#CRIES SOBS BAWLS WEEPS

[mutsukiss]

[the-gayest-sky-kid]

sniffles before breaking out into full sobs

[barawrah]

quick sqx to cope with the horrors (black water arc)

[indigopoptart]

OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD

SOBBING??? CRYING???

IT LOOKS SO GOOD WAAAHHHHH THANK YOU SOBS WEEPS

HI *passes out*

I drew a scene from Stamps! (Chapter 13!!) An amazing fanfic made by @indigopoptart !!

PLS go check out their work theyre so goddang talented omg

[bethanydelleman]

People who want female characters to cry less? No. Stop it. You're doing it the wrong way. Make male characters cry. Make those beautiful men sob on their knees. Down with all this stupid emotional constipation! Here, I can fix it:

Colonel Brandon after he tells Elinor about his lost love Eliza? Stumbles out of the room, finds somewhere private, and bawls. Edward after leaving Barton Cottage thinking he'll never be able to marry Elinor? Make him weep! Mr. Knightley was glad it was raining when he rode back to Hartfield after learning about Frank's engagement because it gave his tears plausible deniability! Wentworth thinks Anne will marry her cousin? Sobbing mess of a man. Bingley can cry during the proposal when he thinks about all the time he lost not being with Jane. Edmund cries alone in his room after Mary calls clergymen "nothing". Henry Tilney cries without realizing it when Catherine accepts his proposal because he's so glad that no one is angry with him and confronting his father was way more emotionally taxing than he let himself acknowledge at the time. Henry Crawford feeling wretched and alone after the affair and sobbing into his hands. Show us post wedding and make Darcy cry after the birth of his first child.

Make them cry! MAKE THEM ALL CRY

[dxstopiaa]

hey hey! could i request zhongli, cyno, and tighnari with a hypersexual s/o who is actually pretty ashamed, so when they finish, they wait till theyre asleep and starts breaking down bawling their eyes out. this is kinda deep but i js want some comfort at the same time. if this is too deep or dark feel free to not do it 🫶🫶🫶

characters: zhongli, tighnari and cyno x hypersexual! gn! reader.

warnings: nsfw elements! hurt/comfort [dont worry at all anon <3 if this is something you experience, you should never feel ashamed]

zhongli

❥ That feeling was there again— the one of guilt and shame you couldn’t eradicate no matter what you told yourself. Your husband’s thick cum still coated your thighs, not daring to move nor clean it up in fear of waking him beside you.

❥ You truly envied him. Zhongli slept peacefully with arms snaked around your bare waist, not a worry present. He loved you, you knew that, yet a tide of disgust wavered over your shivering body. It retreated in the form of hot flashes, returning upon each dreadful thought that went too long considered.

❥ His forearms, dangerously close to the tears accumulating at your jaw, embraced you so gently. You were too lost in the depths of your shame to realise your sobs had grown louder, grasping onto your lover’s hands for any sort of comfort.

❥ “My darling? What has you so distraught?” Zhongli’s husky voice whispered into your ear, not doing much except influencing the developing streams of saltwater across your cheeks. Your lack of response frightened him greatly, feeling his weight shift against the head board.

❥ “Please answer me, dearest?” His heart pumped with agony at your strings of broken cries. Did he go too rough with you? Were you scared? His questions dissipated when you wrapped your frail arms around his chest. Soft, tear-ridden eyes gleamed up at him, nothing but a satin robe to distance your bodies from another.

❥ “I feel so revolted with myself. Do you feel that way too?” Your meek, shaky voice muttered such self-deprecating language left those lips he kissed with pure adoration. How could you doubt his love? His light gasp followed by a frown pulled you from the depths of overthinking.

❥ “Of course not, sweetheart. Hearing words so undervaluing from you leads me to think of the restless nights you’ve endured without my knowledge. Allow me to help you, what is it that you’d like, dear?” He fondled your shaking hand, smoothing a finger over your wedding ring.

“Anything that regards you is nothing short of perfect, i’ll prove so by whatever means.”

cyno

❥ Soft, undisturbed snores filled the room, courtesy of the sleeping general. You were still reminiscing of the events which had occurred a mere hour ago. You— who was so eager and needy for Cyno it felt humiliating. He had you on his cock nearly every day, pleasuring you albeit not making as much noise himself.

