—> Lauren is not my actual name, but it’s the name of my oc which I’ve used for a while to keep my identity safe online
>> I am 18
>> I am a student— currently in school
>> I am Asian with French roots
>> Contributing to this blog is a hobby
>> My English is not perfect, but I try
>> I write what I feel like (I’ll list characters and fandoms down in my masterlist** over time)
RULES:
>> I am currently: OPEN/closed to asks and requests
>> I 𝘿𝙊 𝙉𝙊𝙏 write smut. (It is uncharted territory for me and I personally don’t think I’m at that level yet, but if necessary, I will try.)
>> I ONLY write for fictional characters and universes (I prefer to create stories that respect the boundaries of real-life individuals. Writing for real people, especially those unaware of such content, can feel intrusive to me, so please refrain from requesting non-fictional character scenarios.)
>> I’m a human too so please be nice. (People pleaser problems, I have to set boundaries for my sanity)
>> I want this to be a safe space where we can all come together to read and talk/write about ideas, thoughts, characters and what not so I don’t want to be strict but I’m just going to put out here that I will not tolerate bullying. (I mean in writing, if you want angst—sure) but I hope you get what I mean
—> but that being said (even though I would not like to), if I have to block your account, I will.
>> Lastly, this is my first time doing all this so go easy on me, but do drop by some constructive criticism where you see fit.
>> Okay maybe not lastly but this is my last point now, promise. This is important to me so I hope you respect it. If you want to use my writing or my fics, at least credit me and drop me a text about it. I’d appreciate if you did both but generally, crediting my work should suffice.
MASTERLIST **
Wattpad
Spotify
** Not much content yet, I’m afraid; but I’ll populate it in time to come. Please have some patience because I am still a student with other priorities and a personal life, thank you
Is it possible to get another Janson x reader? Dude has no redeeming qualities but he is hot 😳 haha
Competitive edge.
AD Janson x AD! Reader
fluff
summary: You and Janson can’t stand each other, and working in the same place only makes it worse. Petty moves turn into real consequences, tempers snap, and somewhere along the way things cross a line neither of you meant to cross.
AN: HELL YEA!! and so sorry for replying so late!! Saw this request earlier and it slipped my mind-- but thank you so much! Happy new year, hope this was what you were looking for.
story under the cut
You knocked on Janson's office door at 7 AM, two coffees balanced in one hand.
He looked up from his desk, surprise flickering across his face before smoothing into polite neutrality. "You're here early."
"Big day. Thought we could both use the caffeine." You set one cup on his desk, took the chair across from him without waiting for an invitation. "Truce? At least until after the Ava briefing?"
He eyed the coffee like it might bite him. "What's in it?"
"Dark roast, no sugar. Relax, Janson. I'm not that petty."
"Could've fooled me." But he took a sip. His shoulders dropped slightly—good coffee, and he knew it.
You hid your smile behind your own cup. The files you needed to see were right there on his desk, angled just wrong for you to read upside down. If you could just get him distracted for thirty seconds...
"So." You gestured at the stack of folders. "Ready for today's assessments?"
"Always." He leaned back. "You?"
"Please. I could do these in my sleep."
"Confidence. I like that." His tone was mild, but his eyes were sharp. Watching.
You shifted in your seat, letting your elbow bump the desk edge. The movement was natural enough, but it made him glance down at his coffee, checking if you'd jostled it.
In that half-second, you caught three names on the top file. Thomas. Teresa. Aris.
"Actually," you said, standing smoothly, "I should get going. Just wanted to—"
Your hip caught the edge of his desk. The coffee tipped. Spilled across the files in a dark wave.
"Shit!" You grabbed for napkins, but the damage was already spreading. "I'm so sorry, I don't—how did that—"
Janson was already on his feet, rescuing what he could. The top three files were soaked through, ink bleeding across pages of carefully compiled data.
"It's fine." His voice was tight.
"Let me help—"
"I said it's fine." He looked at you then, really looked, and something in his expression made your stomach flip. He knew. Maybe not the specifics, but he knew this wasn't an accident.
"I'll just..." You backed toward the door. "Sorry. Again."
His smile was thin and dangerous. "Don't worry about it. These things happen."
You were halfway through your third interview when your assistant knocked on the observation room door.
"Sorry to interrupt, but there's an issue with your samples."
"What kind of issue?"
"They're... contaminated. All of them. Someone left the refrigeration unit door open overnight."
Your stomach dropped. "All of them?"
"Every sample from this week. They'll need to be recollected."
Three days of work. Gone.
You found Janson in the commissary an hour later, sitting alone with his lunch and a satisfied expression.
"Heard about your samples," he said as you approached. "What a shame."
"You." The word came out flat.
"Me what?"
"Don't play stupid. It doesn't suit you."
He took a bite of his sandwich, chewed slowly. "I have no idea what you're talking about. But if someone on your team made an error, that's hardly my fault."
"My team didn't make an error."
"Then it was an equipment malfunction. These things happen." His eyes glinted. "Just like coffee spills."
You wanted to throw something. Wanted to wipe that smug look off his face. Instead you smiled. "You're right. These things do happen."
"Glad we agree."
"Although it's interesting that the refrigeration unit has a automatic lock. And an access log."
His expression didn't change, but something flickered behind his eyes.
"I'm sure when I pull that log, it'll show a perfectly innocent maintenance visit. Nothing suspicious at all." You leaned on the table. "But we both know, don't we?"
"Do we?"
"Game on, Janson."
His smile widened. "I'm counting on it."
The briefing room was tense. Ava stood at the head of the table, reviewing preliminary reports on the holographic display.
"Janson. Your interview completion rate is impressive."
He inclined his head. "Thank you."
"However, your cooperation metrics are abysmal. The subjects actively avoid you when given the choice."
A muscle in his jaw twitched.
"By contrast—" Ava turned to you, "—your interviews take three times as long, but your compliance rates are significantly higher. The subjects request you specifically."
"I focus on building rapport," you said. "They've been through trauma. They need to feel safe."
"They need to provide useful data," Janson cut in. "Rapport is secondary to—"
"Rapport IS useful data," you countered. "You can't get honest responses from people who hate you."
"I don't need them to like me. I need them to cooperate."
"Which they're not doing."
"Because you're coddling them—"
"I'm treating them like human beings—"
"Enough." Ava's voice cut through. "You'll each continue your current approaches. We'll evaluate effectiveness after the next round. Dismissed."
You gathered your files, jaw tight. Janson did the same, his movements precise and controlled.
Neither of you spoke until you were in the corridor.
"Coddling," you muttered.
"It's an accurate description."
"You're just mad because they actually talk to me."
"They talk to you because you bribe them with false promises and extra dessert."
You stopped walking. "Excuse me?"
He stopped too, turning to face you. "I reviewed the meal logs. Your subjects get supplementary rations. Special accommodations. You're buying cooperation."
"I'm meeting their basic needs so they're not too hungry and scared to function—"
"You're compromising the integrity of the research."
The accusation landed like a slap. "Take that back."
"Why? It's true."
"It's not—" You stepped closer, voice rising. "I work twice as hard as you do to get real results, and you can't stand it because it makes you look lazy and incompetent—"
"Lazy?" His voice dropped dangerously low. "I complete more interviews in a day than you do in three—"
"Completing interviews isn't the goal, you asshole, getting actual useful information is—"
"And you think treats and sympathy get useful information? You're delusional—"
"I'm effective! The data proves it! You're just pissed that I'm better at this than you—"
"Better?" He laughed, sharp and cutting. "You're manipulative. There's a difference—"
"Oh, that's rich coming from—"
Footsteps. Ava's voice, getting closer. "—need those reports by end of day, I don't care if—"
Janson's eyes widened. So did yours. If Ava heard you two fighting like this, unprofessional and loud in the middle of the corridor—
He moved.
His hand caught the back of your neck, pulled you forward, and his mouth was on yours before you could process what was happening.
The kiss was hard. Desperate. His other hand found your waist, pressing you against the wall as footsteps approached. You froze for half a second—shock and anger and something else entirely—then your hands fisted in his jacket because if this was the cover story, you'd sell it.
Ava's footsteps passed. Paused.
"Get a room," she said, voice bone-dry. "And then get back to work."
The footsteps continued. Faded. Gone.
Janson pulled back. His pupils were dilated, breath coming fast. You were breathing hard too, heart hammering against your ribs.
"You—" Your voice came out rough. "What the hell—"
"She was coming. You were yelling." His hand was still on your waist, thumb pressing into your hip. "Would you prefer I'd let her hear you accusing me of sabotage?"
"You did sabotage me—"
"I didn't sabotage anything. I simply accessed the refrigeration unit during a routine inspection and may have... forgotten to fully close the door." His smile was infuriating. "An accident. Like your coffee spill."
You shoved him. He let you, stepping back with that satisfied expression firmly in place.
"This isn't over," you said.
"I certainly hope not." His eyes dropped to your mouth, just for a second, before meeting yours again. "That would be disappointing."
He turned and walked away, leaving you against the wall with your lips still tingling and your mind racing.
Elena Thornwood (OC)
Angst, TWs: persecution/false accusations, threat of execution, exile, body horror elements (supernatural transformation), revenge, destruction of a community.
Summary: A healer accused of witchcraft flees into the wicked Witherhallow forest, where the land itself transforms her into the very thing her village feared.
I wouldn't say this was a request, but its something long overdue that I've been putting off for a while, thank you to @teathepumpkinmoth for suggesting: There's one I'm not sure how to make into starter format, but the basic idea is that a woman is banished from the village she called home due to rumors of her being a witch urned to accusations. She had fled before they could blame anymore of the villages misfortune on her and try to burn her at the steak. With little possessions, she had disappeared into the forbidden forest to escape bandits that would surely get her on the path. She discovers the forests are safe. There are no monsters of myth there. And obody dares fallow her in. From then, she makes her own solitary home and garden So0n enough, becoming an actual witch. Destroying the village that had betrayed her
story under the cut
The first stone hit Elena's shoulder.
She didn't see who threw it--the crowd had become a single writhing beast, faces blurred by torchlight and rage. The impact drove her to her knees on the packed dirt of the village square, and the pain was bright and clean and real in a way the last three days of accusations hadn't been.
"Witch!" Someone's voice, cracked with fear or excitement or both. "She cursed the Miller's boy!"
"My crops rotted because of her!"
"Burn her! Burn the witch!"
Elena's fingers clawed at the ground. Her breath came in sharp gasps that tasted of smoke and sweat and the particular electricity of mob violence. She'd delivered half these people's babies. Set their broken bones. Sat up through fevered nights with their dying children and pulled them back from the edge.
And now they wanted her blood.
Old Marta's face swam into focus, twisted with something that might have been satisfaction or might have been terror, Elena couldn't tell anymore, didn't care. The old woman raised her gnarled hand, finger pointed like a blade. "She has the devil's mark! I saw it!"
A lie. All lies. But truth didn't matter when fear had taken root.
Another stone caught Elena's temple. Hot blood ran into her eye, turning the world red. The crowd surged forward and she could smell them; unwashed bodies and ale-breath and something else, something animal and hungry. They would tear her apart right here if someone didn't stop them.
No one was going to stop them.
Elena ran.
She didn't think, didn't plan, just ran. Her legs found strength she didn't know she had, terror pumping through her veins like liquid fire. She burst through a gap in the crowd, heard them roar behind her, felt hands grab at her skirts and slip away.
The village blurred past. She knew these streets, had walked them every day of her twenty-six years. The baker's shop where she'd bought bread that morning, a lifetime ago. The well where she'd drawn water. The church where she'd prayed.
