these little vignettes of human experience. he would become sentimental when it comes to you. sometimes you have to pull his head out of the clouds.
nagi has parents who work overseas, so the most he sees of them is through video calls or holiday presents. occasionally, he also gets a birthday card shipped through international mail. when you threw him his first surprise party, he secretly felt touched because his family was never big on physical celebrations.
sae is ridiculously good at anything that involves data and calculations. he participated in a math competition one time in junior high, and he would have made it to the national level had he not been entirely focused on football. refused to tutor rin in algebra though because apparently his little brother has to figure out everything for himself. if it were you though, he would begrudgingly agree.
bachira holds the world record in procrastination. his notebook, pencil, and eraser are still as untouched and pristine as they were on the first day of the academic school year. he does not know what a book is, nor has he read one. he only studied because you refused to cuddle with him otherwise.
ego eats so many cups of instant ramen noodles that his glasses begin to fog up from time to time. anri has to clean the frames and lenses weekly just to make sure his myopic self can even see. at this point, she's the real MVP of the entire series.
barou likes to open the windows right after it rains because he enjoys the sweet smell of petrichor. his ideal day would be spent lounging on a couch with some tea and a novel. it would be even more perfect if you snuggled under the blankets with him.
niko sometimes wakes up in the middle of the night, immensely insecure about his forehead. he thinks it looks giant though it really isn't. you have to brush his fringe back and pepper kisses down his face and remind him that a big forehead means a big, sexy brain, so it really isn't that bad. he believes you and goes back to sleep.
shidou would make fun of boomers. in fact, he'd ridicule every single person he considers past their prime. he does not believe in any form of authority, nor does he like being told what to do. if he had his way, he would have turned the entire world into anarchy a long time ago. the only reason why he doesn't wake up and make himself everyone's problem is because he doesn't want to upset you.
kaiser knows he is very well-endowed physically, so he purposefully walks around your apartment shirtless. if he catches you eyeing him, he will make a big deal out of it. tries to not-so-subtly flex his biceps every time he reaches for the milk carton.
reo loves cocktail dresses, especially in the wine red shade. something about the accentuated figure and natural curves gives him goosebumps. his favorite part of you is when your tummy slightly protrudes after you've eaten too much. you might think it's embarrassing, but he thinks it's adorable.
rin only uses shower gel, mostly because he learned his lesson after using the locker room shower stalls. never use bar soap, always use bottled. he's also the type to always have shower shoes. sae taught him that.
bachira is the type of student to completely misread the question and still not feel bad after the teacher points it out. oh no, he was actually supposed to solve for x, not just circle it? he'll shrug it off like nothing ever happened. at least he tried. the teacher should be grateful for his effort.
sae says he does not understand the sentiments behind cute couple traditions but then proceeds to get upset when you show up to his game without wearing his jersey. would definitely get you matching bracelets for your anniversary.
aiku has a high spice tolerance. he would definitely drown his food either in sriracha or buldak sauce. if you can't handle spicy though, he would set aside a separate plate just for you and manually spoon out the food just to make sure you have something to eat too.
aryu never has dry cuticles. he is always trimming and filing to perfection. sometimes he has beef with your nail tech because he thinks he could have done so much better on your acrylics. refuses to let you go to a salon because he already has all the tools and expertise necessary.
sae does not know how to cook. his manager has always ordered take-out for him. the one time he tried to use a microwave, he completely misread the package instructions and nearly burned the entire building down. called you up with the straightest face afterwards to tell you that the smoke alarms were not shutting off.
barou unconsciously caves into peer pressure. every single new trend makes him rethink his personal style. however, he views it all with an old man mentality. like what are these youngsters doing these days? dying their hair every possible color of the rainbow? he has to do that too. proceeds to call aryu to add red streaks into his own hair. sometimes you have to remind him that external opinion should always taken with a grain of salt.
chigiri has a major sweet tooth. if you so much as bake him one single treat, he will have made plans to put a ring on your finger before he even finishes the damn pastry. his ideal partner is someone mature and understanding who can take care of him well. definitely likes the homemaker type.
gagamaru is the seeing friend in your relationship. no matter how many trips he makes to the optometrist, he will always come back with perfect 20/20 vision. definitely a nature enthusiast, and he loves hiking. even if you're blind as a bat, he will always be there to hold your hand in the dark.
© verysium 2023 / please do not translate, repost, or plagiarize any of my works
#blue lock#bllk#headcanons#fics#sae itoshi#barou shouei#nagi seishiro#reo mikage#rin itoshi#michael kaiser#isagi yoichi#bachira meguru#ego jinpachi#anri teieri#niko ikki#shidou ryusei#oliver aiku#aryu jyubei#chigiri hyoma#gagamaru gin#sae x reader#barou x reader#nagi x reader#reo x reader#rin x reader#michael kaiser x reader#kaiser x reader#isagi x reader#blue lock headcanons#bachira x reader
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Okay but imagine that you’ve fought alongside Ghost and have been friends with him for years before 141, and fast forward to today and you’re on a mission with Soap and occasionally he’ll slip in a little flirty comment or joke every now and again
And then Ghost is on the other end like “focus, sergeant 😒” cause he’s gettin a little jealous, let alone the fact Johnny was put on this mission with you and not him
And you’re just kinda standing there trying to complete the mission like “what’s the problem he‘s just being nice???🧍♀️”
#johnny doesn’t understand why simon is getting agitated#the reader is too tired for this#and fully know what’s going you just like the ego boost#might turn this into a fic#no this is not a ghoap style fic i’m sorry lol#just johnny going full little brother mode#call of duty#cod x reader#simon ghost riley#simon ghost riley x reader#simon riley#simon riley x reader#ghost mw2#ghost mw3#ghost x reader#johnny soap mactavish#johnny soap mctavish x reader#johnny mactavish#johnny mactavish x reader#soap mw2#soap mw3#soap x reader#rants n’ rambles#my posts#my writing
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extremely biased because they're my favorites but god i think damsel/tower would be such a fun combination
damsel: don't you just adore the sensation of your heart beating? all i want is to make him happy ^_^
tower, an equally fragile vessel, dispassionate as a result of her divine ascension, and disgusted by any acknowledgement she's still bound by flesh and desires: how i pity thee
#꒰ ✧ ꒱ wish upon a star#// i do think they'd initially be “friends” in the sense that the tower would develope a savior complex and try to rescue the damsel#// experiencing the pure mirth of saving a corrupted version of her old self - something dainty and weak and unworthy of worship#// and along the way through the damsel's influence she perhaps reclaims some of her humanity again#// not in a “taking her ego down a peg” way but being more comfortable with bruising and allowing herself to enjoy things below her status#// like i dunno i think it'd be neat. two princesses idolized to the point of having their humanity stripped of them getting to talk#// someone should write a vessel roadtrip fic or smth (that someone will probably be me)#slay the princess#the tower#the damsel
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Eat Your Ego, Honey ( Ch 8 )
homelander x oc 18+ escort services, sex work, voyeurism, stalking, Homelander in general. see ao3 link for detailed tags. chapter index. check out the playlist!