❥ Was he tired of your high libido? Was he getting bored of you? Endless questions swarmed your mind like a cyclone, twisting your perception of your boyfriend till it rained down. You couldn’t help but start to weep, tributaries of tears collecting at your chin, washing away the gentle touches Cyno had placed there prior.

❥ You shouldn’t be so obvious about it, you thought. Perhaps it’d be better to calm down in the bathroom, removing the covers from your body. You didn’t even get to lift your head from the damp pillow fully as your lover had seized your wrist.

❥ “Don’t go, hiding your tears from me won’t help you in the slightest, love.” Called out Cyno, voice raspy with slumber. Although he didn’t know what this was about, that somber expression did not suit you in the slightest. He’d rather have it gone.

❥ Eyes blurred and hazy, you glanced over at him, finally allowing him to pull you close at his side. How could you even describe this to him— say that it’s nothing or burst into tears before you even opened your mouth? Your throat felt painfully constricted.

❥ “Don’t worry, if you can’t tell me now, this can be discussed in the morning. For now, just get some rest.” Cyno comforted, tracing his thumbs over each tear-stained cheek. You didn’t need to tell him, he could already sense what was wrong.

❥ That distant look in your eyes whenever you finished quickly, the sobs he thought were of pleasure were rather subtle cries of guilt. It was quite obvious yet he was so unperceptive to not realise it till you were curled up beside him? Cyno held you closer than ever, arms framing your shivering body as if you were glass, about to shatter any second now.

“I apologise for not seeing this earlier. Let me remind you that i fell in love with the exact person you’re incorrectly ashamed of, i wouldn’t change anything about you.”

tighnari

❥ There was something off about you— Tighnari could sense it, although not place a finger on it. Your lips trembled with something he thought was fear, yet it wouldn’t make sense if it was. You’ve always been an expressive person, so why the sudden change?

❥ You were quite loud just a few minutes ago, now it seems you’ve withdrawn yourself under the cotton covers for comfort. You’d always ask for aftercare and snuggle close to him after sex, though not a single request sounded from the opposite side of the bed.

❥ If only he knew that your saline tears dampened the pillow and your lashes, the red hue that was on your cheeks had shifted up to your eyes, worn with distress. Tighnari had never mentioned anything negative to you at all, however this sickening discomfiture twisted your stomach.

❥ Despite how hard you tried to disguise the reality of your feelings, fleeing from your excessive eroticism, it’d all come down one day. Your throat closed up, a pounding migraine overtook your senses, making it all the more apparent.

❥ “Dear? What’s the matter? Are you hurt?” The forest ranger panicked— ears twitching half-confusedly. No response apart from a snivel and the rustling of the quilt which you grasped onto. Immediately, he reached for a glass of water and towel.

❥ Tighnari turned you over, fingers brushing along your jaw, patting the cool, damp fabric over your closed eyes. Wails of panic were replaced with small hiccups, breathing still irregular but not as before. Would you even want to discuss this now? He fears startling you again.

❥ Your boyfriend continued to lightly massage your head, raking his slender fingers in your tangled hair. Moments like these— where you needed him the most, he’s here for you.

“Shh, it’s okay, don’t stress over this too much dearest. Get some sleep now.”

[brandwhorestarscream]

part 2 of D-16 carrying Sentinel’s sparkling please?

Your wish is my command, anon! I had a lotta people asking for this, so many messages! Ya'll are so sweet, I really appreciate it, so thanks for that! Let's get right into it ^-^ part 1 is here, part 3 here, part 4 here!

Orion is at his side in an instant, yelping, "Dee, no! Stop, you'll hurt yourself!" As he forcibly grabs his friend's servos to stop him from tearing himself apart. D-16 shrieks a wordless noise of agony, and then collapses forward onto Orion to begin sobbing violently into his shoulder. Clutching onto him like a lifeline, wailing with all the devastated force he can. Bawling against Orion and falling to pieces, brokenly asking what he's going to do. 