All of it meant nothing now.
Her grandmother's book, wrapped in oilcloth, slammed against her ribs where she'd tied it beneath her dress. The kitchen knife tucked in her belt dug into her hip. Everything else--her home, her herbs, her life--abandoned.
The torches followed. She could hear them, a constellation of rage bobbing through the darkness behind her.
"Find her!"
"Don't let the witch escape!"
"The Lord's work! We do the Lord's work!"
The forest rose up ahead, a wall of absolute blackness that made even the moonless night seem bright by comparison. The Forbidden Forest. Where the old stories lived, where children were warned never to go, where reality supposedly frayed at the edges and let terrible things slip through.
Behind her: certain death by fire and fear.
Ahead: possible death by things unknown.
Elena chose the unknown.
The tree line swallowed her whole.
The sounds of pursuit cut off so abruptly it was like falling into deep water. The sudden silence pressed against her eardrums, made her stumble. She could still see the torches behind her, distant fireflies now, wavering at the forest's edge. None of them followed. Not one.
They were more afraid of the forest than they were eager for her death.
She should have felt relief. Instead, her heart hammered harder, because what could possibly be worse than burning alive that an entire village feared it more?
Elena forced her legs to move. Branches whipped at her face, drew lines of fire across her cheeks. Roots tried to trip her. The darkness was complete. She couldn't see her own hands in front of her face, couldn't tell if her eyes were open or closed. She moved by touch and terror, hands outstretched, feeling her way deeper into whatever hell she'd chosen.
The ground sloped downward. She slipped, caught herself, slipped again. Her palms scraped against rough bark. Something skittered away from her foot--too many legs, too fast. She bit back a scream and kept moving.
Time dissolved. She might have been walking for minutes or hours. Her lungs burned. Her legs trembled. The adrenaline was wearing off, leaving exhaustion in its wake like the tide going out.
And then she smelled it.
Sweet. Wayyy too sweet. Like fruit left to rot in summer heat, like flowers dying in a vase, like honey gone to poison. It coated the back of her throat, made her stomach clench. The air itself felt thick, viscous, like breathing through wet cloth.
Elena's vision began to swim. No--wait--there was light here. Faint, blue-green, emanating from the trees themselves. Fungi growing on the bark, glowing with bioluminescent beauty. They illuminated a landscape that looked wrong, feltwrong. The trees were massive, ancient, their trunks black and slick with something that caught the fungal light and reflected it like oil on water. Their branches twisted overhead in patterns that hurt to look at directly, geometry that didn't quite make sense.
She tried to turn back.
Her legs didn't obey. They folded beneath her, muscles turning to water. She hit the ground hard, and the moss rose up around her like a living thing. It was soft, impossibly soft, and that somehow made it worse. Like falling into a mouth.
The sweetness intensified. Each breath brought more of it into her lungs, oh, she could feel it now, particles suspended in the air, invisible but present. They settled on her exposed skin like snow. Tingling. Burning. Both at once.
No. The word formed in her mind but wouldn't reach her lips. Not like this. I didn't survive them just to die here alone.
But the forest didn't care what she wanted.
Her vision fragmented. The glowing fungi multiplied, became a thousand watching eyes. The trees leaned in, curious, hungry. She saw--or thought she saw--the moss reaching up in tendrils, wrapping around her wrists, her ankles, pulling her down into the earth like it meant to plant her.
Maybe it did.
Elena's last conscious thought was visceral, primal: I refuse.
Then the darkness took her, and this darkness was different from the one she'd run through. This darkness was alive. It crawled down her throat and filled her lungs and seeped into her blood and wrapped around her bones. It unmade her, cell by cell, and built something new in her place.
She drowned in it.
She became it.
The dreams were not dreams.
She was underground, vast networks of roots spreading through soil, drinking in minerals, tasting the decay of fallen leaves and dead animals. She could feel the slow, patient pulse of the trees, their ancient consciousness distributed through millions of connected cells. They were speaking to each other in chemical signals, warning of disease, sharing nutrients, nurturing their young.
And they were speaking to her.
You are not one of us, they said in the language of spores and sap. But you could be.
What are you? she tried to ask, but she had no mouth, no voice. She was dissolving, her human boundaries breaking down, bleeding into the forest itself.
We are survival, the trees answered. We are adaptation. We are poison and antidote, death and transformation. We are what remains when everything else has fallen.
What are you doing to me?
Making you useful.
The spores (she figured) were the forest's immune system, its defense against intrusion. They knocked out threats, broke down foreign bodies, recycled them into fuel. She should be dying. She was dying. Her cells were rupturing, her proteins denaturing, her DNA unraveling.
But something else was happening too.
The forest's chemical cocktail--whatever nightmare of alkaloids and proteins and unknown compounds the trees produced--was reacting with her human biology in a way it never had before. Instead of simply breaking her down, it was incorporating her. Rewriting her. Her cells weren't dying; they were changing. Mitochondria mutating to process new energy sources. Cell walls shifting, becoming semi-permeable in impossible ways. Her blood learning to carry chlorophyll alongside hemoglobin.
It hurt.
God, it hurt.
Like being burned from the inside out. Like every nerve was a live wire. Like her body was a battlefield and she was both armies, tearing herself apart and stitching herself back together in the same breath.
She wanted to scream but had no lungs.
She wanted to die but was being refused.
The forest held her in its patient, implacable embrace and would not let her go.
Time meant nothing here. She existed in the eternal present of growing things, where a second and a season were the same. She felt her hair growing, impossibly fast, reaching down into the soil like roots. Felt her skin harden, develop a waxy coating. Felt something like photosynthesis begin in her cells, drinking in what little light filtered down through the moss.
Please, she begged. Please, I just want--
What do you want?
The question stopped her. What did she want?
To go back to the village? To the people who'd tried to kill her? To her small life of healing the ungrateful, of making herself small and useful and safe?
No.
No.
The word echoed through the root network, through every tree in the grove.
She wanted power. She wanted to never be helpless again. She wanted them to see what they'd created when they'd driven her into the dark.
Then take it, the forest whispered. Take what we offer. Become what you were meant to be.
And Elena, who'd spent her whole life being gentle and careful and good, who'd swallowed her anger and her pride and her want in service of people who'd repaid her with stones and fire- -
Elena reached out with hands that weren't quite hands anymore and took.
The power slammed into her like lightning.
She woke screaming.
Her back arched off the ground, every muscle locked rigid. The scream ripped from her throat raw and ragged and triumphant. Energy coursed through her veins, electric and green and alive. Too much!
Her hands slammed into the earth and the power discharged.
The moss beneath her palms erupted. It spread in a wave, covering everything, moving like a living carpet. Fungi burst from the soil in riots of color--red and purple and orange, caps unfurling, spores puffing into the air. The fallen log beside her moved, bucking like a living thing as mycelium raced through its rotting wood. A dead branch overhead suddenly sprouted green shoots, leaves bursting from desiccated bark.
The clearing came alive around her, and Elena was the center of it, the source, the cause.
She rolled onto her hands and knees, gasping. Her hair fell forward in a curtain and she saw it, black still, but threaded now with green, living vines woven through the strands. Tiny white flowers bloomed and died and bloomed again in her curls.
Her hands. God, her hands. The skin had a faint greenish cast, like light through leaves. When she flexed her fingers, she could see veins pulsing beneath the surface, but they weren't quite the right color. Too dark. The color of sap.
"What--" Her voice cracked. She swallowed and tried again. "What did you do to me?"
The forest didn't answer in words. But she could feel it now, the vast network of life surrounding her. Every tree, every plant, every microscopic organism connected through invisible threads of chemical communication. And she was part of it. She was a node in the network, a voice in the choir, a cell in the body of the forest itself.
Elena staggered to her feet. The world tilted, then steadied. She felt good. Better than good. The exhaustion from her flight was gone. The fear that had driven her for days had burned away, leaving something else in its place.
Hunger.
Not for food. For... more. For use. The power inside her was restless, demanding, like a living thing that needed to be fed.
She looked around the clearing with new eyes. Saw the potential in everything. The fallen log was fuel for new growth, a seed bed, a home for a thousand organisms. The moss wasn't just moss, it was a network of simple plants that could be made to grow, to spread, to conquer.
Elena pressed her hand against the nearest tree trunk.
And felt it respond.
The sensation was overwhelming, so overstimulating, so-- everything! She could feel the tree's roots spreading deep underground, taste the minerals it drew up from the earth, sense the fungi wrapped around its root tips in symbiotic embrace. She could feel its age, centuries old, ancient beyond her comprehension. And she could feel its awareness of her.
Child of poison, it seemed to say. Sister of spores. You are Changed.
"Yes," Elena whispered. The word came out reverent, awed. "Yes, I am."
She pulled her hand away and looked at her palm. For a moment, green light flickered beneath her skin, bright as new leaves in spring.
She could make things grow.
The understanding settled into her bones with absolute certainty. She could accelerate growth, direct it, shape it. She could take a seed and make it a tree in hours instead of years. She could heal wounds by forcing tissue to regenerate. She could...
oh.
She could destroy, too. Growth and decay were just two sides of the same process. If she could make things flourish, she could make them rot. If she could heal, she could harm.
The village.
The thought rose unbidden, but once it surfaced, she couldn't push it back down. The village that had tried to burn her. The people who'd thrown stones. Old Marta with her accusations. The baker who'd sold her bread that morning and called for her death that night.
They'd called her a witch when she was innocent.
What would they call her now that she actually had power?
Elena's lips pulled back from her teeth. Not quite a smile. Something sharper.
"Let's find out," she said to the forest, to herself, to the new and terrible thing she was becoming.
The trees rustled overhead, and it sounded almost like laughter.
She built her home in the poisoned grove where no one would ever find her.
The cottage grew more than it was built. Elena pressed her hands to saplings and asked them, politely at first, then with more force, to bend to her will. They did. The trees wove themselves together, branches interlacing to form walls, roots rising to create furniture. Moss grew thick on the roof, insulating. Vines covered the exterior, camouflage and defense in one.
Inside, she planted her garden.
The seeds she'd brought sprouted in hours. Carrots and turnips, herbs and vegetables--they grew with obscene speed, swelling and ripening under her touch. She learned to modulate the power, to coax instead of force. A gentle nudge to encourage growth. A firmer push to accelerate it. A sharp twist to direct it exactly where she wanted.
She ate well. Better than she ever had in the village.
But food wasn't what she hungered for.
Elena spent her days experimenting, testing the limits of her gift. She could make flowers bloom out of season, force fruit to ripen in winter, coax mushrooms from bare rock. She could heal--she tested it on herself, cutting her finger and then pressing her other hand to the wound, watching in fascination as the flesh knit together, cells multiplying at impossible speed.
And she could kill.
That discovery came by accident. She was pruning a thorny vine that had grown too aggressive, reached out to push it back, and felt the power surge through her wrong--twisted. The vine blackened and withered in seconds, leaves crisping and falling like ash. The rot spread up the stem, turning healthy plant matter to mush.
Elena stared at her hands, heart pounding.
Then she smiled.
By the first snow, she was no longer entirely human.
Her skin had taken on a permanent greenish tint, subtle in dim light but obvious in the sun. Her hair grew constantly now, and she had to cut it every few days to keep it from dragging on the ground. The flowers that bloomed in her curls were permanent fixtures, their petals soft as silk. Her eyes had changed too. The brown had become flecked with green and gold, and in certain lights, they almost seemed to glow.