chapter summary: After the disastrous spectacle that was Homelander's birthday celebration, America's "disgraced" hero is forced to reconcile with the demons in his head, and what that means for Layla, the woman standing precariously in their path.
additional tags: unhealthy/codependent dynamics, threats of violence, themes of abuse, canon deviation. 🖤
Sleep is a scarcity. Homelander fades in and out of consciousness, but he never truly rests. It’s strange to sleep somewhere he can't see the comfort of his own gaze endlessly mirrored back at him. Those mirrors make the world so much bigger, but for the first time in a long time, he doesn’t mind how small it is. What would normally be a dark, claustrophobic thing is now a great deal safer than the open expanse of a stage.
Layla’s warmth and the faint weight of her arm around him is the only thing that keeps him somewhat tethered. Her heartbeat is a steady metronome against his back, her breaths warmly ghosting over his neck and shoulder. It’s been hours, but it feels too soon when the covers move on his skin as she readjusts in her sleep, pulling her arm from him. He lifts the blanket and rolls to face her.
She’s turned away from him, her dark hair fanned out in a wild splay on the pillow beneath her. Light from the unsleeping city spills in through the window, illuminating her figure. It’s strange to see her sleeping in day clothes and not the sleepwear he’s used to seeing her in. She didn’t have the time to change tonight. She was too busy taking him back into her arms, into her bed, into her life. He brushes his knuckles down between her shoulder blades, the disheveled silk of her blouse soft beneath his fingers.
He’ll find out why Starlight’s scent is lingering on her when she wakes.
Sliding closer to her, he flattens his palm over her hip and noses at the line of her throat, inhaling deeply, chasing the scent beneath shampoo and lotion until he finds what’s simply her. Her wine flush has followed her into sleep, her skin warmer than usual. She responds to his touch with a sleepy sigh of pleasure. Even now, the sound of her voice does so much to quiet the storm in his heart. He screws his eyes shut and buries his face into the soft tresses of her hair, gritting his teeth against the urge to squeeze too tight.
The urge to keep.
The urge to break it all apart and let the storm rage. Instead, he keeps himself perfectly still, trying to swallow the thrumming energy coiling in his tense muscles. End this, the darkness in him hisses, tempting him. How many days has he resisted the urge to reach out, not with his hands but with this thing inside him, and ruin everything? Everyone? A flash of crimson is all it would take to cleave this world in half.
But he can’t afford to. Not then, not now.
The only way he made it out of the cold isolation of the lab, far away from the bad room, was by convincing the staff, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he was good. He was their perfect man-made hero. Logically, he knows they can’t ever put him back in the bad room. He’d never let them. It doesn’t stop the nightmares.
He folds in on himself, doing his best to forget that he even has power to wield against others—a whim as sharp as glass. Now, just as then, he orders his body and mind to still, to calm.
If Layla had stayed yesterday morning, things would have been different. His tightly controlled grip on her hip flexes minutely. How can she sleep so deeply knowing that she’s ruined him?
What was she doing with Starlight?
The inkling of a deeper betrayal slithers into his mind. He slides his hand up the length of her torso, traversing the familiar scape of her body, and into her hair, coiling his fingers into a gentle fist of it. One twist is all it would take to quiet her soothing voice forever. Would hair ever feel the same to him again, or would it start to smell like burning tears and cornea? The stench of grief hits him so suddenly that his eyes sting with it, and he recoils from Layla like he himself has been burned.
Has she been scheming against him all along, too?
Fucked. He’s so completely and entirely fucked.
He exhales harshly, curling his hand into a tight fist and biting into the meaty curve just below his thumb, muffling a tearful keen. He can’t think back to that morning without reliving how horribly it went wrong, and how the dominos just continued to fall until he was losing his senses in front of the entire world.
Those moments on stage play over and over in his mind, but each instance of them grows more warped than the last. He’s starting to forget what he really said, conflating memories with nightmares. How much of himself did he really let slip? How ugly does the world think him to be now?
He can see the headlines now.
Homelander: America’s Fallen Hero
Homelander: Vought’s Poster Boy Throws a Tantrum
Homelander: Deranged Freak Snaps On Stage
He’s spiraling worse than he did during Stormfront’s smear campaign against him. It isn’t just dissenting opinions and slander—he’s finally given them real ammunition to use against him. The question is: how much, and how will he refute it? He needs to be able to recover from this.
His voice of reason is treacherously quiet. Nothing but the dreadful echo of I warned you.
With his thoughts twisting in on themselves like a pit of angry, writhing snakes, he finds it impossible to stay still any longer. His whole body is plagued with a restlessness that turns into agony. Carefully, he extracts himself from Layla’s side and slips out of her bed. He needs to see it for himself. He needs to understand the degree of damage that’s been done to him.
Stepping out into her living room, Homelander picks up the remote for her television and flips it on, dropping the volume to such a miniscule level that he’ll be the only one to hear it. He lowers himself down onto the couch and stares, watching his body move and speak, seemingly puppeteered by someone other than himself, operating in ways he’s never seen himself behave in front of a camera before.
“I’m done being persecuted for my strength–”
Erratic.
“Persecuted for my strength–”
Unhinged.
“Persecuted–”
Alive.
If they want to take us down, we’re going to take every last one of them down with us.
The sky is just barely beginning to turn with dawn’s light when Layla wakes to a chill that rolls up her spine. Her bed feels colder than it has any right to, and as the fractured events of last night spill back into her mind, it doesn’t take her long to figure out why.
Homelander—who knows if he’ll accept that name yet—is nowhere to be seen.
Her temples throb with the aftermath of emptying a hefty bottle of wine as she lifts herself from bed, running her hands through her hair, breaking apart the tangles with her fingers.
The breadcrumb trail of Homelander’s suit leading from her balcony to her bed tells her that he hasn’t left. The image of him streaking through the sky in the nude does occur to her, though. Straightening her borrowed blouse and tucking it back into the waist of her skirt, she steps lightly through the dark of her apartment, head on a swivel, until she spots her quarry.