Orion numbly wraps his arms around Dee, letting his chin fall onto his shoulder. His arms slowly tighten, til he’s clinging with near-denting force, and his optics begin to sting with tears too. It hits him later than it did D-16, what exactly Sentinel did to them. That he intentionally got them drunk and lied to them, he lied, lied, lied about them being special and lied about caring for them, all so he could make them pop their panels. It sinks in, slowly, exactly what he took from them: he robbed them of their first time, something that should’ve been one of the tenderest, loving moments of their lives. He used them and threw them away just because he could. He ravaged their bodies selfishly, under false pretenses, without a care for how it would effect them. He touched their sparks. He raped them, both of them, and a sob suddenly flies past Orion’s lips. It hits him all at once, with a feeling like a train has just plowed into his chassis full-force, and all he can do is cling onto D-16 and wail. They cry together, desperately holding onto each other there on the cavern, weeping with all the force of their broken, disgusted sparks.

Alpha Trion stands vigil over them, observing in sorrow, letting them mourn and grieve all that they’ve lost. His spark aches for them. Poor, poor children… they’re so young. Too young to be forced to weather something like this, such an egregious sin… he watches Elita approach them with a haunted look on her face, B-127 wandering closer in her shadow, and she reaches a trembling servo to gently rest on Orion’s shoulder. He grabs onto her wrist like a lifeline, face angling up to look at her lost and broken, optics shattered and expression void of all hope. She bows her helm, mouth pressed into a thin line and lips trembling. Struggling not to cry for them. B-127 creeps closer and, after hesitating for a moment, pads forward to glom onto D-16’s arm. He’s silent as the bigger mech cries, patting at his arm and trying desperately to think of something he can do. But there’s nothing, not really, nothing in the universe could ever soothe a pain like this.

They cry until they can’t shed any more tears, til their bodies have completely exhausted their optical cleanser and lubricant stores, and they’re left dry sobbing and shuddering in exhaustion, slumping against one another and barely upright. It hurts. It hurts. Everything hurts.

“...little one,” Alpha Trion gently addresses D-16 at last, stepping forward and flicking the last of his tears off his face. “I cannot undo what has been done to you, but I can offer to relieve one of your burdens.”

D-16 sniffles miserably, still huddled close to Orion where they’re now sitting side by side on the floor. Orion is cross-legged, face in his servos, with Dee snuggled close against his side, his helm cradled on the blue mech’s shoulder. “Wh…” his voice creaks like a rusty hinge. “What do you…?”

Alpha Trion steps back and raises his palms to the sky, optics closing and exhaling a great puff of air. “ONYX!” his deep voice echoes through the cavern like a clap of thunder. “Onyx, my brother, I beseech you. Speak to this child in my place!”

A warm wind blows in from nowhere, with such force it disturbs the magnetic sand all around them. It begins to swirl, lifting from the ground and into the air to form a funnel, billions of grains chasing one another around and around and forming a curtain around Alpha Trion’s body. They cluster around and seem to consume him, rushing over his plating and molding to his form like a second coat of paint. His helm drops back so his face is parallel to the ceiling, then he gasps as his optics fly open. No longer blue, but a warm, crackling orange-and-pink, like a freshly lit hearth.

He stumbles forward, unsteady on his pedes, taking to one knee and his left palm touching the floor as he stabilizes. “Oh…” when he speaks, it is not Alpha Trion’s voice. He’s… a bit higher pitched. Warmer. Even gentler. “Mother… mercy…”

He shakes his helm and the sand stubbornly clings, before at last he raises his face, zeroing in on the frightened, confused quartet.

“Oh…” he straightens up, optics drifting from each of their faces before focusing wholly on D-16. His expression slips from bafflement to a sort of pained compassion. Not quite pity, but if the way his mouth turns down and his optics narrow with sorrow are any indication, his spark aches for them. “Oh, dear…”

“D-Did he say-” B-127’s optics are impossibly wide, and he’s frozen on the spot, unable to move his pedes. “O-Onyx Prime-?”

“Indeed,” he nods in affirmation, straightening up. Though he remains in Alpha Trion’s body, the sand constructs his visage, shaping around the crests of his helm and fanning out on his back to take the form of his wings. Wings that were missing from his corpse. “Though I wish our meeting was under less dire circumstances, children.”

“Y- You’re-” Elita is starting to frown, inching in front of her group with one arm out. “You’re… th-the god of death-” Oh, Primus. Is he here to reap their sparks? Has Alpha Trion channeled him here to take them away?!

“Do not fear, little one. Peace,” Onyx holds up one servo, and his optics glimmer with warmth. He smiles, gently, hoping to put them at ease. “I mean you no harm. I shepherd over the dead, those who have already passed on. I help them find their way home to Primus, and assist them in seeking rebirth, but I am not here to be your reaper. Please… do not be afraid.”