When she bled (which happened less and less) the blood was dark and thick and smelled like cut grass.
She stopped thinking of herself as Elena the healer.
She became something else. Something new. The forest had no name for what she was, so she didn't bother naming it either. She simply was.
And when the first whispers reached her, that the village was suffering, Elena felt nothing.
No.
That was a lie.
She felt satisfaction.
Their wells had gone dry. Not all at once, but slowly, the water level dropping week by week until people were rationing, until mothers were measuring out cups for their children like gold.
Elena sat in her cottage and remembered Old Marta's face, twisted with hate. She remembered the stone hitting her temple, the blood in her eye. She remembered running while they screamed for her death.
And she thought: Good.
But it wasn't enough.
Their crops failed next spring. The fields that should have been green with new growth stayed brown and barren. Seeds rotted in the ground before they could germinate. The few plants that did sprout grew twisted, their leaves spotted with disease, their fruit bitter and inedible.
Elena had nothing to do with it.
Yet.
She was simply... waiting. Watching. Letting them suffer the same fear and uncertainty they'd inflicted on her. Letting them turn on each other, wondering whose fault it was, who they could blame.
But her patience had limits.
On the first anniversary of the night they'd driven her out, Elena walked to the edge of the forest.
She didn't leave the tree line, she wasn't stupid. But she stood there in the darkness, hidden by shadows, and looked out at the village. Smaller than she remembered. More pathetic. The buildings looked run-down, the fields sparse. Even from here, she could sense the desperation, the hunger, the fear.
It made her feel powerful.
Elena knelt and pressed both hands to the earth. Closed her eyes. Reached out with her gift, following the root networks, the fungal highways, the patient creep of living things. She found the boundary where forest met farmland, where wild gave way to cultivated.
And she whispered: Cross it.
The forest responded.
Not quickly--that would be too obvious. But slowly, steadily, roots began to creep under the boundary stones. Fungal filaments spread through the soil of the village fields. Spores drifted on the wind, settling on stored grain.
The invasion was invisible. Inexorable.
And Elena guided it with vicious precision.
She didn't just want their crops to fail. She wanted them to understand that nature itself had turned against them. She wanted them to feel the same helplessness she'd felt running through the dark with torches at her back.
The blight that took their summer planting was absolute.
Every seed they put in the ground died. Yes, died. Turned to black sludge that smelled like corpses. The few plants that survived grew monstrous, their stems thick as trees, their leaves huge and waxy and inedible. Strange mushrooms appeared overnight in the fields, massive things with caps like dinner plates and gills that wept black liquid.
The livestock that ate the diseased grain sickened. Their eyes filmed over white. They staggered in circles, too weak to stand. One by one, they died, and their bodies bloated and burst, releasing clouds of spores that made the farmers vomit just from breathing them.
Elena felt every death through the network. Tasted their fear in the air.
And she laughed.
The sound echoed through the forest, wild and joyous and utterly without mercy. She'd spent her whole life being good, being helpful, being the woman who healed instead of harmed. She'd swallowed her anger and her pride. She'd made herself small and useful and safe.
And they'd tried to kill her for it.
Well. She wasn't small anymore.
She wasn't safe.
She was power, and she would use it.
Through the fall and into winter, Elena orchestrated their destruction with patience and precision. A failed well here. A tainted granary there. The slow creep of fungal disease through their remaining food stores. She never did anything overtly supernatural for it always looked like bad luck, like natural disaster, like the kind of suffering that could happen to anyone.
But it was her. Every bit of it.
She watched from the forest's edge as they grew desperate. Watched them ration food until children cried from hunger. Watched them turn on each other, accusations flying, fists swinging, all the community bonds fraying under pressure.
They fractured.
They broke.
And Elena felt nothing but savage satisfaction.
She'd spent weeks being afraid. Months being isolated. A year becoming something new and strange and powerful. She'd died and been reborn in poison and darkness, had given up her humanity for strength.
They deserved everything she was doing to them.
Every. Single. Thing.
On the winter solstice, Elena walked to the very edge of the forest. Closer than she'd ever dared. She could see the village clearly now, see the boarded-up houses and empty streets. See the graveyard that had grown.
And she raised her hands and pushed.
Every plant in the village square erupted at once.
Weeds burst through the cobblestones, growing man-high in seconds. Vines erupted from between the houses, wrapping around walls, pulling at shutters. The great oak in the center of the square cracked down the middle with a sound like thunder. From the crack poured a flood of luminescent fungi, the same kind that grew in her poisoned grove, and their glow turned the whole square blue-green and eerie.
In the middle of it all, Elena made a tree grow.
Not just any tree. A massive thing, trunk thick as a house, branches spreading like grasping hands. It grew from nothing, erupting from the earth with violence, roots heaving up stone, branches punching through roofs. It grew in minutes, a year's growth compressed into heartbeats, and Elena poured all her rage and power and pain into it.
It was beautiful.
Terrible.
Hers.
The villagers came running, screaming, terrified. They saw the tree, the vines, the glowing mushrooms. They saw nature itself invading their safe human spaces.
And Elena stepped out of the shadows where they could see her.
She knew how she looked. Knew her skin was too green, her hair too wild, her eyes too bright. Knew the flowers blooming in her curls and the veins visible beneath her skin marked her as other. As not human. As exactly what they'd accused her of being.
Old Marta saw her first. The old woman's face went white, then gray, then collapsed into an expression of such pure terror that Elena felt it like wine on her tongue.
"Witch," Marta whispered.
Elena smiled. Teeth white in her too-green face.
"Yes," she said, and her voice carried across the square, amplified by the rustling of ten thousand leaves. "I am."
She raised her hand. Every vine in the village square moved at once, writhing like snakes. The tree groaned and stretched, branches reaching for the sky. Mushrooms bloomed on every surface, glowing brighter, filling the air with spores that made people cough and stagger.
"You called me witch when I was innocent," Elena said. "You drove me into the dark to die. You made me run. You made me afraid."
Her hand closed into a fist.
The vines tightened. The tree's roots buckled the street. The mushrooms released a cloud of spores that made the air itself shimmer.
"And now..." her smile widened, sharp as broken glass "--you're going to learn what happens when you create a monster and then give her time to grow."
The villagers broke and ran.
But Elena was patient. The forest was patient. And they had nowhere to go that her roots couldn't follow, no place to hide that her spores couldn't find.
She walked back into the forest, the darkness welcoming her home, and behind her the village began its slow, inevitable collapse into green chaos.
They'd made her into this.
And she would make them pay.
AN: I've gone offline for the longest time now, buried myself under so much work in preparation for my exams... which are finally over now. Thank heavens. I'll be continuing to write my stories, accepting requests and being present here on this platform more often so please, do interact, chat, request, my door is always open. I hope you can tell from this piece that I've been practicing my writing and I hope it's better... more interesting. If not? feedback/constructive criticism would be greatly appreciated. miss you all lots!
fictober day 12: Daddy’s gonna buy you a mockingbird (I’ma give you the world)
So this did NOT turn out how i planned, so its much more fluffy than i thought it'd be. im considering a part 2 just bc i loved writing this so much and it was ridiculously easy to write but dont hold me to it.
anyway: bucky has a daughter au. thats it. thats the summary.
russian used:
ты маленький умник- means something along the lines of "you little smartass"
pronounced: ty malen'kiy umnik
ao3 link here
Bucky was getting really goddamn tired of cleaning up HYDRA’s messes. This time it was an abandoned warehouse in rural New York that they had used as a training facility. For what? He wasn’t sure. He did find some papers that talked about both the Black Widows and the Winter Soldiers. The moment he read that, a pit formed in his stomach, and an uneasy feeling rose up.
“Lena,” He says, activating the comms. “I don’t have a good feeling about this.”
“Why?” She asks, appearing in the doorway a few moments later, making her way to his side quickly, looking at the papers in his hand.
He doesn’t need to respond to understand what’s making him so uneasy. It’s not the papers themselves, but the ‘project’ that they detail. The project that forced the Soldiers to procreate with the Widows.
“Shit.” Yelena breathes, glancing at Bucky.
“Uh, yeah.” He mumbles, his face pale. He knows that somehow, he was involved. He was always involved, being the original Winter Soldier and all. They wanted more of him. Bucky feels sick to his stomach, having to shove the papers in Yelena’s hands so he can turn away, holding a hand to his mouth, eyes squeezing shut. Yelena flips through the papers, glancing at him occasionally with a concerned look. And then she sees it.
Her breath hitches as she looks for any sort of proof that somehow, maybe, it wasn’t him. But the next page seems to confirm their fears, with his full name printed in bold across the top of the paper.
“I’m- I’m sorry, Bucky. This is horrible.” Yelena murmurs, glancing over at him.
“It was successful, wasn’t it? There’s a kid out there?”
Yelena hesitates, eyes flickering between him and the paper again. “It only says it was successful. Looks like the Widow program took over documentation after…”
He nods, taking a shaky breath. “I can live with that.”
Bucky had finally calmed down, ready to move on, when John came onto the comms, screeching for help.
“There’s a wild Widow here, guys! The fuck-” he grunts, panting. “Fucking get here.”
Bucky and Yelena exchanged a look and then bolted, running as fast as they could to the floor that John had been on. When they reach him, Alexei and Ava still haven’t gotten there. So they jump in, assisting John with dealing with the Black Widow that he was not equipped to handle, despite the serum running through his veins. Somehow, the Widow’s attention gets turned onto Bucky, and surprisingly, she’s able to knock him over quite easily with a kick between his legs and then to his chest. She fights off all attempts to pull her off of him, pressing her knee to his chest.
“James Barnes?” She rasps out, pulling a folded paper out of her pocket.
He nods, hesitating to actually do something about her on his chest. He watches her closely, noticing her features, her movements.
Shit. She’s barely even eighteen. It’s obvious.
The moment he realizes that, he glances at Yelena, giving her a glare that meant to stand the fuck down, which she understands immediately, putting her arm across John’s chest, shaking her head at him. The paper that the Widow- well, really, kid- pulls out has a bunch of scientific jargon that he doesn’t understand. But she points to the bottom margin, where the whole thing is summarized.
This kid… she was his daughter. He doesn’t know what to say, with an oblivious look in his eye. She doesn’t need him to say anything.
“I’ve been looking for you.” She states, getting to her feet, stepping back, leaving him to get to his feet on his own.
“Why?” Bucky asks, stepping closer, but she steps back.
“Why would anyone go looking for their father?” She deadpans. John chokes out a breath, eyes wide, but Yelena… Yelena seems relatively calm, as though she had already had an idea.
“That’s… a good point. But, still. You know who I am. Why would you look for me?” He emphasizes.
“Again. Why would anyone want to find their father? It doesn’t matter who you or I are. I still wanted to find you.”
“What’s your name, kid?” Bucky sighs, staring at her, already getting frustrated.
“They didn’t give me a name.” She huffs.
“Well, I can’t just call you kid, now can I?” He exclaims, putting his hands on his hips, exasperated. Yelena and John glance at each other, holding back laughter.
“Fine! You choose one!”
Bucky pauses, lips parted in surprise. But he recovers quickly.
“English or Russian, ты маленький умник?”
She rolls her eyes, recognizing the foreign language easily. “Why would I want a Russian name?”
“You’re part Russian, I’d assume.” He deadpans.
He gets a scoff and an eye roll from the girl, who’s become eerily silent, obviously having no retort for him.
“Thought so. You coming with us, kid?” He asks, daring her to refuse.
“Where else would I go?”