Reclined on her couch, Homelander paints an image somewhere between a renaissance painting and a billboard for depression, his body illuminated by the flashing light of the television. His expression is morose, his hand sitting on the couch next to him at an angle, the remote tilted in his loose grasp. As she approaches, he begins tapping on the volume until his own recorded voice fills the empty space between them.
It’s his tirade from last night.
“Hey, babe,” he drawls from the couch, voice pitched low and despondent. The way he pops each consonant makes the pet name sound downright derogatory. “So, what’s the verdict?” He asks, lazily gesturing to the television with the remote. “Is it everything you thought it would be?” His gaze slides from the screen to her, his head lolling to the side with it.
Any concern or lingering sleepiness in her face is swiftly replaced with bewilderment. “Excuse me?”
“‘Excuse me?’” He mocks, pitching his voice up condescendingly. Her expression hardens as he stands, the remote bouncing along the couch cushions where he tosses it. “Don’t play dumb with me.”
“I’m not playing anything with you,” she responds tersely. She’s never been a morning person. Compound that with the ache in her skull and the naked pain in the neck standing in front of her, she’s not feeling her usual bounty of patience. Last night, he was a weepy, sopping mess. Now she doesn’t know what to expect from the tight line of his shoulders, or the agitated curl of his upper lip. “I have no idea what it is you think you’re picking at.”
“Since when are you and Starlight pals, then?” He hisses through his teeth.
Shit. Annie. She never sent that text.
“Since yesterday,” she answers, her calm stretched thin. “She saw me at the elevator. She offered a shower and a change of clothes. That’s all.” She doesn’t find it necessary to explain why Starlight might have offered such a thing. He knows exactly how she looked when she left his penthouse, bruised and disheveled.
The memory looks to serve as a crisp slap, some level of clarity filtering into the incensed glaze of his eyes. His grip flexes, and he bares his teeth in an animalistic flash of frustration. He isn’t willing to accept fault for that yet.
“Stop fucking lying to me!” He snaps, the sudden jump in volume startling her. He advances on her sharply, halting her step backwards with an iron grip, his palm against her throat, his thumb and index finger notching perfectly behind the curve of her jaw below her ears. The contact is minimal, and yet the strength in those two fingers alone is more than enough to hold her firmly in place.
“You’re all the fucking same! Agendas, lies, all of you trying to control me, use me, and you—you’re exactly the fucking same. You’ve taken everything from me,” he snarls. Despite his fervor, his grip remains remarkably controlled. Sometimes it’s as if his mind and his body are two independent entities: one an unstable, emotionally malnourished psyche, and the other a finely tuned weapon.
The human mind wants dangerous things to be ugly, but even now, Homelander’s twisted, angry expression is not an ugly thing. Though adrenaline surges the thrum of her heart, it isn’t laden with the fear any reasonable person would have. The thrill coursing through her isn’t rooted in some comfort that he won’t hurt her. It’s the knowledge that he—more devastating than any man she’s ever known—absolutely will if not handled correctly.
It’s like holding a thundering storm in her bare hands.
Layla stares wide-eyed and astonished, so thoroughly unaware of what he’s accusing her of that she struggles to speak around the hard lump in her throat. He leans closer yet, clutching her with all the same strength, tenderness and menace of the ocean cradling a ship.
“I killed her,” he whispers, the words passing between them like a confession to God himself. He’s so near, she could rest her forehead against his if she wanted. “I killed her for lying to me. I’ll kill you, too.”
Madelyn Stillwell. The name returns to her like a ghost, the hairs at the back of her neck prickling. Or was it Stormfront? The unnamed mother of his child? One was the victim of a domestic terrorist, one committed suicide, and the third is yet undetermined. All of them are apparent casualties of Homelander’s turbulent presence in their lives. Is she to be the fourth in a string of tragedies? Rage swells so suddenly in her heart that she almost chokes on the fire of it. What right does he have to interrogate her and threaten her?
“Are you glad?” She asks, her voice steady despite the tremble in her hand holding his wrist in turn. “Are you glad to have killed her?”
His expression flips as if he’s been struck, crinkled brows shooting up. “What?”
“Will you be glad to have killed me?” She asks tightly, her nails biting ineffectual crescents into his titanium flesh. Her tone is sharp and no longer meant to soothe. She speaks to cut. “Or will you just be even more alone?”
Like hers, his eyes turn glassy. “No,” he says softly. She doesn’t know if that’s an answer or a plea.
“Let me go,” she tells him firmly, fighting to hold onto the fires of her own indignant anger. His abrupt flashes of softness and vulnerability compromise her resolve.
“Go where, Layla?” He snaps, suddenly loud again. His broken desperation and seething anger make his voice reedy. “Where the fuck could you go that I wouldn’t still feel you? Kill you, fuck you, love you; you’re in my fucking head!”
You’re all the fucking same!
She isn’t dead, but he’s treating her like a ghost nonetheless. As if she’s already one of the many specters haunting him.
“You love me?” She asks him, snatching that precarious lifeline out of the messy slurry of his words. She’s not sure that he knows the meaning of it.
Does she?
The tension in Homelander’s face goes slack, stricken to hear those words fall from her lips. His mouth opens and closes as he tries and fails to form the right words. It’s too vulnerable to say yes, and too complicated to say no. Ultimately, he can’t bear to answer first.
“Do you love me?” He asks, defensive, as if she were the one who brought the terrifying gravity of love into the equation in the first place. The weight of it turns her tongue to lead.
There’s an adolescent sense of fumbling in this moment that would be endearing if he were not clutching her jaw with inhuman strength, the whispered promise of her death hanging over them like a creaky guillotine. In another life, this could have been a very sweet confession.
“Do you?” He prompts her again, desperate. He cups the back of her head with his other hand, taking a step closer. His chest bumps her forearms where she has them tightly braced, hands clamped tightly over his wrist. It’s a meager barrier to uphold, but she does so steadfastly. His hold on her is suffocating, his agonized ocean eyes filling up her vision. He’s larger than life, leaving space for little else in her life ever since he crashed into it.
Even when he’s gone, she is consumed by him like a fever that refuses to be sweated out. When her career first began, she knew well enough not to entertain superhumans. It wasn’t a bias she held against them per se, but the opposite: she knew from the start that she would become intoxicated on the danger of them. Homelander is the epitome of everything she’s ever been too afraid to let herself love. He’s the first person to ever be enough of a risk to scare her, and enough of a reward to satiate her. She can feel her destruction lurking in him just as plainly as her parents found their own in their shared thrill seeking.