He approaches them and kneels down just before D-16, looking deep into his optics. “Brother Alpha has called me here to speak to you, child.”

“M-” Dee is clinging tight to Orion, spark pulsing in fear. This- This is death incarnate! They said his hands could bleed a spark from it’s frame with a single touch! They said he lorded over the afterlife and knew everyone’s date and time of death to the millisecond. Having him here, specifically to speak to him, made his throat threaten to close in panic. “Me?”

“Yes,” Onyx Prime’s servo gently touches his helm and he yelps, they all do, flinching away. But after several seconds he realizes, wait… he can still feel everything. He can still feel Orion beside him, can still feel the warm gush of his vents. Actually… he feels better. Physically, anyway: his frame is already beginning to lower it’s heightened temperature back into the green zone, the insistent, horrible pain in his tanks is abating. His optics peak open, and finds Onyx still there, smiling kindly at him. “Please… you needn’t be afraid. I swear to you, upon my graves, I shall not harm you.”

“Wh…” Elita gulps. “Why are you…?”

His optics drift lower, to D-16’s chassis and abdomen. His expression saddens. “You've been forced to endure something terrible… oh, you poor, poor thing…”

The Prime pulls his servo away from Dee’s helm, though not before giving him an affectionate pat. “Listen to me, little one. You are young, you are hurt, and the journey ahead will be very difficult regardless of the path you take. Forcing you to bear this sparkling forced upon you would be a great cruelty if it is not your choice to do so. If you would like, I will take them and return to the Allspark.”

D-16’s spark slams to a stop in his chest. He stiffens, and Orion sits up straighter beside him. Elita’s mouth falls open.

“Wh… What are you…”

“It won’t cause you nor them any pain. They will be safe, and you shall not be punished for it,” he nods down at him. “I know this one, as I know all of them. They are a good spark, they will not resent you if you don’t wish to birth them. They will love you just the same, just as I will, and just as Primus will. The choice is entirely yours, little one.”

Dee’s audials start to ring, and he presses both palms to his chassis. It’s warm, overly warm as it has been the last several decacycles, and before he’d thought it was the heat of fever, but now he knows it is because he hosts an infant soul anchored to his.

He feels frozen in place. He- he could… Onyx Prime would…?

He sobs again and covers his mouth, bowing his helm. “I- I don’t-” he chokes. “I d-don’t know! I don’t know, I- I dunno, I-”

Does he want this sparkling? Does he? He doesn’t know! When Alpha Trion had announced his state, he’d been so happy. Over the moon in fact, beaming with pride and so excited to share the news. They were living proof of his and Orion’s tryst with Sentinel, proof that they were loved and important, and they were so indescribably precious. Now, though… now, they’re… they’re…

Primus, he doesn’t know what they are! He wants to curse them, wants to rip them from his spark chamber and toss them away so there’s no evidence of what that monstrous false Prime had done to him. He doesn’t want to remember, doesn’t want a constant, hideous reminder of the worst thing to ever happen to him.

But… the part of him that was previously excited wars with the other half of him. He doesn’t know that that’s what this sparkling will be. He’d been so excited, so happy, and now in it’s place there’s sadness and horror, and yet another part of him is so angry and repulsed and… and…!

He sobs again, clawing at his helm. “I DON’T KNOW!” he shouts, grinding his denta. “I don’t know, ok?! I don’t know!” how can he? Everything is such a mess in his helm, emotions at war and raging back and forth, grappling for dominance and all trying to shove the other down. He’s scared. He’s hurt. He’s sparkbroken. This is his first sparkling. Perhaps once he’d dreamed of this day, but pictured it so differently, hand in hand with someone who meant more to him than anything else, both of them with transformation cogs because they were good and hardworking and had been rewarded for their efforts. Perhaps he had dreamt of a home, with- with someone special, and a family with one or even two precious sparklings. It was a dream that was supposed to be achieved far into the future. Now, broken as he is, he worries it never will. Never can. It would be an impossibility, as he is now… if he kept this sparkling, he would have to look at it every day knowing he did not love the sire, and never could. He would have to look upon them as their only parent and know that his dreams of a happy life died long before they were even born.