“Yeah, yeah, let’s go.” He grumbles, turning on his heel, glaring at Yelena and John, making them back down from any questions they were about to ask. “She’s coming with us. Not a debate.”
They pass by Ava and Alexei as Bucky leads the girl out of the building, awkwardness building now that they’re not butting heads. Yelena quickly explains the situation to the others before following Bucky, assuming the mission is over.
“Get in,” Bucky says, holding the passenger door of the van open for her, unsure what else to do. She nods, watching him closely as she climbs in. But the moment she’s sat, he shuts the door and climbs into the driver’s seat. He starts the engine, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel as he waits for the others to get in.
“You’re, what, eighteen?” He asks awkwardly, glancing over at her. She nods, arms crossed over her chest.
“This would be way easier if you’d talk to me, you know.” He huffs, unable to help the smile pulling at his lips.
“You’re moody. Grumpy, even. It’s kinda funny. Who knew a kid could have such a personal vendetta against the world?” He teases, smirking over at her.
“Oh, shut it.” She grumbles, rolling her eyes. Her lips part as though she was going to say something, but she hesitates. And right as she’s about to speak, the rear door opens, and she slams her mouth shut as the team clambers in. It’s immediately loud and chaotic in the vehicle, with everyone asking questions at a million miles a minute.
“Shut up!” He yells, giving her an apologetic look when she flinches, his heart aching at the sight. “All of you, quiet.”
He puts the car into drive, glaring in the rearview for a moment, before driving off. But, of course, the silence is too much, and he’s soon being nagged about music.
Bucky ignores every single one of them until the smaller voice next to him pipes up.
“Can I turn on the radio?” She asks, already reaching out for the knob, but hesitating, as if she were afraid that she’d be punished if she dared to do so anyway.
“Free range, kid.” Bucky nods, trying not to frown at her hesitation. He also ignores the snickers coming from the rest of the team, knowing that it’s his awkward way of interacting with this girl that’s got them laughing at him.
The ride back into the city isn’t long at all, and if anyone else had complained about being hungry or needing the restroom, Bucky would’ve ignored them. But the moment the girl next to him pipes up, albeit quietly, about being hungry, he immediately rummages through the glovebox, pulling out some of the snacks that he has stashed in there. Her smile and the way it absolutely lights up her face make it worth the loud protests coming from the team. The moment she’s done with her snack, now left with a crumpled wrapper in her palm, Bucky holds his hand out for it, not even looking away from the road.
Finally, when they do get back to the tower, the team has grown tired of complaining and bickering. The sky is fading into darkness as the sun disappears on the horizon. Bucky parks the van wordlessly, shutting it off and getting out, hesitating at the front of the vehicle, waiting for the girl to follow.
His girl. His little girl. He has to admit, it does make him a bit giddy, now that the initial shock has worn off.
“We probably don’t have any rooms ready to move into right now. We weren’t expecting anyone new to join us.” He says awkwardly, leading her inside. “You can sleep in my room. But if it’s more comfortable, I’m sure Ava or Yelena wouldn’t mind bunking with you.”
“I wouldn’t mind being with you.” She says, fidgeting with the hem of her jacket as she follows him. Gone is her confident demeanor, that of a Black Widow who’s ready to kick anyone’s and everyone’s ass. Replacing the Widow is a teenage girl who’s been reunited with her father, who has no real knowledge of how to navigate such a circumstance. A teenage girl who feels so little, so naïve, compared to the man walking beside her.
“I’ll show you around, then.” He says, seeing through the tough façade she has painted on, getting a glimpse of the vulnerability underneath.
He eventually reaches out, resting his hand on her upper back as he shows her around, trying to make her feel a little more welcome. Finally, when they get to his room, he opens the door and lets her in. It's the same basic setup as all of the other rooms: a dresser, a walk-in closet, a desk, a sofa, a mounted TV, and a full-size bed. And sure, his room is a bit messy, a fact he’s suddenly embarrassed by.
“I’ll uh… I’ll get new sheets and then you can take the bed.” He offers, unsure of himself. “And I’ll see if Yelena has clothes that you can borrow. I doubt you’ll wanna end up borrowing mine.” He chuckles awkwardly, but smiles when he sees her own soft smile.
“Thank you.” She breathes, glancing up at him.
“You don’t gotta thank me for anything, alright? You came to me, I ain’t gonna turn you away. We’re family now, kid.” He says, moving toward his dresser to find a change of clothes as he continues to speak. “I can bring you to Yelena now, if you’d like. Or I can just have her come here with some clothes while I shower. Up to you. And then after, we can eat, then maybe decide on that name?”
She smiles, nodding. “That- that sounds good. She can come while you’re showering, I guess. I don’t wanna get lost or anything.” She rambles, getting comfortable on the sofa.
“Got it,” Bucky says, sending a quick text to Yelena before heading to the connected bathroom. “She’ll be here in a few minutes. I’ll be quick, ‘kay?”
“Okay.” She says, watching him disappear into the bathroom before hesitantly grabbing the TV remote, flipping it on.
She flips through the channels, but the moment the door creaks open, she sits up straight, eyes attentive to the woman walking in.
“Hey. I’m Yelena.” She says, shutting the door behind her. “I got you some clothes.”
The girl looks up at her, smiling. “Thank you.”
“Of course,” Yelena says, handing her the stack she had picked out from her closet. “I don’t wear most of these, anyway. We could probably go shopping for some clothes for you later, if you’d like. I’m sure Mr. Grumps wouldn’t mind spending his money on you.”
The girl laughs, eyes lighting up as she goes through the clothes. “I hope so.”
“Well, I know so,” Yelena says, sitting on the arm of the couch. “He’s already let you break so many of the rules that he’s set for the rest of us. And he’s already looking at you like… like you’re an angel, of sorts. Men are weird like that, I guess. Some would rather swallow a knife than be a father, but some… some are like him. They worship the ground their kids walk on. He’s headed on that path already. I can see it. He’ll be awkward for a bit, but that’s how he always is. You already have a good dad, kid. And with him, you got a family.”
She looks up at Yelena, lips curled into a small smile as the blonde speaks. “I- thanks.” She breathes, nibbling her lip.
Yelena nods, squeezing her shoulder as she stands.
“Anytime, kid. You’re family now.” Yelena says, heading to the door. She glances back at the girl with a small smile before leaving.
She sits on the couch, staring down at the clothes in her lap. She’d have never guessed that looking for her father would end up like this. That she would’ve gained an entire family, and a loving one, at that. She tears up, lips trembling as she runs her fingers over the fabric.
“Hey, kid, I’m done in here if you wanted-” Bucky pauses when he sees her on the couch, her cheeks glistening with tears. He drops the towel he was using to dry his hair, making his way to her side immediately.
“Hey, hey, what’s the matter?” He asks, taking her hands in his, trying to figure out how to soothe her.
“I- I just…” She sniffs, squeezing her eyes shut. “I’m overwhelmed.”
“Okay, that’s okay.” Bucky breathes, sitting on the couch next to her, naturally pulling her into his arms. “I got you. Just breathe. It’ll be okay.”
She chokes out a small sob, curling into him, clutching his shirt. He hums softly, rocking her in his arms, one of his hands cradling her head to his chest.
“Does this help you?” He asks, gently running his hand through her hair when he notices her slowly calming down. She nods, not loosening her grip.
“Gotcha.” Bucky murmurs, continuing to hold her. His chest pangs with every sob that falls from her lips, wanting nothing more than to fix whatever made her so upset in the first place. But she needs him to do this, not to fix every single thing that may be a problem. So he stays right there, rocking his girl in his arms.
Eventually, when her sobs turn to sniffles and she starts to pull away, Bucky lets her, still keeping his hands close.
“You wanna talk about it?” He asks, leaning against the back of the couch, waiting for her to speak.
“I just… Wasn’t expecting this. I don’t know what I was expecting, really. I… I went looking for you and now I have an entire family, and I dunno how to really process that.” She starts, fiddling with the hem of her shirt. “It’s a lot.”
“Yeah, it is. Trust me, kiddo, I get it. But I’m right here, alright? I ain’t leaving. I’m staying right here as long as you need me.” He says, reaching out to swipe away a stray tear. “How about you go take a shower, alright? Then we can figure out dinner. Maybe watch a movie or something after. Okay?”
“Okay.” She sniffs, swiping at the remaining tears on her face. She gets up, clothes in her arms. But halfway to the bathroom door, she hesitates, turning back to put the clothes down and wrap her arms around his neck. “Thank you.”
“Oh, hey, okay. I got you.” Bucky chuckles, pulling her close, running his hand in circles over her back until she pulls away. “You don’t gotta thank me, kiddo. Keep that in mind. You ain’t owing anybody anything.”
“Okay.” She nods as she steps back, grabbing the clothes once again. She turns toward the bathroom, shutting the door behind her.
As she takes a shower, Bucky sits at his desk, scrolling through countless lists of names, trying to find something that he could hear belonging to his little girl.
And eventually, he finds it, after scrolling through the third list of Russian baby names that he came across.
Liliya.
He knew it from the moment he read the name. Sure, he made sure to find a few back-ups, but he was dead-set on this one.
So he waits patiently, cleaning up the room as she showers. And when she eventually comes out, looking a bit more human than she had earlier when they first met, he smiles.
“I think I found a name for you.” He says as she sits down next to him on the couch.
“What is it?” She asks, genuinely curious, and slightly hopeful.
“Liliya,” Bucky says, smiling softly. “Dunno, I just think it suits you.”
She nods, tearing up. “I like it.”
“Good. That’s good.” Bucky breathes, unable to contain a soft laugh as he pulls her into a hug. “Liliya. My sweet Liliya.”
She can’t help but giggle, wiping her eyes, leaning into his embrace, slowly warming up to him. But she can’t sit there forever, especially not when she starts feeling as though she’s starving. She doesn’t even have to say anything. Bucky immediately gets up, leading her to the kitchen downstairs in the common area.
There, he starts a simple dinner for everyone, inviting Liliya to join him in the kitchen. At first, she hesitates. But she eventually warms up to the idea, easily finding herself at his side, watching as he cooks and doing everything he instructs.
“So, you got a name yet, or are we just gonna keep calling you kid?” John asks once they’ve all sat down to eat.
“Liliya.” She responds, a proud smile on her lips.
“Ah, a beautiful name for a beautiful little girl!” Alexei exclaims, genuinely excited- for too many reasons to name.
She can’t help but laugh, feeling more at ease as the night rolls on. They make her feel like family as they pull her into their jokes, immediately filling her in on every little secret. It’s home already.
And Bucky watches her proudly throughout the night, partly in amazement that someone as good as her could ever come from an experiment as intrusive as the one she had been created in. The fact is, plain and simple, that she’s his little girl. It was written in stone the moment he found out about her. Nothing could’ve stopped it.
Not that he really wanted it to stop, anyway. Not when he finally has everything he could ever want or need from life. Liliya simply just sealed the deal for him.
Hii how are you? Are you still taking Owen Grady requests? If you are taking, I have one... Owen and the reader have been friends for a long time. They have been with the raptors since the very beginning. There's even some light flirty interactions between them. Yet the reader never gives herself a chance. She never thinks that Owen could ever really be interested in her in any way. So much so that she has convinced herself that Owen likes Claire. But the reader is so focused on everything about it that she never notices Owen's intense gaze upon her.