“I want to,” she whispers, a secret she’s denied even to herself until now. “But you’re making it so fucking hard.”
He exhales roughly, something like hope softening the tension in his expression before he screws his eyes shut, another wave of agony contorting his features. His forehead thumps gently against hers. “I don’t know—I don’t know how else to be. I don’t know how. I don’t know how to make it easy.”
Finally, he releases her jaw from the snare of his grip, only to take either side of her face between his hands, pulling away to look at her. He’s always been younger than her in a multitude of ways, but in this moment, the agonized youth in his eyes takes her breath away. “I was—I was made to be loved. I was supposed to be everyone’s hero. They poked and prodded me, manufactured me in a-a fucking lab to be perfect, but no one—”
Layla’s eyes widen, her heart seized. What?
Homelander bares his teeth like a wounded animal, breath hissing in and out of his clenched teeth as tears roll down his cheeks. “But no one does, no one fucking does, no one loves me,” he says through his teeth, nearly choking on the words. “I don’t understand how to make it easy, Layla,” he sobs, hands shaking on either side of her face. She can’t tell if it’s from sheer emotion, or the restraint it takes not to crush her between them.
“So just—tell me what I need to do, please,” he begs her, devastatingly beautiful in the same way the sprawling webbing of a shattered mirror is. “Tell me how to be easy to love.”
Breathless, Layla stands there with her heart bleeding so freely, so painfully, that she swears there’s warm blood soaking onto the pristine white blouse she wears.
There is a monster in Homelander. At times, she can feel the claws of it in his grip on her. Hear it growling in her ear. When it comes to handling monsters, banishment is always the remedy. Slay the beast, free the man. Homelander’s monster is not so easily felled, nor is she certain it should be. He was not born with sharp teeth and claws. From what she’s gathered, they were filed into fine points long before he was a man.
People like to think of the monster within them as an outside force. Corruption, propaganda, the devil. Layla has spent enough time in bed with people’s deviance to know better. The proverbial devil is not outside of humanity, but embedded deep within It cannot be safely extracted any more than a beating heart can.
But corruption isn’t a heart—it’s a stomach.
It craves and yearns, it twists and aches and growls when hungry. Just as Eve ate of the apple, humans take bites of sin to satiate their monster. Like people, monsters come in a wide variety of shapes, temperaments, and cravings. Some beasts can be satisfied with a nibble here and there. Others require more. Some never learned how to know when they’re full.
After all he has been deprived of, Homelander may never be truly satisfied, but does that mean he doesn’t deserve to be fed at all?
No, Layla thinks. It doesn’t.
Both of their faces are streaked wet with tears as they hold one another’s gazes. Gingerly, she brings her own hands up to cup his face, wiping his tears with her thumbs. “Okay,” she whispers, afraid her own voice of reason will hear her. “Okay, my darling.”
Relief helps smooth the crease between his brows, but it doesn’t dissipate entirely. “Say it,” he urges her, the hands still upon her face giving the faintest nudge. “Say you love me.”
“I love you,” she says, teary and quiet, but with conviction. She leans in, and he allows her to, no longer holding her firmly in place for fear that she might suddenly vanish. “I love you,” she says again, a promise that ghosts his lips. He shudders. “I love you. You’re in my head,” she says, echoing his own words back at him. Her lips brush against his in a not-quite kiss. “You were from the start.”
He exhales a pained, keening sound, pushing his fingers into her hair and pulling her deep into a feverish kiss. His hunger for her is voracious, and his desire is a force she might not withstand—not by virtue of its violence, but because of its sheer magnitude. He kisses her fiercely, one arm slipping around her middle to keep her body from bowing under the weight of his love.
“I love you, too,” he breathes, the relief in his voice palpable. She takes the air of it into her lungs like it might save her. “I love you so fucking much.”
It’s dangerous, she knows, to trick herself into believing she can satiate his mountainous hunger. Danger is like an ice bath, though. You grow accustomed to the bite of it.
Morning light creeps slowly into Layla’s condo. Homelander trails her as closely as her own shadow, breathing in against the crook of her neck while she cooks breakfast. He’s partially dressed in his undershirt and underwear, his suit folded neatly upon her vanity for the time being. It’s nice to feel his arms around her without the obstructive padding of his suit. Without the bulk of it, she fits more closely against him, his superhuman warmth like a particularly cuddly space heater pressed against her back.
“One egg or two?” She asks him, plucking one from the container on the counter.
“Mmm… Two,” he says, the deliberation making it sound more like a trivia answer than a preference.
She cracks four eggs into the pan, one at a time. “Over easy, medium, hard…?”
He grins against her neck, and she gives his hand at her hip a playful little swat with the back of her silicone spatula. “I dunno,” he says, nuzzling her. “However you like it.”
“Have you never had eggs before?” She asks, looking back at him.
He’s got his chin propped up on her shoulder. His gaze flickers up from the sizzling pan to meet hers. “Just scrambled.”
…I was made… manufactured in a fucking lab…
She swallows a small lump in her throat, turning back to the eggs. She flips them all over easy and plates them with the toast. When she takes the toast off of the plates and begins slicing them into strips, Homelander makes an inquisitive noise.
“You’ll see,” she says cryptically, shooing him to the table as she plates their breakfasts and carries them to the table.
Homelander sits, and she sets his plate down in front of him. She sits on the adjoining corner to his, but within seconds he has a grip on her seat. The chair legs groan as he slides her closer to him, smiling at her look of surprise. “That’s better,” he says, his knee bumping hers.
He’d likely prefer she be in his lap. There’s always a lingering sense that she’s never quite close enough, even when they’re pressed tightly against one another. He might not be satisfied until he finds a way to open her up and crawl inside.
Huffing a small laugh, she gestures to his plate. “Use the toast sticks to break the yolk,” she tells him, and then demonstrates on her own meal, jabbing a piece of toast into the soft yellow yolk, coating it properly before taking a bite.
Blinking, Homelander does the same. He hums appreciatively, nodding with a mouthful of food.
“My gramma insisted that all food tastes better when it’s dipped. She always made my breakfasts this way,” she explains, her smile tinged with bittersweet nostalgia. “I can’t remember the last time I did it for myself.”
Silence follows. She glances up to find Homelander staring intently at his plate, a cut of toast pinched between his fingers, dripping yolk back down onto the egg. Layla takes a breath to speak, but that inhale is all it takes to snap him from his thoughts, his sharp blue eyes meeting hers.