But… if he lets them go, if he lets the god of the dead pluck them from his chest, he might never be fortunate enough to conceive again. What if this first sparkling is his only sparkling, and in letting them go, he loses his one chance? It’s too soon, it’s too early, and circumstances are dire, but… is he prepared to let them go? Knowing this could very well be his only chance?

D-16 sobs again, and Orion’s arm wraps around his shoulder, pulling him close against his chassis. Dee’s face burrows into his neck, whole body shaking as he whimpers again and again that he just doesn’t know!

“...peace, my little one,” Onyx Prime’s voice is rife with sadness and empathy. “You need not make a choice now, or even today. I… I apologize for bringing you further distress, but please know,” he places his right servo over his spark in oath. “The Primes are with you. When you make your choice, utter a prayer to me, and I will come to you if you require my aid.”

With a sigh, all of the sand suddenly falls from Alpha Trion’s body with the whisper of countless grains trickling to the floor, and when he blinks his optics become blue once more. “Ah…” he takes note of their distress, and shakes his helm sadly. “Poor children… rest. You are weary. Rest, and I will feed you.” once they’ve eaten and had time to process, he can reveal more to them, but that can wait.

They have suffered enough for one day. 

...

And that's where I'm gonna cut part 2! Poor, poor Dee... this is the worst day of his life, but at least he has Orion to support him. I hope ya'll enjoyed this angst nugget :3 if you want part 3, ya'll know what to do. Abuse the crap out of my ask box lol. Gimme your thoughts or predictions as well, that's always fun

[wowiezowiebaby]

HI LYLE .. My funny guy who's happy and smiling all day !! Thank you so much omg .. i love how you draw him !!!!!

can ya draw this Entity?

Its @wowiezowiebaby 's oc

Idk Why but im OBBSESSED with their oc's and story with pumkin patch A-❤💘💕❤💖💖💕💖💖💘❤💖💖❤❤💖❤💘💘❤💖❤💖💘AAAAJHHHHHIIIYAUUIIIIIIIYAAAIIIIIII!!!!!

i drew the entity

[glitterguts13]

HAPPY FATHER'S DAY PART1

Father's Day special delivery coming right now! Part 1 is all about the Genshin boys having their babies! Enjoy!

Albedo The candlelight is dim, casting a soft orange glow in the dark room. Hunched over next to his bed, Albedo gasps, one hand clutching onto the bed-frame, the other guiding his unborn child into the world.

“Come on, come on, just-” muffling a groan into his forearm, Albedo cries out at his child drops into his waiting hands. Pulling them up to his chest, he weeps softly upon hearing their soft cries.

“Good girl...oh sweet girl, I’ve got you.”

Bennett

“Oh- oh!” sobbing weakly, Bennett reaches under his heavy belly, fingers grazing over the legs dangling from his burning hole. “N-no, baby, no-wrong way-!” he sucks in a breath, crying out as he bares down with what was left of his waning strength. He stretches open, screaming, a suddenly rush of fluid falls onto the floor as his hands grasp around his squalling newborn.

“Oh-Archons thank you...you’re safe, you’re safe now.”

Diluc

Nails digging into the wooden counter tops of his bar, Diluc roars in agony. Legs spread apart, deep into a low squat, he bares down, cursing under his breath as his newborn slips onto the piles of towels he’d had the forethought to place down.

“Fuck-Oh fuck.” quickly lifting them from the floor, Diluc cradles them to his chest, marveling how just how loudly they cried.

“That’s it, good...cry, just keep crying for me.”

Kaeya

Groaning loudly, Kaeya rolls onto his side, lifting one leg into the air. A slow trickle of fluid running down his thighs, the head bulging against his tight rim of muscles.

“Just. Come. Out!” he groans again, burying his face into his pillow and pushing. All at once, the head pops free, the shoulders turning and slipping out with one final effort.

“Shit,” bringing them to his chest, he strokes a finger over their ruddy cheeks as they wail, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, forgive me.”

Mika “Push, Mika, you have to push.” the midwife busies herself between Mika’s trembling legs, giving the head dangling from his hole a gentle tug.

“Stop-Stop, don’t pull it!” he sobs, pushing despite the pain coursing throughout his aching stomach. All at once, the pressure ends, a screaming little boy placed to his heaving chest.