You've got it all wrong
owen grady masterlist | main masterlist
Owen Grady x Reader
1,357 words
a/n - thank you so, so, so much for the request anon, sorry it's taken me so long to write it! I hope you enjoy 🫶
Owen Grady was an unlikely friend, to put it honestly, he was cocky, sarcastic, a little full of himself, but he had managed to worm himself into friendship with his persistence and smug smile. It wasn’t as if you could get away from him anyway, the two of you having worked together since the raptors had hatched.
“Y/n.”
“Y/n!”
A large hand lightly wrapped around your shoulder, the warmth of it spread through your skin and your eyebrows furrowed as you slowly gained consciousness. The first thing you noticed was the cold, and you hid your nose in the crease of your elbow as you let out a groan. A groan which only grew as you shifted in your seated position, the aches of your bones cried out with every movement. God, who let you sleep at your desk?
“Jesus Christ, you’re fucking cold,” you hear Owen chuckle before he begins to rub his hands up and down your arms. Not due to his efforts, but solely a reaction to him, you feel yourself warm up instantly; he was so close you could feel his chest just centimeters behind your head and you couldn’t help but unconsciously gravitate towards him. The warmth of him was magnetic and you were slowly being pulled in, your head leaning, leaning back, and back, and back, before suddenly coming into contact with the fabric of his shirt. Quickly, you jolted forwards, eyes wide with embarrassment as you cleared your throat and mumbled out a croaky apology. You move a hand to the mousepad of your laptop, desperate to move on and forget, and the screen instantly illuminates.
“What were you workin’ on?” Owen questions, a smirk on his lips, and he moves his hands down to the arms of your chair, trapping you as he leans forwards, his face dangerously close to yours. His blue eyes scanned the model of DNA, certain genes had been highlighted.
You swallow before speaking, “It’s Blue’s, just wondering if um,” he was impossibly close without touching you and you caught another glimpse of his eyes moving across the screen, “if her DNA had been influenced by her environment and if that’s why she’s so different, behaviour wise. Epigenetic stuff, some guy was saying, so I thought I’d have a look. They’ve all had a change in expression, but I read that it’s quite common as it’s changing to accommodate the modern environment, compared to what, previously, their DNA had naturally been adapted to.”
Owen let out a hum as he took in your words, and you felt it travel straight to your stomach, awakening the buzzing butterflies. Shit, you weren’t going to get over your little crush any time soon. Last night, before you had mistakenly fallen asleep, you had promised to yourself to try to move on. It was distracting you from the whole purpose of you being here, and if it continued to get in the way of your work you might have to do the proper thing and leave. But who were you kidding, getting over him as if it were simple? You had already been head over heels for the guy for a few years now, you weren’t going to get rid of your feelings even if you willed it.
“And your conclusion?”
“Inconclusive,” you reply sheepishly, “maybe when they all reach adulthood, it’ll be a bit more established. Hopefully.” You crossed your fingers and turned your head to give Owen a smile. Somehow, forgetting how close he was, you slightly drew back in surprise as he turned to face you as well. Your heart pumped wildly in your chest when the two of you locked eyes. You averted your heart-eyes as quickly as you realised you were staring. “Oh, look at that! It’s feeding time.” You call out, pointing at the corner of your screen before jumping up from your chair, forcing him to pull away from you.
Owen straightened, watching, as you collected your things, rubbing a hand over the stubble of his beard, before letting out a small defeated sigh and following you out of the door.
You turned to him with furrowed brows once he had caught up to you, “What’d you even wake me up for?”
“It’s feeding time, you said you wanted more practice doing it,” he shrugged and a soft smile spread across your lips, he remembered.
It was surprisingly warmer outside than it was inside, and you listened intently as Owen went over, once again, how to feed the raptors, and to stay safe. He shows you where to move with an outstretched hand pointing at the enclosure, and you nod your head, following the moment. That’s when you notice her. Bright red hair contrasting against the lush greenery. Claire Dearing. She stood just within the base, her arms crossed over her chest as she eyes the two of you: Owen more likely.
Owen’s still talking, not realising that your attention had been divided, and you nudge him with your elbow. He opens his mouth to complain, but you wordlessly nod your head in Claire’s direction, and his eyes quickly find her. She’s easy to see in this environment, sticking out like a sore thumb in her pristinely ironed skirt and blazer.
“Okay,” he pats you on the shoulder, already taking a step in her direction, “stay safe, I’m trusting Barry if anything goes wrong, you can do it.” You give him a thumbs up before he saunters off. She greets him with a friendly nod, and- you’re staring, you quickly turn away spinning on the heel of your foot and distract yourself with the task at hand.
Even with the distraction of four hungry dinosaurs, you can’t help but steal glances every so often; Owen talks with a smile on his lips and with his hands on his hips, you can hear his loud laugh as it travels with the gentle breeze. She’s so pretty, you can see why Owen, or any guy, would be interested in her. So elegant and put together, things that you weren’t. God, you were being immature. You’re whole feelings fiasco for Owen was immature, there was no reason to be so wrapped up about it. Why would he ever think of you as more than just a friend, when girls like Claire were his type?
“Owen, are you listening? This is very important.” Claire sighs as she waves a hand in front of his face.
“It always is,” he snarks back with a smirk, finally turning to face her for the first time since their conversation began. She squints her eyes at him, and he responds with a questioning look.
“You like her, huh?” She teases, and it’s clear that she’s talking about you. He hadn’t taken his eyes off of you since he joined Claire, not because he was worried you couldn’t handle yourself - he knew you could feed them no problem - but because he liked seeing you. Every day he woke up in a good mood because you’d be there, waiting for him, ready to start the day. Owen shakes his head and averts his eyes, but he can’t hide his flustered face. “Just don’t wear those shorts when you take her out,” she warns teasingly.
“I’ll have you know that she likes them,” he scoffs with faux defensiveness.
Just as you’re finishing up, you see the two approaching. You feel your heart drop to your stomach as you notice the shy smile and light blush dusting across Owen’s face. He found his place next to you, and Barry soon joined the conservation. You wished you had that effect on him, he looked so sweet, a glimpse of a side of him reserved only for lovers. Your gaze travels over to Claire.
Owen can see the sad look in your eyes as you stare at her. You’re looking at her, but he’s looking at you - if only you’d look at him for longer than a second, then maybe, just maybe, you’d see that he was in love with you, but you’re too scared that he’ll notice that you’re in love with him.
Maybe do a scene where he actually slams a clipboard on the table 😂
I saw your post...and I thought...
"Why not make that scene..."
Honestly he's so fine I definitely would be folding like a lawn chair ...💀💀💀
Tether
AD Janson x Reader
Bit of Angst, tension (lots of power play)
Not exactly proofread
Summary: She’s composed, controlled, impossible to crack… until Janson steps in, asking questions no one else dares to ask, and watching far too closely when she answers.
Story under the cut
The room is freezing.
But you never shiver.
Because shivering gets noted. And nothing in WCKD goes unrecorded.
You sit like you always do. Neutral, composed, spine aligned with the back of the steel chair. You fold your hands just loosely enough to look relaxed, but never so tight you look scared.
You’re not scared.
You’re watching.
That’s the key to survival here—watch more than you speak.
Play helpful. Play small. Play invisible.
It’s why you didn’t flinch when the guards dragged in Thomas last night. Or when Minho screamed his throat raw. Or at least, tried not to.
You watched the cameras. You watched the mirrors. You watched him.
Because Janson doesn’t operate like the others.
He doesn’t threaten.
He studies.
Ironic. The least likely to hurt her was the biggest threat of all.
When the door opens today, you know it’s him before he steps in. The air shifts. Thicker. Heavier. Like he brings the storm in with him.
He closes the door. Doesn’t bother to announce himself. You don’t look at him until he sits down across from you.
“I’ve read your file,” he says, calm as ever. “But files lie.”
You tilt your head—just a little. Feign interest.
“So I prefer asking the subject directly.”
Your lips press into a polite line.
Good. Keep the act warm. Cooperative. Non-threatening.
He opens a folder. But he doesn’t look at it.
“What did you whisper to Newt before the lights went out two nights ago?”
You blink slowly. “I told him I was cold.”
“You weren’t.”
A beat.
“You never show discomfort. Not even when they turned the vents up to freezing.”
You offer a ghost of a shrug. “Maybe I was trying to comfort him.”
“You don’t comfort people. You observe them.”
His voice is soft. Accusing.
Too accurate.
You breathe through your nose.
“What’s your point?”
He watches you for a moment. Silent. Like he’s peeling back skin.
“You play quiet. Play cooperative. But you never give.”
You open your mouth to speak—
—but he slams the clipboard down like a gavel, fast and loud.
SLAM.
You jerk slightly, then lean back just enough. Your thighs press against the edge of the chair. You shift. It’s subtle, practiced. But your lip catches between your teeth for half a second. Just one.
And it’s one second too long.
His eyes catch it. And stay there.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t speak yet.
Just watches you bite your lip and recover.
“Interesting,” he says finally.
You shake your head. “Reflex.”
His brow lifts. “That wasn’t fear.”
His tone is lower now. Controlled. Curious.
“That was something else.”
You meet his eyes again, voice cool. “You’re imagining things.”
“No,” he says. “I’m not.”
He leans in.
You feel it in your chest. The weight of his gaze. The way the air closes in like it’s watching, too.
“Tell me something, then,” he says, voice just above a whisper. “If you’re not afraid of me… if you’re so calm, so unbothered… why are your pupils dilated?”
Your throat tightens.
“I’m in a cold room. Low light.”
“Wrong,” he murmurs. “That light hasn’t changed in sixty hours.”
Silence. Thick. Loaded.
He tilts his head slowly, examining you like you’re some rare, caged creature on the verge of revealing its real shape.
“You’re trying to stay in control,” he says. “And it’s beautiful to watch you fail.”
Your nails dig into your thigh under the table, but your face? Still smooth. Still even.
“What do you want from me?” you ask, voice quieter now.
He breathes out through his nose. Almost a laugh. But it isn’t kind.
“I want you to stop pretending.”
Another pause.
“Because the moment you do…we’re going to get somewhere real.”
He stands. But not to leave. Not yet.
He leans both hands on the table. Closer now. Close enough that if you wanted to, you could flinch. Or slap him. Or maybe—
But you don’t.
You can’t.
So instead, you say the only thing you can.
“I’m not pretending.”
His eyes darken. Something shifts in them. Some quiet little thrill.
Because you’re lying.
And you both know it.
He leans down, voice curling against your ear like smoke.
“Then why does your heartbeat sound like a fucking metronome?”
I’m reaching out with a quiet hope in my heart. These days are heavy, and my family is living through a reality filled with uncertainty—but I’m still here, doing my best to hold on and keep going.
If you have a moment, please check out my pinned post.
A simple share could help it reach someone who might be able to make a difference.
If you’re able to give, even the smallest kindness can bring light into the darkest places.
Your time, your voice, your compassion — it all matters more than you know.
With deep gratitude,
@nadinfamily
^^
Sending prayers. I know some of you may be tired of seeing these posts but honestly, they are recurring for a REASON. They need help.
Māui-tikitiki-a-Taranga x Reader (ft. Jealous!Moana)
Fluff, angst
Inspired by a comment by: @eragon-and-arya98 on part one of this story called Tides of Change.
Summary: As Maui, Moana, and a reluctant eel guardian journey together, an unexpected bond forms… but jealousy and unspoken feelings threaten to tear them apart.
Story under the cut
The mist thickened again, swirling around us like a web of secrecy. I stood at the edge of the boat, my gaze fixed on the water, trying to ignore the way Maui kept glancing over at me. I wasn’t sure if it was the dim light, or something about his grin, but there was something in his eyes today. Something softer than before.