“Ryan would like this, I think,” he says. She can tell he’s working to keep his voice conversational.
“Ryan?” She echoes, though it clicks a second after she says it.
“My son,” he confirms, clearing his throat gently. She shares his trepidation as he enters this particular topic of conversation, considering the fallout the last time it was broached. He dips the toast again and takes another bite, seemingly buying time with deliberate chews.
Layla bites her tongue, choking back her own knee-jerk response. She likes children just fine, in theory. She’s had very little practical experience. Still, words of unbidden advice bubble up on her tongue as if she’s an expert. She wants to tell Homelander to go to the boy, talk to him. He told her that she had taken everything from him, presumably referring to his very public meltdown, but that isn’t true in a number of ways. He has a son out there somewhere, confused and without either of his parents.
It sets a sympathetic churn in her gut. Grieving her own parents as a child made an adult of her far too soon. She may not have raised any children herself, but she can speak as a child who was left behind.
“He’s nine. He’s strong,” Homelander continues tentatively. “I mean, really strong. Strong like me,” he says, pride underlining each word, driving out the hesitance. “He’s so much like me. I never thought I’d see it, but he’s real. He’s—” he breaks into a small, incredulous laugh. “—He’s a miracle. A real, born miracle.”
Unlike you, she surmises from his tone. He said that Vought had made him. The world has been rocked by the revelation that supes are the result of Vought’s pharmaceutical ventures, but the way Homelander talks of his son makes him sound different. An exception to that fact, somehow.
“You should go to him,” she encourages, still holding onto a level of cautiousness on the matter. “I was left behind by my parents. I don’t wish it on anyone.”
“I didn’t leave him behind,” Homelander corrects sharply. She was right to tread lightly. “He left me,” he says, though he doesn’t speak with anger so much as he does woundedness. He’s never expressed anything but love—bordering on reverence—for his son, and yet he has completely roadblocked himself from reaching out.
It’s complicated, he told her before.
“He’s nine. It’s not his job to uncomplicate things or bridge the gap,” she says as gently as she can muster, though even she can hear the weariness in her own voice. “It’s yours. He needs you to be the adult, to help the world make sense. It’s one thing to give him space, but you can’t abandon him.”
At first, there is a flash of petulant defiance in Homelander’s eyes, obvious in the tight set of his jaw. To Layla’s relief, however, it fades into quiet consideration. He looks back down to his half-finished plate.
“You can’t take personally what anyone, much less a child, does out of grief,” she says softly, reaching out to put her hand atop his where it rests on the table. “Ryan needs wisdom. Support. People who love him. He needs his father.”
He looks up at her with a level of vulnerability in those ocean blue eyes that never fails to pull her into the depths. “You think so?”
“I know so,” she says firmly. To this day, she can’t imagine what she wouldn’t do for just one more day with her own father.
Slowly, the wateriness of his gaze becomes a sparkle. Homelander smiles. He has as many smiles as an ice cream shop has flavors, and this one says he’s just had an idea.
“What?” Layla asks after a beat, an edge of suspicion to her tone.
“Nothing,” he says placatingly. His smile shifts. She knows that flavor of smile. That one means he’s lying. “Just relieved is all. Could I use your phone?”
It’s a wonder the ease with which Homelander glides from mood to mood, as if he puts each one neatly in a box before he takes out the next one. Layla only hesitates for a second before she nods, sliding out of her chair to go and fetch her cellphone. She still needs to text Annie.
“Jesus,” she says softly, staring at her screen with a deep crease in her brow.
“What?” Homelander asks, leaning in his seat.
She has thirty missed calls, and about as many text messages.
THIS IS ASHLEY BARRET. HAVE YOU SEEN HOMELANDER?
IF YOU KNOW WHERE HOMELANDER IS, PLEASE CONTACT ME.
PLEASE CONTACT ME IF YOU KNOW WHERE HOMELANDER IS.
MISS ALDEN PLEASE CONTACT ME AND ONLY ME IF YOU HAVE SEEN HOMELANDER.
IF YOU CAN PLEASE INFORM HOMELANDER HE IS UP.
Ashley Barret. Layla recalls the name from Homelander’s initial booking. She had been the one to handle the details and arrange payment.
“Ashley Barret is very desperate to find you,” she says, reading the texts as she walks back towards him. “She says that you’re… up.” She stops at the table, looking at him. “What does that mean?”
The chair legs scrape audibly against the floor when Homelander stands up. “Give me that,” he says, taking the phone from her outstretched hand. His expression pinches tightly as he scrolls through the messages, lips parted.
“I’m… up,” he says slowly, processing the words that mean nothing to Layla. With a tap, she hears a dial tone. Homelander holds the phone to his ear.
“Miss Alden–” answers a feminine voice immediately.
“What do you mean I’m up?” Homelander interrupts, a harshness to his voice that Layla doesn’t expect to hear outside of an argument.
“21 points with your base,” Ashley says breathlessly.
Homelander’s expression softens, becoming wonder-like. “What did you say?”
“21 points. They loved your speech!”
He looks at Layla, familiar glassiness returning to his eyes. He lifts his loose hand, which curls slowly into a fist, as if he’s taking hold of something precious, some nebulous concept of grace he had thought lost.
“A massive 44% uptick with white males in the Rust Belt.”
“Yes,” Homelander hisses through his teeth, pumping his fist triumphantly. “Fuck yes! Yes!” With that same hand, he suddenly takes hold of the back of Layla’s neck, pulling her into a deep kiss. Her noise of surprise is muffled against his lips, his tongue a slick demand on hers.
“They’re saying you’re confident and unapologetic!” Ashley’s voice continues to prattle from the phone, though Layla’s finding it hard to pay attention with the way Homelander’s taking a fistful of her hair, bowing her back, kissing her hungrily. “That you’re not afraid to be yourself!”
He outright moans against her lips. She breaks away from him with a gasp, hand pressed against her chest.
“Should I give you a moment alone with Ashley?” She asks breathlessly, only half-joking. The man is absolutely alight against her, heat radiating in his touches. The news trips an alarm bell somewhere in the back of Layla’s mind, but she’s struggling to process it in the wake of his voraciousness.
“Christ, no,” he says. The phone hits the ground with a clatter, Ashley’s confused voice continuing distantly on the line. He cups both sides of Layla’s face and pulls her back in, exhaling a pleased little growl against her lips. “Did you hear? They love me. They fucking love me,” he says between kisses, breathless and downright giddy.