“Thank you...Archons thank you…”

Razor

The howl tears from his throat, raw and primal as another contraction rippled through his belly. A few wolves poked about, watching curiously as Razor bore down, bringing his pup into the world under the moon and stars. They plops onto the ground, bawling furiously, and Razor quickly brings them to his chest.

“Good pup...good lungs, cry...let the forest hear you.”

Venti

The scream tears through the tranquil night, shattering the peace. Naked and alone, Venti lets out another ear-splitting shriek as his child tears from his narrow hips and into his shaking hands. They flail about, crying and whimpering as Venti cuddles them close, singing a lullaby into their ear.

Baizhu

“Oh, Archons, have mercy-” skin ghostly white, hands clenched around his ankles, keeping his legs spread best he can, Baizhu struggles to push. His belly quivers with another contraction, sending him into a frenzied scream, his baby finally popping free.

“Dearest one- Oh, my little star,” he rambled, bringing the newborn to his chest, and wiping the muck of birth from their face, “Mother is here...I’ve got you, I’ve got you.”

Chongyun

“Just...a little...more-!” voice muffled with the rag stuffed into his mouth, Chongyun groans loudly. His fingertips graze of the top of the head, pushing with all his strength and gasping as the head crowns fully into his palm. One last push, and it’s squalling loudly, coming to be held tightly in Chongyun’s arms.

“There...there you are, welcome home baby.”

Gaming “You’re so close darling, hang there a bit longer.” Gaming sobs, clutching his mother’s hand tightly.

“Push, push, you’ve got the head out, push Gaming.” she soothes, watching as her grandchild comes into the world with a loud wail, flailing arms and legs. She places the newborn to Gaming’s chest, and he wraps around her instantly,

“Daddy’s here, I’ve got you, Daddy’s here…”

Xiao

The storm rages just outside the cavern. Spear in hand, Xiao anchors himself to it, stabbing the blade into the dirt and holding tight as he bore down. His belly tightened, legs quivering, a strangled gasp leaving his mouth as he feels something large slide from his body. Swiftly, he lifts the child to his arms, marveling at their beauty.

“You’re safe, I’ll protect you, forever.”

Xingqui

“Don’t stop, keep pushing!” legs held back by the midwife, Xingqui wails, clutching at his belly. Each push brought him closer and closer to being done, but doubled the pain. He feels them ripping him open, forcing their way into the world, ready or not.

“Push!” she orders once more, and Xingqui does, mind going blank for a moment before he realizes there’s a squirming newborn on his chest.

“You...little brat...that hurt-”

Zhongli

Slow, heaven breaths, eyes closed in deep concentration. The feeling of his muscles contracting, inching his baby closer and closer to the world, his entrance opening wide, burning as the head starts to peak through.

A soft gasp, hands quivering ever so slightly as he reaches between his legs and lifts his offspring into view.

“What a powerful little one you are,” Zhongli chuckles, exhaustion seeping into his bones, “I’m so very proud of you.”

Arataki Itto

“Ah- fuck!” moaning deeply, Itto gives one last solid push. The tiny pointed horns of his newborn dragging along the tender skin as it emerges, ripping it open. Blood splatters onto the ground, but Itto pays no mind, bringing his precious little treasure to his chest.

“That...was one hell of an entrance kiddo..but didja have to hurt Daddy like that-”

Ayato “Breathe, brother, slow, deep breaths...in and out...yes, like that.” Ayaka presses a damp towel to her brother’s cheek, mindful not to peek under the sheets where the midwife was at work.

“Push, one last push!” closing his eyes and pressing his chin to his chest, Ayato bares down, crying out as the baby enters the world with an indignant warble.

“Give her to me.” he orders, uncaring of the mess left behind, snuggling them into the crook of his arm.

“Welcome…Mommy is so glad to meet you...”

Gorou

“Good job Gorou, just one more push!” two pups already latched to his milky breasts Gorou groans, barely giving any effort before the third of his litter drops into Kokomi’s eager hands.

“Two girls and a son! You did wonderful Gorou.” with a smile, she places the third babe between her siblings, snuffling and whining loudly at the lack of a teat to feed on. Laughing weakly, Gorou gives her back a gentle rub,

“One moment baby...Mama has plenty of milk for you too, don’t worry.”

Kazhua

“I told you, you should have stayed at the harbor!” Beidou cringes as Kazhua lets out another deep, guttural moan, and nearly drops at the sight of the head bulging between her friend’s legs.