The boat rocked under us, and I shifted my weight, feeling the current pull against the hull. Moana, still gripping the oar with her usual focus, glanced between Maui and me. She raised an eyebrow, her lips pressed into a thin line.
“You alright there?” Moana asked, her tone casual but with an edge. It wasn’t hard to tell that she was watching us more than she needed to.
Maui gave a lazy shrug, turning his back to her. “Yeah, just… you know, taking in the view.”
I stiffened, but it wasn’t the insult that bothered me—it was the way he said it, the way he looked at me as if there was something more. Something I didn’t want to acknowledge.
Moana’s eyes flickered to me, her gaze sharper now. Her lips parted, and I saw the muscles in her jaw tighten. She was pissed.
“You’re not… flirting with her, are you?” she shot out, her voice too casual for the sharpness in it.
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Moana.” I turned my attention to the water, trying to ignore the unease stirring in my chest. The last thing I needed was more drama.
But then Maui’s voice broke through the silence, his tone a little too light. “Relax, Curly, I’m not flirting.” He grinned at me, and this time, it didn’t feel like a joke, it felt like something else, something I couldn’t quite place.
Moana’s glare hardened, and I saw her grip the oar a little too tightly. The tension in the air thickened, but I couldn’t bring myself to care. All I could think about was the way Maui had looked at me just now. The way his eyes seemed to linger longer than necessary.
I wanted to hate him. Really, I did. He had that smug, overconfident air about him that should’ve made him unbearable. But every time he looked at me— every time he brushed past me with that cocky grin or leaned just a little too close… it did something to me that I couldn’t shake.
It wasn’t love. Of course not. I wasn’t naïve. But something in me stirred, something I’d buried deep for so long.
I didn’t know what it was, but I couldn’t ignore it anymore.
Moana shifted her weight, the frustration practically radiating off her as she glanced between us again. “Maui, stop. I can tell when you’re trying to make things awkward,” she muttered.
Maui just raised an eyebrow, unbothered by the tension. “What? You don’t like my charm?”
I couldn’t help the slight smirk that pulled at my lips. “I don’t think anyone could like that charm.” My voice was sharp, but there was a hint of amusement that I wasn’t ready to admit to.
He chuckled, leaning back casually. “Fair enough, Legs. But don’t worry—I’m just here for the ride.”
The boat swayed again, and I found myself stepping a little closer to steady myself. Maui didn’t move, but his proximity was undeniable. The air between us shifted once more, and it was suddenly hard to breathe.
For a second, I thought I might have imagined it, but then I felt the warmth of his hand brush against mine as he reached for the oar.
I stiffened, eyes flicking to his face. He was still grinning, but there was something else behind it now—something that didn’t belong in the quiet tension of the boat.
“You okay?” Maui asked quietly, his voice lower than before. His thumb grazed my hand, and I had to force myself to breathe normally.
I nodded, swallowing the sudden dryness in my throat. “I’m fine,” I muttered, not trusting myself to say more.
Moana, on the other hand, had had enough. “I don’t get it,” she spat, her words sharp enough to cut through the fog. “You’re not… seriously flirting with her, right? I thought we were past that, Maui.”
Maui paused, and for the first time, I saw something flicker in his eyes. It wasn’t his usual teasing, cocky expression—it was something more. “What if I am?” he asked, his voice quiet and uncertain for the first time.
I felt my heart skip a beat, but I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. Instead, I turned away, my gaze returning to the mist ahead, trying to keep my composure.
Moana’s voice was barely a whisper when she spoke again. “You’re really going to mess with her, aren’t you?”
Maui didn’t answer right away, but his expression softened as he watched me, and I saw the faintest hint of something like regret flicker across his face.
But it didn’t last. Instead, he grinned again, leaning back with a nonchalant shrug. “You know me. I like a good challenge.”
And with that, I felt it—my resolve weakening. Because no matter how much I wanted to pretend I didn’t care, I knew that this… this thing between us was far from over.
Moana glared at him, but her gaze flicked to me for a moment, her expression unreadable.
I couldn’t tell if she was more jealous, or if she was just worried. Maybe both.
Is it weird I want to request a scene that involves Janson? I've been seeing a lot of posts about him and ngl he's kinda hot...is this just me...???
GO FOR IT. I wholeheartedly agree. I don’t know what it is but well… let’s just say I wouldn’t protest because he could slam a clipboard on the table and I’d fold like a lawn chair 😫
Angst, Gore (it’s quite graphic, be warned) if ‘Edge of Tomorrow’-style time looping is not your thing, this may not be the story for you.
Summary: When a knight explores the ruins of an abandoned church, he uncovers a secret that refuses to let him go.
Duncan Patellio stood before the ruin—a bleak monument of despair. The remnants of a once-hallowed church, its charred walls rose like jagged ribs against a blood-tinged sky, while blackened stone arches reached upward as if in a silent plea. The air was heavy with the acrid stench of burnt incense and scorched wood, a bitter perfume mingling with the damp earth and the faint echo of lost prayers. Every shattered shard of stained glass on the cold, ashen ground whispered memories of brighter days now buried beneath endless ruin.
Sent by the king to salvage what little remained, Duncan moved with a measured caution that belied the weight of secrets in his step. His eyes, alert and unyielding, scanned the debris—a scattered mosaic of warped candle stubs, tarnished trinkets, and splintered relics—each piece a muted echo of former sanctity. The silence, punctuated only by the occasional whisper of wind through broken walls, pressed in on him, urging him onward through the forgotten corridors of this desecrated sanctuary.
Then, without warning, the ground beneath him groaned in protest. A subtle tremor rippled through the dust-laden floor—a prelude to betrayal by the very stone he trusted. In a heartbeat, the ancient foundation shattered. Duncan’s world tilted as he plummeted into darkness, the sensation of freefall replaced by a violent, bone-jarring impact as he collided with a bed of loose rubble.
Duncan slammed into the cold, unforgiving ground with a grunt, twisting into a defensive stance in a heartbeat—a move honed by years of silent, deadly precision. His armor scraped against jagged stone as he dropped into a crouch, every muscle taut and alert. The torch in his hand flickered erratically, its quivering light revealing slick, damp walls and a maze of dark, uneven rubble that groaned under the weight of ancient secrets.
Just then, a sharp crunch—crisp and unmistakable—resounded beneath his boot. Duncan’s eyes locked onto the shattered fragments of an egg; its once-smooth, pearly shell was now a spiderweb of cracks, weeping a viscous, iridescent fluid that caught the sputtering light like ghostly tears. The scent of cold metal and decaying matter rose in his nostrils, making his skin crawl with dread.
Behind him, the darkness stirred. A slow, deliberate clicking began—click… click… click—a measured, metallic cadence that echoed through the narrow passage. With each relentless tick, the sound grew louder, more insistent. Duncan’s hand went to the hilt of his sword as beads of sweat formed on his brow, his senses sharpened to every sound.
Then, without warning, the clicking gave way to a horrid chorus. A grinding, scraping noise—SCRRREE—filled the air as if something massive were dragging itself across stone. The sound was interlaced with a sorrowful, keening wail—AWWOOO—that reverberated off the cavern walls like the anguished cry of a damned soul.
Duncan’s heart hammered as he slowly turned, torch raised. Emerging from the inky shadows was a hulking, alien beast—a mass of sinewy flesh and glistening, chitinous armor. Its limbs, grotesquely elongated and ending in sharp, clawed appendages, moved with a deliberate, nightmarish grace. With every step, the creature’s feet scraped against the stone, a wet, gurgling sound that punctuated the oppressive silence.
The beast paused, its head cocking to one side. From its hide, a series of clicking sounds escaped as it advanced. Its eyes, luminescent and unblinking, fixated on Duncan with a predatory hunger. The creature’s gaping maw emitted a low, guttural rumble that vibrated through the ground beneath him, mingling with the relentless drip of unseen water.
Duncan’s breath came in shallow, rapid bursts as he slowly shifted his stance, his gaze never leaving the beast. Every nerve in his body screamed to act, to fight, yet he remained rooted in place, acutely aware of the fatal precision required to survive this moment. He raised his sword, its blade catching the flickering light, and his fingers tightened around the grip. His eyes darted to the shattered egg at his feet—a silent, eerie omen of what was to come—and back to the advancing horror.
The creature lunged suddenly—a terrifying blur of sinew and exoskeleton. Its claws sliced through the stagnant air with a resounding slash, narrowly missing Duncan as he rolled to the side. The beast’s low, mournful wail transformed into a terrifying snarl, each sound a visceral promise of violence.
In that heart-stopping moment, as the alien predator’s form loomed larger in the swirling torchlight, the ground beneath them seemed to tremble with the echo of impending doom. The cacophony of clicks, scrapes, and guttural roars crescendoed into a singular, unrelenting assault on the senses…
And then, with a final, ear-splitting shriek that shattered the oppressive darkness, the beast pounced—its claws reaching out, its eyes burning with a merciless intent…
Duncan barely had time to exhale before the creature struck.
It didn’t just lunge—it detonated forward, a blur of sinew and chitinous plates, its momentum an avalanche of force. He tried to pivot, but it was too fast. Too massive. A split second of resistance, then—
Impact.
The breath wrenched from his lungs as a solid wall of muscle and exoskeleton drove into his ribs, lifting him clean off his feet. The world snapped sideways. A sharp, sickening pop burst through his torso, followed by a white-hot splintering sensation—bones giving way under unbearable pressure.
Then came the wall.
His body struck the jagged stone like a ragdoll hurled by an angry god. The first thing to hit was his shoulder—his dominant one. A sharp, electric burst of pain rocketed down his arm, turning his fingers numb. He heard—felt—his collarbone snap. A brittle, unnatural crack vibrated through his skull.
Then his spine.
His back arched violently, pain exploding through every nerve as something inside him shifted—something that wasn’t supposed to move. His armor crumpled inward, metal biting deep into flesh. He gasped, but the breath wasn’t there. Only agony, only raw, suffocating fire filling his ribs, seizing his lungs in a merciless grip.
His head slammed last.
The world fractured into a storm of black and red—shards of sound and light flickering in and out of existence. A deep, resonant thud reverberated through his skull, an unbearable ringing swallowing every other sensation except pain. His vision swam. He didn’t even realize he was falling until the stone beneath his feet gave way.
The ruin devoured him whole.
He plummeted through collapsing wreckage, tumbling through dust and darkness. His body twisted, weightless and broken, every jerk and jolt another fresh agony. The fall seemed endless, a slow-motion descent into nothingness.
Then—
Impact.
Again.
The ground beneath him was solid—unforgiving stone biting into his knees, his palms, his boots scraping against dust-laden rock. His breath tore free from his throat, ragged and desperate, his fingers clenched around the hilt of his sword before he even realized he was moving. His body was whole. His ribs no longer screamed with broken agony, his shoulder no longer hung uselessly from its socket, his head—his skull—intact.
But the pain was still there.
His body remembered.
A tremor racked through him, his stomach twisting violently, the phantom ache of shattered bones making him dizzy, nauseous, wrong. He could feel the moment his ribs had caved in, could still hear the snap of his shoulder dislocating, could still taste copper on his tongue from the blood he’d swallowed when he’d hit the wall.
But none of it had happened. Not anymore.
A sharp, brittle sound echoed beneath him.
Duncan froze. His breath caught in his throat. A slow, creeping dread slithered up his spine, sinking its claws into his chest and squeezing until his heart was hammering against his ribs.
He knew that sound.