Drawing back, he strokes her cheeks tenderly with his thumbs, his smile broad, eyes shining with relief, joy, and something Layla can’t quite place, though it causes a small knot to form in her gut.
“They want me to be myself.”
#this chapter took everything out of me but it's here and i hope to god it doesn't take this long for the next chap#bc i already have portions written and i know where it's all going!!!#blood sweat and tears in this fic fr lmao#homelander x oc#homelander x original character#homelander fanfiction#eat your ego#my writing
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The Measure Of A Hero ~ A Markiplier Ego Fanfic (Sequel to Tickle-Hungry)
HEYO! Time for another delightful anon prompt featuring Silver and Bim, and this one counts as an unofficial sequel to Tickle-Hungry! So let's see what they get up to this time! LET'S DO THIS!
TAGGING: @bimlee-trimmer @bim-trimler and @silvlee-shepherd
It had been a little while since that fateful day. The day when Bim Trimmer and Silver Shepherd confessed their feelings for each other, all thanks to tummy nibbles. The vivacious presenter and bright hero had swiftly become one of the most marvellous power couples in the ego manor. Everyone thought they were utterly adorable, especially Bim and Silver themselves! They doted on each other; Silver was always in the audience whenever Bim was filming something new, praises at the ready, whilst Bim was always on hand to pamper Silver and get him treats after the hero’s long days and nights patrolling. The two of them, with their love languages of words of affirmation and acts of service, were just a wondrous match, proved by what Bim was doing for Silver today.
Silver had had the same super suit ever since he manifested into reality, and to be honest it was pretty flimsy, but thanks to him being so adept and agile he rarely messed up in a way that a needle and thread couldn’t fix. That is until a few days ago, when he was reaching to a high tree branch during a cat rescue and his suit split all the way down the back. Silver came home with a continent-sized pout, and as soon as Bim learned what happened he began his own special mission. He was going to make Silver a new suit himself, from scratch, and it was going to be fabulous!
They were stood in Bim’s room, and Silver was so bashful as Bim got out his measuring tape, some fabric swatches, stitching patterns, a journal with potential logo ideas – basically a whole entire portfolio which Bim was calling “just some little ideas”. Just when Silver thought he couldn’t adore Bim anymore, he pulled something like this! Thoughtful and selfless to the core.
‘Alright then, time I took some measurements. Suit off please darling.’
Bim remarked, his fingers playing with the tape measure as he grinned cheekily as Silver. Silver, of course, blushed – Bim loved how easy it was to make those heroic cheeks warm up, he couldn’t help but be flirty or teasy any chance he got. He watched as Silver got the tattered suit off, leaving him in his underclothes, a casual top and leggings, and Bim’s grin widened.
‘Ooh cute leggings, very well fitting–‘
‘Shush!’
‘Aww why? It’s not like there’s anyone else here.’
Silver gaped at Bim cutely, still often caught off guard by his utter audacity. He giggled when Bim gave him a little kiss.
‘It’s still flustery!’
‘It is?’
‘Yes!’
Bim snickered, and decided to tickle softly under Silver’s chin.
‘Oh I love how easy to tease you are.’
‘Sh-Shut up…’
Silver gave him a mock pout, which Bim naturally banished with another little kiss. Bim proceeded to sit down on a little stool, put a notepad on his knee, and started measuring. He started with his ankles – though Silver’s suit was beyond repair, his boots were immaculate, so the new suit had to have the same ankle seals as the old one. Then he took some measurements of his calves, all easy enough, with no drama to be found whatsoever. That is, until the tape measure slid up to wrap around one of Silver’s thighs. The hero squeaked lightly as his leg twitched, and Bim gave him a knowing grin.
‘Keep still, I have to get this right sweetie.’
‘I-I know!’
Silver retorted cutely, the apples of his cheeks going pink as he tried to ignore how the sliding of the tape measure really tickled him. Seeing this… Bim just couldn’t help but have a little fun. He subtly played around and fiddled with the tape around his thigh, so he could give the ticklish area some little traces and tweaks. Watching Silver trying to keep still, and hold in his giggles, was adorable – but he couldn’t do it forever. After about a minute he finally spluttered.
‘B-Bihihim stahahappit!’
‘Sorry sorry, I couldn’t resist!’
Bim replied to Silver’s giggly splutter, and he winked at Silver playfully before he bowed his head to note down the next figure. Silver pursed his lips down at Bim cutely… and in a moment of impulsiveness, he reached down and mussed up Bim’s perfectly styled hair. As soon as he felt it, Bim gasped dramatically. His hair, it’s style, sleekness, was his damn pride and joy! He gaped at Silver, who was giggling at his reaction, with an incredulous smile.
‘How DARE you!’
‘You started it!’
‘Oh it’s like that is it?’
‘Yehes!’
Silver’s tongue was poking out through his teeth as he grinned… well, Bim certainly wasn’t going to have that! His indignant expression turned to one of deviousness, and before Silver could react Bim had wrapped his arms around Silver’s thighs and was tickling the absolute hell out of them! Not just scratching at his thighs but sneaking pokes to his hips, and teasy pinches to the backs of his knees. Silver almost buckled, bending double as he burst out laughing and tried to hop away.
‘AHHH! Nonononohohoho nahahat fahahair!’
Silver babbled, unable to escape Bim’s tickle hug as his legs tingled from all the tickling, and he thought he might topple at any moment! Bim smirked up at him and teased.
‘You know what happens when you mess with my hair! I can’t just not punish you…’
Silver was a mess of giggles and yelps as Bim continued his playful onslaught, his heart melting at all of Silver’s endearing reactions. He kept at it for a fair amount of time too, long enough for Silver to start snorting as he exclaimed.
‘Ihihihi’m sahahaharry! Ihihihi’ll fihix yohour hahair!’
‘Oh yeah? You promise not to tousle it even more?’
‘Yehehehes!’
Bim chuckled, then had mercy on him. He grinned as Silver panted, catching his breath with an embarrassed flush on his face. Then, just when Bim thought he couldn’t melt any more, Silver fixed his hair. The hero’s fingers carded through it softly, just barely grazing his scalp as he patiently got it back in its stylish place. Bim let out a purr, slumping a little as he and Silver shared a loving look. Bim was also struck by Silver’s flushed, beaming post-tickle state. He was so pretty.
When Silver finished with Bim’s hair, the movement of his arms caught the presenter’s eye – well, more accurately the way Silver’s biceps were subtly flexing make Bim’s heart flutter. He also remembered he still had a few measurements to do! He got to his feet and brandished the tape measure playfully.