“Oh Archons- I can see it!” a slow, even breath, and Kazuha moans loudly through the next push, sending his baby flopping out onto the bed below.

“What do I do with it-”

“Hand it to me.” Kazuha sighs, shaking his head as Beidou gingerly places the screaming infant to his chest. Brave as she is, nothing could have prepared her for witnesses her dear friend being split open.

“Hello little one, Papa is here…”

Heizou

“Oh fuck just get out, please!” pressing his hands atop his heaving belly, Heizou pushes, legs kicking out as the head bursts forth with a spray of blood and fluid. Once more, and it drops onto the sheets between his legs, squirming and furious.

“You...troublemaker.” he pants, bringing them closer, and inspecting them closely.

“You aren’t getting siblings. Ever.”

Thoma

“Oh- Archons- not on the floor-!” halfway from the bath to his bed, the urge to bare down overcomes him. Dropping to all fours, Thoma barely as the chance to reach around and catch the newborn as it plops right into his shaking grasp. Mindful of the cord connecting them, Thoma brings them to his chest, allowing them to latch right to his milk laden breast.

“Two minutes...just two more minutes and we wouldn’t have ruined the floor…”

Alhaitham

“Enough, is enough.” a full day had passed, and the scribe was far past through. The head was crowning, snugly resting between his legs, and with one final effort, fully emerges. Gasping and clawing at the blankets under him, AlHaitham bares down again with renewed determination, relief flooring them him as they enter the world with a shrill cry.

“You certainly took your sweet time, didn’t you?”

Cyno

Growling, deep and feral, Cyno braces himself against the temple wall. The floor under him damp with his waters, body soaked with sweat as he forces his unborn into the world. Sharp reflexes keeps the infant from falling to the ground, and Cyno carefully checks them.

“Ten fingers...ten toes...One whole baby.”

Kaveh

“You’re scaring the other patie-” another earth shattering scream fills the room, followed by a pitiful sob.

“Just get it out, I don’t want to do this anymore!”

“You have to push if you want it out, now, push!” the doctor was more than done with Kaveh’s noise, and was losing his composure over his unwillingness to cooperate. Kaveh does his best, struggling to sit up enough to leverage his body into baring down, screaming bloody murder the whole way.

“There! A girl!” the doctor puts her into Kaveh’s belly, drying her off as the architect babbles incoherently.

“It’s over-I did it-Oh Archons, oh-oh what do I do now-”

Sethos

The desert was his home, and it was where he felt safest. Bringing his baby into the world surrounded by the sand had never been a question of ‘if,’ but ‘when.’ A strong push, a wild scream, and the baby is resting in his hands, bloody and wailing. Chuckling weakly, and falling onto his back, Sethos lie there with them wailing against his chest for a few moments.

“Good work kiddo...good work.”

Tighnari

“Come...on-!” three little big eared kits slept peacefully in their cots, while their Tighnari struggled nearby with the surprise fourth. Coming nearly six hours after the other, and certain he was finished, Tighnari squats next to the cots, groaning as his last kit slides easily into his hands. Panting, he brings them to his chest, wrapping them with a nearby blanket for warmth.

“Don’t worry little one,” he soothes, “I won’t let them tease you for being the runt, I promise.”

Freminet

The water offers some solace as the baby begins to crown, the cool sea easing the burn. He pushes, groaning into the night air, relief flooding him as the baby slides into the water with a cloud of blood and fluid. Taking in a shaky breath, he brings them to his chest, pressing a soft kiss to the top of their head.

“Welcome to the world...Mama will keep you safe, I promise.”

Lyney

“Almost there, just a little more.” Lynnette whispers to her brother, holding his hand tightly as he bore down. He cries out, startled at the sensation of his child leaving his body.

“A boy, you have a son.” she whispers, handing the newborn to Lyney’s waiting hands. He swallows thickly, throat tight with emotion.

“Daddy’s here...you’ll always be safe with us...no one will ever hurt you.”

Neuvillette

Groaning, Neuvillette clings to the side of the tub with enough force to risk breaking the porcelain. His body felt as if it were being torn apart, and he’s grateful not a soul is around to hear the scream he releases as his child barrels into the world. With haste, he lifts them from the water, clutching their squirming form to his chest and nuzzling them gently.