His gaze dropped to his boot, where a delicate, pearlescent shell lay shattered beneath him, iridescent fluid weeping onto the stone in slow, glistening rivulets.
The egg.
It was whole when he fell. It was whole before. But now, it lay broken at his feet, just as it had the first time, its yolk-like contents bleeding out in eerie, shimmering pools.
Behind him, the darkness stirred.
Duncan didn’t need to turn around to know what came next. He didn’t need to hear the slow, deliberate clicking—the metallic, measured cadence slithering toward him—to know what was there, waiting in the shadows. He felt it. The weight of its presence, the anticipation of its movement, the way the air shifted as it drew closer.
He had lived this moment.
Every breath, every flicker of torchlight against the damp walls, every shudder of his own broken body—he had already been here. Died here. And yet, here he stood again, whole and unbroken, standing in the exact same place, stepping on the exact same egg, listening to the exact same sound crawling toward him from the dark.
Click. Click. Click.
The noise cut through the silence, piercing, rhythmic, steady. It was waiting for him. Just as before.
But this time, he wasn’t frozen.
This time, before the beast could charge, before he could be broken and shattered all over again, before the cycle could begin anew—
Duncan moved first.
————————————————————————————————————
Thank you to @teathepumpkinmoth for the story idea: The knight (insert any name. For this example I'll use the name "sir goobus") sir goobus was sent by the king to the charred skeleton of the church, once a beacon of faith now clawed at the sky like a blackened hand. The king had sent him not to investigate the blaze, not to mourn - "a clumsy lightning strike, nothing more," the royal scholars hath declared - but to scavenge anything of value before the rubble swallowed it whole. as well as any human remains. Whilst he searched, he expected to find warped candles or perhaps a few bits of gold here and there. What he did not expect was for the floor to give way, plunging the knight into a abyss darker then he would realize. With only his dimming torch to light his way, and the way he came quickly smothered in rubble, the knight soon came to find a dark secret buried deep within the church.
Y’all I wanna write but I’ve been having writers block 😭 I want some requests so badddd like it’s been so long since I’ve posted anything. I promise I’m still active but I genuinely don’t know what I should be writing about. I’ve been caught up in school so I haven’t had much time to watch or read anything new either 😔
so please pleaseeeee if y’all have any ideas, even unusual ones, send them in! I have no problem with it and in fact I highly encourage it! No judgement on my end, I swear.
Summary: Obi-Wan begins to notice the quiet weight his Padawan carries, and in his own way, makes sure she doesn’t carry it alone.
Inspired by:
AN: I just auditioned for a role in a play using this song and I’ve just been so obsessed with it! Please, please go watch Sister Act if you haven’t or even just listen to the soundtrack because it’s so damn good 😭 I was inspired by this song and thought, hey. Why not write something based on this? Anyways, please enjoy.
Story under the cut
Obi-Wan had never been one to eavesdrop. It was unseemly, unbecoming of a Jedi Master.
And yet, as he passed by her quarters that evening, he found himself pausing just outside the door, breath held.
Because she was singing.
Not humming absentmindedly, not muttering a tune under her breath, but singing.
“I’ve never talked back, I’ve never slept late…”
It was soft, almost hesitant, as if she weren’t quite used to letting her voice carry. But it did. And it was full of something else, something he rarely ever saw in her.
“I’ve never sat down when told to stand straight…”
Longing.
“I’ve never let go and gone with the flow, and don’t even know really why…”
His fingers curled slightly at his sides. Force.
Obi-Wan had always known she carried… something. Not anger. Not defiance. But a distance—a quiet resistance that never quite settled. She trained, she listened, she fought when she had to, but she did not believe in the way Jedi were supposed to.
“I’ve never asked questions or taken a dare…”
That was untrue. She asked questions all the time.
Just never the ones that mattered.
“I’ve never rebelled or stood up and yelled, or even just held my head high…”
His jaw tightened. She did hold her head high, even if she thought she didn’t.
“And all of the feelings unspoken, all of the truths unsaid, they’re all I have left of the life I never led…”
Obi-Wan exhaled quietly. So that’s what this is.
He had suspected, of course. It was hard not to. The way she lingered when the Temple doors opened to the bustling city beyond. The way she watched non-Jedi with something unreadable in her gaze. The way she trained—not for peace, not for duty, but because she had been given no other choice.
And the way she never spoke of it.
He could have stepped inside. Could have said something.
But no. This was hers. A moment she hadn’t meant for anyone to hear.
So, silently, Obi-Wan turned and walked away.
The next day, he watched her.
Not openly, not in any way she would notice, but watched nonetheless. The way she fought during sparring. The way she moved—sharp, disciplined, but always holding something back.
Not her skill. Not her strength.
Something deeper.
The match ended with a sharp clang as their sabers locked. She was breathing heavily, strands of hair falling loose from where she had tied them back. But there was no fire in her eyes, no satisfaction in the fight.
There never was.
He deactivated his saber first. “You never fight for the sake of victory.”
She blinked at him, still catching her breath. “What?”
Obi-Wan tilted his head slightly. “Other Padawans fight to win. To test their limits, to sharpen their form. But you—” He studied her, watching as she stiffened under his scrutiny. “You fight because you feel you must.”
Her grip tightened around the hilt of her saber. “…Isn’t that what Jedi are supposed to do?”
Obi-Wan hummed, expression unreadable. “Perhaps.”
She shifted uncomfortably. “Is this another lecture?”
He let out a quiet breath, then, in a tone far softer than she expected—“I heard you.”
That made her freeze.
Her eyes darted up to his, cautious, searching. “Heard me what?”
He didn’t answer immediately. Just looked at her, gaze steady, unwavering. Then, finally—
“Singing.”
She inhaled sharply. “Oh.”
Silence stretched between them.
She dropped her gaze, fingers fiddling with the edge of her sleeve. “You weren’t supposed to.”
“No,” he agreed. “But I did.”
She pressed her lips together, shifting her weight. “It was just a song.”
He saw it then—that flicker of hesitation, that warring battle behind her eyes. The part of her that wanted to say something, that wanted to let it spill free, but held it back as she alwaysdid.
So he made the choice for her.
Without warning, he reached forward and pulled her into his arms.
She sucked in a breath, body going rigid. “M—Master—”
“Shh,” he murmured. His grip was firm, grounding. Not a gentle pat-on-the-back hug, not an awkward one-armed embrace, but solid. Steady.
She didn’t move at first. Didn’t react. Then, slowly, something in her posture unwound. Her hands gripped at the fabric of his robes—not clutching, not clinging, but holding.
For the first time, Obi-Wan felt her breathe.
They stood like that for a moment.
Then—
“I thought you weren’t a hugger,” he mused, voice tinged with dry amusement.
She let out something between a scoff and a weak laugh, muffled against his shoulder. “I hate you.”
Summary: Thalia and Percy navigate the unspoken tension between them, where a single confession could change everything.
Request by @Blake7255 on Wattpad:
I have a request for Perlia from Percy Jackson where Thalia has a big crush on Percy when she first sees him when she gets out of her tree without realizing that he has a even bigger one on her 1 year later she decides to give herself a makeover to try to get his attention dyeing her hair blonde and giving herself big curly hair and wearing a purple dress after she gets done she decides to tell Percy how she feels and asks him out they go on their first date and kiss at the end and on Percy 21 birthday he asks her to marry him and the end can be the wedding thank you for your time
story under the cut
The First Glance
Thalia Grace wasn’t the type to swoon, okay? She didn’t do hearts-and-flowers crap. But the moment she stepped out of that stupid tree, she locked eyes with Percy Jackson, and the world stilled.
He was sweaty, shirt clinging to him as he fought some monster she couldn’t care less about because—damn it—why did he have to look like that? Her pulse quickened, and her lip curled to hide it. Great, my first day back, and I’m already losing my edge.
Meanwhile, Percy froze mid-swing, staring at her like she’d walked out of a dream. He shook it off and grinned, that lazy, lopsided grin that made her stomach flip. “Thalia, huh? You’re taller than I imagined.”
She rolled her eyes. “And you’re dumber than I thought.”
“Oh, this is gonna be fun,” he murmured, but his heart was pounding because—yeah, Zeus’s kid was terrifyingly gorgeous.
The Year That Followed
Their banter became routine. A jab, a smirk, a laugh that lingered just a second too long. Everyone saw it—the way Percy’s eyes lit up when Thalia entered a room, the way she softened (just barely) when he was near. But they ignored it, both too stubborn to admit what was blindingly obvious.
It came to a head one night during a campfire. Percy, oblivious as ever, was joking with Annabeth, and Thalia’s stomach twisted. She hated how her chest tightened whenever he laughed with someone else, how her eyes darted to him even when she didn’t mean to. Get it together, Grace.
Later, when she caught him by the lake, she couldn’t help herself. “You and Annabeth sure are cozy.”
Percy turned, confused. “Annabeth? She’s like my sister.”
“Sure she is,” Thalia snapped, hating the heat in her voice.
He stepped closer, brows furrowed. “What’s your deal, Thalia? You’ve been acting weird.”
“My deal?” she shot back, stepping closer too, electricity crackling in the air between them. “You’re the one who—” She cut herself off, clenching her fists. “Never mind. Forget it.”
Percy stared at her, his voice softer now. “Thalia…”
She shook her head and walked away before he could see the storm in her eyes.
The Makeover
Thalia hated feeling vulnerable. That’s why she decided to take control. If Percy couldn’t see her as more than his sparring buddy, then she’d make him.
The golden curls were Aphrodite’s idea. “Blonde will make his heart stop,” the love goddess had said with a wink. Thalia hated that she was probably right.
When she finished, she barely recognized herself. The purple dress felt strange, too soft against her skin. But her reflection smirked back at her. Let’s see you ignore me now, Jackson.
The Confession
When Percy saw her, his mouth opened, but no words came out. He blinked, twice, as if trying to process what he was seeing. “Thalia… you… wow.”
Her heart raced, but she played it cool. “You like it?”
“Uh… yeah, you could say that,” he stammered, cheeks flushing. “What’s the occasion?”
“No occasion.” She shrugged, stepping closer, her confidence wavering only slightly. “I just… wanted to try something new.”
He was staring at her like she’d hung the stars herself, and it made her stomach flip.
“Look, Percy,” she started, her voice quieter now, “I need to say something, and I need you to not laugh.”
“I’d never laugh at you,” he said, his voice steady now, serious in a way that made her chest ache.
“I like you,” she blurted. “And not in the let’s-train-until-we-drop way. I mean, I really like you. I think I have since the day we met.”
Silence. The kind that stretched too long and made her want to bolt.
Then Percy took a step forward, his voice low. “Thalia, do you have any idea how long I’ve been waiting to hear you say that?”
Her breath hitched. “What?”
“I’ve liked you since… forever,” he admitted, his hand brushing hers. “I just thought you’d deck me if I told you.”
“Not deck you,” she said, her lips twitching into a smirk. “Maybe zap you, though.”
He grinned. “I’d take it.”
And when he kissed her, it wasn’t soft or tentative—it was a storm, wild and consuming, leaving them both breathless.
The Proposal
On Percy’s 21st birthday, he knelt on the same beach where they’d shared their first kiss. Thalia stood before him, arms crossed but eyes shimmering.
“What are you doing, Jackson?” she asked, though her voice was lighter than usual.
“Something I should’ve done ages ago,” he said, pulling out a ring shaped like a thunderbolt. “Thalia Grace, will you marry me?”
For once, she was speechless. She stared at him, her mind racing, her heart pounding. Then, with a shaky laugh, she muttered, “Took you long enough, Seaweed Brain.”
The Wedding
The wedding was chaos, of course. Leo set something on fire, Apollo flirted with the entire bridal party, and Zeus glared at Percy the whole time.
But when Thalia walked down the aisle, curls bouncing, blue eyes locked on Percy’s, none of it mattered.
“You ready for forever, Jackson?” she whispered when they met at the altar.
“With you? Always,” he said, grinning.
And when they kissed, the sky erupted in lightning and waves, a perfect storm for a perfect pair.
Hello again Lauren! I'm positively giddy about the newest post you wrote, and would like you to create another one, perhaps some angst this time. I watched Death Cure and Scorch Trials with my friend, and I was swooning over Aidan Gillen, but my friend didn't get me. If they wanted to cast a rat looking person, they casted the completely wrong person, I mean, Aidan Gillen is the hottest person in that movie, no denial.
Slip of the tongue
AD Janson x Runner!Reader
Angsty, confrontation
Summary: A single slip up reveals that you happen to know more than you should and that makes you a threat— to Janson.
AN: You ask for angst, I deliver. I hope this is better bcs I wanted something different from the usual Doctor-Lab setting.
story under the cut:
The hum of the fluorescent lights buzzed faintly, the sound blending into the sterile silence of the interrogation room. You sat at the cold metal table, posture composed, hands folded neatly in front of you. No fear, no fidgeting—just enough calm to look cooperative, but not weak.
Janson stood across from you, his presence filling the room despite his unassuming posture. His pale blue eyes studied you like you were a specimen under glass, his hands clasped behind his back.
“I’ll ask again,” he began, his voice smooth, controlled. “You woke up in the Box. No memory, no understanding of who you were or where you came from. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“And you adjusted well to the Maze,” he continued, tilting his head slightly. “Better than most.”
You shrugged. “Instincts, I guess.”
He nodded, his eyes narrowing just slightly. “Instincts.”
The silence stretched, heavy and taut, as though he was waiting for you to slip, to flinch. You didn’t.
“And when the Griever serum was administered,” he pressed, stepping closer, “you didn’t recover any…memories?”
Your heart skipped, but you kept your face neutral. “No. Just the same flashes everyone else got. Useless stuff.”
Janson hummed, circling the table now, his boots echoing faintly in the small room. “And yet, you seem remarkably…intuitive. Observant.”
“Survival’s a good teacher,” you replied, your voice even.
“And yet,” he said, pausing behind you, “survival doesn’t explain everything, does it?”
The tension coiled tighter in your chest, but you didn’t respond.
Janson moved back into your line of sight, his gaze sharp and unyielding. “So tell me, how did you know about the Control Rooms?”
Your blood ran cold.
“What?” you asked, the word coming out too fast, too startled.
“Control Rooms,” he repeated, his tone calm, but the weight in it made your stomach drop. “The ones monitoring the Variables. Something you shouldn’t even know existed.”
“I don’t—”
“You slipped,” he cut in, his voice low and deliberate. “You mentioned it when Ava was briefing us. Quietly, but I heard you.”
Your mouth went dry, the memory flashing back. A careless comment, a muttered observation during the chaos of a group debriefing. You hadn’t thought anyone had caught it, let alone him.
“I was just guessing,” you said quickly, your voice firm despite the fear clawing at your chest. “Everyone knows you were monitoring us—cameras, sensors. It wasn’t hard to piece together.”
Janson didn’t reply immediately. Instead, he leaned forward, placing his hands on the table, his face inches from yours. “A guess?”
“Yes.”
His lips twitched, just barely. Not quite a smile, not quite a sneer. “You’re a terrible liar.”
Before you could respond, his hand shot out, gripping your arm in a vice-like hold. The chair screeched against the floor as he yanked you to your feet.
“Hey!” you protested, struggling against his grip. “What are you doing?”
Janson didn’t answer. He was already pulling you toward the door, his pace brisk, his silence more unsettling than any threat he could have made.
“Where are you taking me?” you demanded, your voice rising with panic.
He didn’t respond, his grip tightening as he dragged you into the hallway. The bright, sterile lights overhead did nothing to ease the sense of dread clawing at you.
“Janson, stop!” you snapped, trying to pull free. “You’re hurting me.”
He ignored you, his jaw set, his eyes forward.
The corridors blurred together as he led you deeper into the facility, each turn making you feel more disoriented, more trapped.
“Janson, please,” you said, your voice breaking now. “I don’t know anything. I swear.”
He finally stopped, spinning to face you. His expression was cold, calculating, but there was a flicker of something sharper in his eyes—something dangerous.
“You expect me to believe that?” he asked, his voice quiet but cutting.
“It’s the truth!” you insisted, your chest heaving.
He stared at you for a long moment, the silence heavy and suffocating. Then, without another word, he turned and dragged you forward again.
The hallway ended at a heavy metal door. Janson entered a code on the keypad, the soft beep sounding louder than it should have. The lock clicked, and the door opened with a low hiss.
“What’s in there?” you asked, panic bubbling in your throat.
Janson didn’t answer. He pulled you inside, the door hissing shut behind you.
The room was dimly lit, the faint hum of machinery filling the space. It was empty, save for a single chair bolted to the floor in the center.
He released your arm, gesturing to the chair. “Sit.”
You hesitated, your heart pounding. “Janson—”
“Sit.”
The authority in his voice left no room for argument. Slowly, you moved to the chair, sinking into it as your hands trembled slightly.
Janson stepped back, his gaze fixed on you like a hawk watching its prey. “You’re smarter than you let on,” he said quietly. “That much is clear.”
You swallowed hard, your mouth dry.
“But if you’re lying to me,” he continued, his voice dropping, “you’ll regret it.”
The words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating.
He didn’t wait for a response. He turned on his heel and left the room, the door sealing shut behind him with a final, ominous hiss.
And you were alone.
The hum of the machinery grew louder in the silence, pressing against your skull as you stared at the door, your chest tight with fear.
For the first time, you realized just how dangerous Janson really was.
Would I be able to request a one shot between Janson and the reader? I have seen the two posts you have of Janson x Reader and I was disappointed as the second one shot was left at a cliffhanger as I am a simp and can never get enough of Aidan Gillen and his on screen performances. Preferably with some fluff and angst here and there, perhaps a kiss.
Thank you!
Dr Pepper
AD Janson (Maze Runner) x OC (Lauren Patellio)
Fluff, tension, lil’ kiss
Summary: The tension rises when Janson finds an error in the reader’s work.
AN: I LOVE YOU SO MUCH FOR THIS— I THOUGHT I WAS THE BLOODY WEIRDO FOR CRUSHING ON RATMAN AND I TOO LOOKED UP SO MANY OTHER OF HIS ON-SCREEN PERFORMANCES BUT HE DOES NOT HAVE MANY SO IM SO STOKED TO HAVE SOMEONE ELSE ON THIS!! I sort of changed it up this time, I hope that’s alright…. BUT STILL, LET ME KNOW IF YOU’D LIKE ANYTHING CHANGED!!
(Inspired by my Cherry Dr Pepper flavoured chapstick)
Story under the cut
The hum of the lab equipment barely registered as he entered, the faint chemical tang in the air sharper than usual. She was seated near the vending machine, her back to the door, utterly engrossed in the mess of equations and notes sprawled across her workstation.
Janson paused, letting his eyes trace over the scene in silence. The way she worked—pen tapping idly, lips pursed in thought—was fascinating. She looked like she was untouchable, lost in her own world of formulas and data.
She was good, no doubt. Competent. Sharp. But she wasn’t flawless.
And tonight, that mistake was glaring.
“You missed a variable.” His voice cut through the quiet like a knife, smooth but unrelenting.
Her pen skidded across the page as she startled, spinning around to face him. For a moment, her eyes were wide, her lips parted in surprise. Then she masked it with a glare.
“God, could you make a little noise when you walk?”
Janson didn’t move. He simply stood there, arms crossed, letting her irritation wash over him. “Would you have preferred I knock?” he asked dryly, his tone making it clear how little he cared about her preferences.
Lauren narrowed her eyes, turning back to her work with an air of dismissal that almost made him laugh. “Some of us are actually trying to get things done.”
“I can see that.” He stepped closer, his boots deliberately heavy now, the faint echo of each step slicing through the lab’s sterile silence. His gaze dropped to the notebook, his smirk deepening when he saw the same glaring error.
“Dedicated, aren’t you?” he murmured, his tone laced with amusement.
She didn’t look up, but he caught the subtle clench of her jaw, the way her pen stilled for just a second too long. “If you’re just here to waste my time, Janson, I suggest you leave. Some of us actually have deadlines.”
“Deadlines,” he repeated, dragging the word out like it amused him. He stepped around her desk, leaning slightly as his shadow loomed over her work. “You mean like the one you’ll miss if this entire experiment collapses because of a basic miscalculation?”
She finally looked up, her glare sharp enough to cut. “I don’t make basic mistakes.”
His lips twitched, the faintest hint of a smile. “Don’t you?”
Before she could fire back, his hand moved. Quick. Precise. His fingers curled around her throat—not to hurt, but to hold, to command. He tilted her chin upward, forcing her to meet his gaze as he loomed closer.
She didn’t flinch.
Her pulse thrummed against his fingers, but her eyes burned with defiance.“Does this little display make you feel powerful, Janson?”she asked, her voice cool despite the tension crackling between them.
His thumb brushed over her jaw, slow and deliberate. He leaned in, his lips hovering close enough to catch the faintest scent of her chapstick.
“No,” he murmured, his voice low and laced with something darker. “It’s that face you make that’s far more interesting.”
Her lips quirked, a daring smirk tugging at the corners. “Then you’ll be disappointed to know I’m not scared of you.”
His laugh was soft, almost inaudible, but it carried a weight that pressed against the air between them. “Are you?”
And then, he kissed her.
It wasn’t a gentle meeting of lips—it was calculated, like everything he did. His mouth pressed against hers with purpose, his hand tightening slightly on her throat as her breath caught. He didn’t rush it; he let the moment stretch, drawing it out until the faintest hint of surrender flickered across her features.
When he finally pulled back, his hand lingered on her jaw, his thumb tracing the line of her cheek as his gaze locked on hers.
“Dr. Pepper,” he said suddenly, his smirk returning, sharper than before.
She blinked, caught off guard. “What?”
He gestured faintly, the corner of his mouth quirking upward. “Your chapstick. Dr. Pepper. Good choice.”
Her eyes narrowed, heat rising to her cheeks. “I—what does that even—”
“Sweet,” he continued, cutting her off. “Unexpected. Like you.” His fingers finally dropped away from her throat, his smirk softening into something almost…genuine. “But you’re still wrong about your stabilizing agent.”
Lauren’s mouth opened, a sharp retort on the tip of her tongue, but he was already moving toward the door, his coat shifting with the turn of his shoulders.
“Next time,” he called over his shoulder, his voice laced with that infuriating calm, “try not to let distractions cloud your focus.”
Hours later, when the lab was empty and the air felt heavier with the weight of the day, she stepped out into the breakroom to grab her things.
And there he was.
Janson leaned against the counter, a bottle of Dr. Pepper in his hand, the cap already twisted off. He met her gaze as he raised it to his lips, taking a slow, deliberate sip.
When he pulled it away, his smirk was back, paired with a faint glint of mischief in his eyes.
“Told you it was a good choice,” he said simply, his voice low and teasing.
She didn’t respond. She just shook her head, biting back a smile as she walked away.