‘I think I definitely need to measure those lovely muscles of yours.’
Silver laughed, seeing where Bim was looking, and he gave him a cheeky flex as he replied.
‘Well, if you insist.’
‘Oh I really do.’
Silver snorted and rolled his eyes fondly. Bim had him relax his muscles so he could do a proper measurement, but also measured them when they were flexed so he knew just how much elasticity the new suit’s material would need to have. Though, measuring Silver’s biceps didn’t come without a few giggles – mainly because Bim couldn’t help but tease the end of his fabric tape measure in Silver’s armpit to make him yelp (and subsequently allow Bim to “sadly” have to re-measure). Bim even did it when he was measuring his chest, having to bite back a grin as he teased.
‘Honey, what did I say about keeping still?’
‘S-Sohorry I-EEK!’
Silver flinched with yet another squeal when he felt yet another “accidental” swipe in one of his exposed hollows. Of course the hero knew it was all on purpose, but he loved the game far too much to call it out! He blushed and smiled as Bim sighed and playfully tutting at him, going in for a re-measure.
‘Honestly, you’re lucky the villains you fight don’t know about how sensitive you are! Imagine them defeating you with one little finger in your armpit.’
Silver gaped and went bright red at his comment, his brain immediately imagining the scenario in his head and bringing out a flood of spluttery giggles.
‘D-Dohon’t sahahay stuhuff lihike thahat!’
‘Aww, is my tough guy getting embarrassed again?’
‘Y-Yes yohou meheheanie!’
Bim laughed, noting down the next measurement before he leaned in and gave Silver a little kiss – a kiss which gave him an excuse to whisper nice and close.
‘Thank you for indulging me today… all I’ve been able to think about is giving you tickles…’
Silver’s blush was coating his ears and neck by this point – Silver was still awed by how Bim could so easily remark on his ler moods aloud, whereas when he was in a lee mood eye contact was even a struggle! He rubbed away the tingles in his underarms as he smiled bashfully and stuttered.
‘I-It’s okay… I… I was also… u-um…’
Bim grinned fondly at Silver trying to admit his want for tickles. He kissed his cheek gently, stroking through his hair as he murmured.
‘I know… speaking of which, are you ready for me to tickle–ahem, sorry, tackle the final little measurement?’
Bim glanced down to Silver’s middle, aka Silver Shepherd’s most notorious area of ticklishness. Silver blushed and nodded with a shy, yet clearly giddy, smile. Bim rolled up Silver’s top and slowly slid the tape around his waist… and not even a second after it teased his skin, Silver jumped away with an explosion of giggles!
‘Wahahait wahahait! Ihihi wahahasn’t reheady!’
Bim laughed with a bright grin, covering his mouth with his hand.
‘Oh my God honey–‘
‘Shuhush dohohon’t lahaugh!’
‘Sohorry, sorry… do you want to do this sitting down?’
‘Noho I can do ihit!’
Silver retorted with a cute pout on his face as Bim snickered. Silver took a few adorable deep breaths, before coming back over and clearing his throat.
‘O-Okay okay do it…’
Bim grinned, and delighted in sliding the tape measure around Silver’s waist once more, letting it tease the creases of his hips and just below his bellybutton. Silver didn’t jump away this time, but instead covered his face as he snorted and burst into giggles.
‘My my, what a giggly client I have. Now let’s see– oh oops!’
Bim gasped, and Silver watched him “accidentally” drop the tape on the floor – Silver let out a giggly whine as Bim picked it up, but the hero couldn’t help but love how Bim was torturing him a little. Bim smirked, holding up the tape playfully again.
‘Let’s try that again shall we?’
He slid it round Silver once more, coaxing out a squeal as he used all his willpower to keep himself still. His giggle fit had him trembling, and Bim had to hold back his own laughter – Silver’s incredible sensitivity never ceased to amaze him, it was one of the many things that kept him falling head over heels for him over and over again. Bim deliberately shifted the tape around, giving little squeezes now and then in which drew out more cute snorts.
‘Ohohoho my gohohohod huhuhurry uhuhuhup!’
‘Now now, a true craftsman cannot rush.’
Bim retorted teasingly, and Silver whined as he peeked through his fingers at Bim – his chocolate brown eyes were bright and watery as he replied.
‘Pleheheheheeeease!’
Yep. Bim Trimmer was, once again, absolutely head over heels. He had mercy, stowing the tape in his pocket as he noted down the final measurement. Silver gasped and took a deep breath, lowering his hands from his face… only for Bim to lean in and deliver a sneaky kiss to his bellybutton at the last second!
‘AHH– B-BIHIHIM!’
Silver shrieked and flailed, immediately covering his tummy as Bim laughed warmly. He came over and opened his arms to him.
‘I’m sorry I had to, you’re too cute when I kiss your button.’
Silver was pretty certain his blush was going to be permanent feature after all this! He rolled his t-shirt down with a bashful smile, and buried his face in Bim’s chest with a giggle as they hugged. Bim rubbed Silver’s back, and smirked when the hero mumbled.
‘You’re lucky I love you…’
‘Oh believe me, I know just how lucky I am.’
Silver giggled again, and let out a sigh when Bim cupped his face and kissed him warmly, before pinching his cheek softly.
‘Now then, how about we get waffles and design the greatest superhero suit to ever grace the multiverse?’
Silver beamed, and Bim laughed when he gave him and excited kiss and tugged at his hand happily.
‘Heck yeah!’
Bim grinned, letting Silver yank him out of the room as flutters and warmth flooded both their hearts. It’s easy to rate things, measure things, assign value to the things in your life, including your own value sometimes. That’s the perfect thing about love. It is, and always will be, immeasurable.
AHH HOPE YOU GUYS LIKED THIS LEMME KNOW IF YA DID! WOO LUV YOUS!!
#markiplier#markiplier egos#bim trimmer#bim#silver shepherd#silver#sfw#prompt#romantic#ego fic#ego fanfic#tword fic#tword fanfic#tword#twords#twording#twordish#luv these lovey bois
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cars for dummies (or: dark can’t give a straight answer to save his life)
Summary: the ego/car content you all crave
Pairings: none
Warnings: this is niche as hell
Length (Read Time): 881 words (3m40s)
@opprose @volbeast @statictay @bagleyarts @mirrorslament @moriimae @momos-peaches
my ko-fi
You know fuck all about cars.
Honestly, your experience has been what is cheap, has decent gas mileage, and won’t break down at the drop of a hat is the car for you. Anyone starts talking about make and model and you just kind of... glaze over.
It isn’t that you don’t want to care, it’s just...
Beyond you.
But cars... they seem to reflect their owners. At least, in your recent experience.
The Barrel is yours, for example. Homey, comfortable on the inside, if a bit quirky. An unassuming outside but quite the history inside.
And you live in the thing, so it kind of has to reflect you on principle.
Mark is... flashy. Grandiose. He likes the latest and greatest, the impressive- new tech fascinates him, and he’d never turn down a status symbol if he could help it.
It makes sense that he’d go for the Tesla. Sleek and modern and expensive, just the thing he’d want.
The tendency towards cracks in the glorious facade and unpredictability make it almost ham-fisted.
Illinois has his jeep. Red and rugged, a broad and strong thing meant for an adventure through rough terrain.
Flashy, too, and with the jeep owner personality trait- full of themself, convinced of their charm and superiority. He keeps it in fantastic shape and crumbles at a scratch.
Most of the others don’t bother with cars. They don’t often need to travel, and if they do, it’s via other means: plot holes or simply walking, hitching a ride here and there.
Wilford will never set foot in one unless he thinks it’ll be funny.
You’re most surprised to learn Dark has a car, though.
It comes up during some conversation between tasks, something off-handed about an appointment for maintenance from one of the Googles.
“Wait-“ You look to Blue, astonished. “Dark? Doesn’t he just... you know? Warp around?”
Blue regards you impassively before the smallest smirk crosses his face. “I can’t be surprised, but I understand how unexpected that is. Yes, he has one.”
“Why?”
It doesn’t make sense. Dark just- he just appears where he wants to be, doesn’t he? You’ve seen him warp away and back, miles in an instant. Why a car?
“I don’t pretend to know. Or care.” Blue sniffs. “If you want that answer, you’ll have to ask him.”
It’s easier said than done, because-
“It doesn’t matter.”
Dark is as cool and flat as ever, just the slightest glitch to show something seething underneath, eyes just narrowed.
You think Blue might have set you up. Perhaps you should have asked Yellow, he likes people. Relatively.
“It might not matter,” you agree carefully, “but I’d still like to know. What draws you to a car? Do you just like them? Do you have a warp limit?”
Static. Oh dear. “It is not your business how I get around. Do you pester everyone like this?”
For a second- it almost looks like a fond smile at the edges.
“Other people aren’t so enigmatic,” you point out. “It only seems... interesting. I’m not going to judge. What kind is it?”
Dark lets out a breath. It could be a laugh, maybe, if you strained your ears. “The kind with four wheels that takes me from place to place. Does that suffice?”
You glare. “You’re being obtuse.”
“And you’re being stubborn. A match made, truly.”
As he stands- there! There, a real smile, just a little, with a flicker of blue.
Maybe he likes this conversation more than you thought.
“If we’re a match, will you show me your car?” You give your most winsome smile.
Dark eyes you.
Then, he vanishes.
Son of a bitch.
But it has to be something fancy, right? Dark is old, he puts on this air of an old money gentleman, of being distinguished and expensive.
It has to be something sleek and black and old, the same kind of hamminess Mark likes but in a different tone.
A Cadillac, maybe. The kind of car people think is sexy.
Not that you think Dark is particularly-
Anyway.
It bothers you, keeps you up and following him around where he goes.
Dark probably knows, considering the edge of blue around his outline, the corner of a smile when he just turns, but you never catch him with the car.
Until you do.
It wasn’t on purpose. You weren’t hunting him, for once.
It was just a coffee run, really, you swear. Warfstache Tonight was going to shoot and everyone needed some coffee or pastry or what have you, and as the PA it’s your responsibility. Somehow.
So you step out of the Barrel, a list in hand, and-
There’s Dark, a cup in hand. Black coffee, expensive beans, you know it has to be because he’s a snob.
But the car-
“You drive a Civic?” You blurt, eyes locked on Dark’s over the silver roof.
He stares back at you. Then, without a word, he gets inside and drives off.
You can’t hurry to get him a shitty bumper sticker fast enough, grinning with delight as you slide a ‘I like my coffee black, just like my soul’ sticker across the desk.
You didn’t know he could burn things with his mind.
You learn something new every day.
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Curtain Call
Read on Ao3
Pairing: Marmien
Words: 2,522
Rating: Teen (for language)
Summary: With their son starring in his first play, the Iplier's should have a pleasant night out. Instead Mark is acting like a colossal prick. Will Damien be able to keep their marriage intact, or will Mark go too far?
Part 1 of the Blood is Thicker series
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one time i made a tweet about general trends in ace attorney fanfiction i didn't like without even naming any specific authors or works and someone in the comments was basically like 'take this tweet down what if a fanfiction writer sees it and gets their feelings hurt' and when i said it was pretty ridiculous to expect someone not to say anything negative about broad trends in fanfiction because potentially an author might theoretically see it they blocked me.
#internet fanartists have their own unique set of weird self-importance issues but#i do find they have distinctly less of this fragile blown-glass ego thing so prominent in fic authors
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Man, those BotW speedruns where Link just rushes directly to Ganon would probably be absolutely mortifying for Revali in-universe.
The guy spends a century waiting for his revenge, finally coming to accept his position as support, and then Link, the guy who Revali had insisted had everything handed to him and was only special because of his magic sword, the guy Revali was massively jealous of, the guy who lives in Revali’s head rent-free, just... kills Ganon.
By himself. While massively weakened compared to pre-calamity. Without the Master Sword. And he does it without even knowing that Revali exists because he hasn't recovered any memories!
Any one of those would be humiliating for Revali, all of them together would probably leave his ego in tatters.
#Also I might use this in a Revalink fic. If I ever get around to actually writing it#It'll have a newly-resurrected Revali dragging Link on a roadtrip around Hyrule to recover his memories and to salvage his own ego#loz botw#breath of the wild#legend of zelda#the legend of zelda#botw#loz#revali#revali botw
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“But do I have a soul?”
“Of course you do.”
#girl help I was just looking for refs for a comic slash fic and went insane#dc#kon el#Conner kent#kontent#superboy#I COULD ADD SO MUCH#anyways smth smth i think experiencing life and making friends and loving them with everything you have is what life is all about personally#it’s about love#in my head or if I were to make a show his arc of losing that ego and immaturity would be directly tied to him wanting to be more protective#coughs can u tell I’m a Kai stan
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