“Don’t cry little one...You are safe and sound…”

Wrio

“Just...a little...more...come on…” he mumbles under his breath, eyes closed in focus as another contraction tears through him. A high scream, and he feels the weight in his pelvis drop, landing safely on the mattress. Opening his eyes, he blinks through years and spies the bloody little thing his body had kept warm and safe for the last nine months.

“Hey champ...welcome to the world.”

Tartaglia

“Shit!” being stabbed, beaten and nearly killed somehow didn’t compare to the sheer torture of having a baby push it’s way through his tight hole. Each push brings it closer to the world, and deepens the pain, but he doesn’t stop, not until he feels them slide careful into his bloodied hands.

“Gotcha...I gotcha kid, I got ya.”

Wanderer

Secluded and locked away from the rest of the world, he questions his own sanity. Why did he allow this parasite to grow off him? Why was he letting it torment him this way? Why was he pushing it out and screaming in pain and feeling all too lost and afraid.

“You...You…” he looks at the newborn's delicate face, screwed up and red as it wailed away, “What do I do with you...”

[romaritimeharbor]

AVERY. GOOD MORNING AVERY. IDK WHAT TIME IT IS FOR YOU B. BUT. H. HELLO. HI.

NO TEARS LEFT — Platonic Arlecchino & reader.

i. SUMMARY: It was well-known that the Knave hated tears. ii. CONTENT WARNINGS: None! iii. NOTES: STRICTLY PLATONIC, hurt/comfort, found family, house of the hearth!reader, gn!reader, they/them pronouns used, 1k words. iv. A/N: Is this ooc? Who knows! I'm choosing to believe Arlecchino is a strict but loving parent, so that is what I went with here. Hoyoverse, don’t make her an irredeemable villain please and thank you.

Crying was a rarity within the House of the Hearth.

It was perhaps odd for a place that housed dozens of children—their ages stretching between those barely able to walk, to those on the cusp of adulthood—to not hear at least a few sobs every now and then. But more often than not, the House was still, existing in an almost suffocating peacefulness. There were sounds; a rare echo of laughter from somewhere three halls down, or the steady drone of siblings talking over the top of each other, but never tears.

Occasionally though, a low cry will sound somewhere within the halls, and all close by will freeze. They will turn to the child—it was always someone new, who hadn’t been accustomed to the ways of the House yet—and hush them, whispering fervently:

Father hates tears.

Lynette was the kindest in telling the poor souls. She would wipe the streaks of tears off their cheeks with the cuff of her sleeve, shushing them gently. “Keep your voice down. Father hates crying children.”

Some of the older children were a little harsher in their reaction, elbowing the newcomer until they shut their mouths with a click, and let the tears drip silently down their face.

Every member who had been there long enough to be scolded at least once by Father knew the rules, and knew to keep their emotions locked away inside until they were either alone or dead. They didn’t dare to think of what would happen to them, should they dare to show such weakness.

The hunched figure that sat at the top of the stairs with their legs pressed against their chest was no new arrival, and yet tears had begun to slowly drip across their cheeks.

A click reverberated across the walls, and their head snapped up at the sound. They craned their neck backwards, while the clicking continued: the telltale sound of the Knave’s heels clacking against tiles. Instantly they were on their feet, scrubbing furiously at their eyes. The sounds grew louder, their posture stiffened, and their hands withdrew from their face right as the Knave turned the corner.

“Father,” they crowed, praying to the Tsaritsa that their voice was level.

“My child.” She responded in turn. Her eyes swept across them for a moment, and their eyes flicked to the floor instinctively. She continued down the hall at her usual pace, and it looked like she was about to move past them and down the stairs. Inwardly, they breathed a sigh of relief. It was a close call, but they would be in the clear once she stepped past—

A clawed hand caught their chin, tilting it upwards. Father twisted it gently to the left, then the right, observing the redness of their eyes and faint shininess on their cheeks. “You have been crying. What is wrong?”

And with that, any semblance of composure shattered.

A sharp draw of breath was their only warning before their throat closed up, and more tears trickled down, like they had never stopped in the first place. Sniffles left their lips first, soon followed with gasps and cries that echoed through the foyer. Father’s face turned blank, and the tears only fell faster at her reaction.

“I’m sorry—” they choked out between hitching breaths. “I-I’m sorry, Father.”

Father hated tears. Father hated seeing crying children, she hated—

“Hush now,” