Can I pls pls plssssss ask for a fluffy one shot with silver wolf of us making it up to her after some guy flirted with us and made her rlly mad?
“The Game Isn’t Fun Without You”
Summary: When an overly flirty stranger ruins your arcade night, Silver Wolf’s quiet fury speaks volumes. After things cool down, you take it upon yourself to make it up to her.
Tags: Silver Wolf x Reader, Fluff, Jealousy, Comfort, Established Relationship, Protective Silver Wolf, Light Angst With a Happy Ending, Making Up, Possessive Behavior, Soft Romance.
Warnings: Minor Jealousy/Possessiveness, Brief Mention of Unwanted Flirting, Mild Language.
You knew something was wrong the second Silver Wolf stopped tapping her controller.
It was a subtle shift—barely a flicker of motion—but in your time with her, you’d learned to pick up on the tiniest signs. Her thumb froze mid-air, purple-glassed gaze fixed on the screen but not seeing it. The pixelated boss paused in its idle animation. So did your heart.
You turned your head slightly, already guessing the reason.
That guy. The one who just wouldn’t take a hint. The one who thought sitting beside you at the arcade bar meant an invitation to hover, to laugh a little too loud, to ask a little too much.
Silver Wolf hadn’t said a word when he started chatting you up. But now, her silence had teeth.
When she finally stood up—casually, of course, because she didn’t do drama—your stomach dropped.
"Be right back," she said with a flatness that made your skin crawl.
You barely caught her hoodie vanish around the corner, the hem of her purple cloth flaring behind her like a silent warning. The guy was gone not even a minute later, pale and shaken like he'd just lost all his in-game lives in one go.
When Silver Wolf came back, she didn’t say anything. She just sat, picked up the controller again, and resumed playing.
But she didn’t talk. Not for the rest of the game. Not when you ordered her favorite energy drink. Not even when you tried to make her laugh by mimicking her game avatar’s dramatic death noises.
You finally got her to look at you after the arcade dimmed its neon lights for closing. Her purple glasses glinted in the low light, unreadable.
"Hey…" you started, voice soft, awkward. "About earlier—"
"I don’t care," she interrupted quickly. "I’m not mad."
"You’re always mad when you say you’re not mad," you pointed out, nudging her arm lightly. "I know you."
She let out a slow exhale, not quite a sigh. "He was wasting your time. You’re not that easy to impress."
"I wasn’t impressed," you said immediately, almost a little defensive. "I just… didn’t want to cause a scene."
Silver Wolf’s fingers twitched like she was coding a response in her head, editing the scenario, rewriting it how she wished it had gone.
You stepped in front of her and took her hand—cool, callused, twitchy like she still had digital data flowing through her nerves.
"I’m sorry," you said honestly. "I should’ve said something sooner. You matter more than some random NPC."
That cracked something in her. The faintest twitch at the corner of her lips.
"I am the main character," she muttered, eyes flicking up to meet yours.
"You are to me," you replied.
That did it.
She blinked once, then smirked and pulled you closer by your sleeve. "Then prove it. One player mode. Just you and me. No distractions."
You smiled, relieved, your forehead leaning gently against hers. "Rematch?"
"Nah," she murmured, sliding her arms around your waist. "New game. Same player two."
She kissed you—quick and soft, like hitting 'start' on the next level.
And just like that, all the anger, jealousy, and awkward silence dissolved, like corrupted code overwritten by something better.
Silver Wolf didn’t need to hack the world to make it right again. Sometimes, all it took… was you.
This is my OC Jack. He’s from the U.S., so I drew how I imagine an American might step in to help.
I’d like to draw reactions from my other OCs too, like Tatsumori and Rintaro.
the witcher | explicit | 43k | jaskier x geralt x eskel x lambert | complete | pack bonding
Jaskier's been a ruined omega for six years now. He's been bought by more alphas than he cares to count, and sold on again; he knows how this works.
Being bought by a witcher is a new level of terror...and then it turns out it's not just one witcher, but three. Jaskier is fairly sure he's going to die.
And then it turns out that witchers really don't act much like human alphas at all.
This story is so wonderful and tender and loving. Jaskier is a "ruined omega" and sold in Omega auctions to whoever bids the highest and they can do whatever they want to him. Jaskier doesn't have much hope when it comes to alphas, in his experience they are all very violent. But then Geralt buys Jaskier from the auction and takes him to Lambert and Eskel. (Which just makes Jaskier even more worried, because now there's three alpha witchers). But the witchers are different from all alphas he has ever met. And they treat him well, respect him, protect him. And as much as Jaskier is afraid of trusting them, he feels safer than he's ever felt.
This story is so wonderful I don't even know what to say. Jaskier has Trauma, and his witchers are so good and loving and patient with him. Their relationship develops so well and honestly. It really is a feel good story. The hurt all happened prior to the story, and the whole fic is the comfort. (The smut is also super hot). - Also, all 4 of them are together, not just with Jaskier.
Author’s tags: Past Rape/Non-con, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Recovery, Cuddling & Snuggling, Kaer Morhen's Fanon Hot Springs (The Witcher), Explicit Sexual Content, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Pack Bonding, Omega Verse, Alternate Universe, Bathing/Washing
It’s impossible that they have all made it back here, that they are all sitting around the scrubbed wooden table in the mess eating as they have a hundred times before. The Valjean is drifting in the empty, no stars for miles and precious little traffic this far off the main shipping lanes. The computer will warn them if anything unexpected does come within range - and long before it can see them thanks to Gene’s modifications, but the autopilot can handle it.
They can sit, eat, rest. The whole family back together against impossible odds.
Darrow pulled out of an interrogation chamber and Lee from a prison cell. Gene and David and Jemma all in detention blocks, all subject to the Domain’s various flavours of mental torture, but here and whole and hearty and knowing themselves. He and Rosie and Nico and Casey, no damage but a few bruises and glancing lazer burns, a twisted ankle and lacerated tendril. Their impossible rescue a success.
They should be able to stop.
And yet, Jay can’t. Some is the residual adrenaline, the nightmares and shakes. The memory every time he closes his eyes of that exo-steel wall that they’d come within millimetres of smearing themselves across, the blast that had missed Nico and Casey by a mere hair with him too far away to do anything, the electrical stun that had nearly ended his too-brief stint in command. More is that the men he has followed much of his life are falling apart.
Lee’s actions have trickled through the crew by now. He keeps to himself, locked in his cabin - for his own safety. Jay would have no hesitation is spacing him. Darrow is almost as reclusive. The betrayal by the man he considered a son has emptied him of spirit far more effectively than the Domain has ever managed.
David, Gene and Jemma haven’t spoken about their experiences, but they’re all pale, twitchy, jumping at shadows. David had ushered Jay and Rosie and Nico and Casey to the medbay, as he always does, taken one look at his equipment and bolted. Jay had patched them up best he can, guiding Rosie through putting surgical staples down his own clavicle where he couldn’t reach with the help of a mirror and a double dose of pain killers.
The autopilot can probably handle anything in this area of space, and Jay fervently hopes that that is the case, because no one but him is in any state to answer the alarms. He’s taken to dozing on the bridge, lulled by the gentle beep and whir of the scanners, afraid that if he falls deeply to rest in his cabin he won’t be able to respond to an emergency. When the pull of sleep becomes too seductive, too much the promise of a tide to sweep him away rather than a simple, brief moment, he gets up and walks around.
He checks and inventories their supplies, determined they can stay here for some time yet. Time enough for someone to heal.
If they do.
Jay has no idea how to help them. Put a ship and a course before him and there’s no one better, a blaster in hand and a plan of attack - well, hadn’t he proved his skills? Even injuries (his staples pull and itch, but they’ll do, and he knows that the ones he placed in Nico and Casey were far more expert. But this? The terrible loss of self and respect and everything yo u build yourself on that the Domain inflicts?
Darrow and Gene and David have always been so solid, the walls against which Jay has always sheltered. How now to shore up those battlements when their foundations turn out to be made of sand?
He sighs. Checks the plotter once more. Debates weighing anchor and risking the sleep that is weighing down both eyes and mind.
But they can’t take another battle and the Domain must be searching for them. They are unlikely to simply let half a dozen prisoners including the infamous Darrow slip through their grasp without a murmur.
How could Lee do this to them? He’s grown up with him, thought him a brother…cousin at least. And more, how can one man destroy everything Jay has built his life on with such catastrophic ease? He’d never thought of Darrow as old before, but now it is easy to see his decades, skin haggard and eyes dimmed.
Jay checks the board again, determines that nothing will need his attention in the next few minutes and goes to check the engine room. Half his life, the engine room has been Gene’s private domain, entry by invitation only, but Gene too is aged by whatever the Domain did to him. Timid, prone to anxiety and completely shutting down if Jemma is not in immediate sight. She’d cut herself cooking one night, and the engineer had cried.
Jay never thought he’d bought into the idea that men should act a certain way. Stars know, he cries. Jemma is the strongest of them all. He’s never thought about it, but he’d been horrified by the brawny man’s breakdown as he’d curled against the wall, weeping like a child.
He should have rescued them sooner. Not a mistake he’ll make again, if it drives him mad and sleep deprivation liquifies his brain, he’ll keep the Valjean in perfect working order, on his own if need be. He’ll be ready to go and get them, before they can be hurt like this again.
today's passage includes warnings for: abuse and fear
~~~
Shane sees a darkening bruise around the man's eye, another one that's already formed on his neck, and a Bond scar over his scent glands where his oversized shirt is slipping off his shoulders. "I heard some concerning noises coming from this land," Shane says, instead of asking if the man is alright. "Is everyone okay?"
Please, say no. Give me a reason to come in, he silently pleads. This kid clearly needs help.
The man laughs, high and unsteady, something sad sparking in his eyes. He clears his throat. "I think your ears are playing tricks on you," he says gently, with a kind smile. "No one made any noises here. Thank you for checking though, sir, that's kind of you."
Someone shouts from inside, too far away from the door for Shane's dulled senses to pick up on. The man gasps, a quick breath taken in through his teeth, and his head whips around to look back inside the house. He breathes out shakily. "I have to go back in," he says.
It really was just a cold. Not that anyone would be able to tell based on how A was coddling B.
B had to admit—some of the attention was nice. He had a constant supply of tissues, cough medicine, and chicken noodle soup. Some of A’s ministrations, however, were a little...overprotective.
“Would you put that thing away?” B swatted at the thermometer that A danced in front of his face. “That’s the third time in an hour. I think I’m fine.”
“And you’ll know you’re fine if you’ll just let me take your temperature.”
B sighed and opened his mouth. He watched A as A watched the thermometer: from the way A looked, B could have guessed he was diffusing a bomb, not checking a fever. His brow was furrowed in concern, his eyes were unwavering in concentration, and his breath held in something like fear. If it were anyone else, B would have rolled his eyes. Hell, two months ago he would have rolled his eyes at A. But that was before.
The thermometer beeped. B couldn’t see the results, but he saw A’s face relax.
“It really is just a cold,” B murmured. And then, in an even quieter voice, he added, “It’s not like last time.”
Last time. They didn’t talk about last time. B only had a few fevered memories of last time. He knew the details, though: how A had found him in his apartment, sweaty and pale and with a burning fever of 104. The panicked ambulance ride. The ventilator and IVs. The days of delirium and unconsciousness. The one clear memory he had was waking up to see A at his side. His clothes were rumpled and the shadows under his eyes were dark, but it was his eyes that would haunt B forever, how they glistened with tears of fear and relief. All because he’d been too afraid to admit how sick he was.
“I know,” A breathed, bringing B back to the present. “But let’s keep it from becoming last time, okay?”
B nodded.
“I’ll check again in 20. Do you need anything else?”
I need you to be okay, I need you to never to feel that way again.
“Maybe a glass of water?” He couldn’t take away A’s fear, but he could help him feel in control.
A smiled a fraction. “Coming right up.”
It wasn’t everything, but it was something. And maybe that would be enough. After all, it really was just a cold.
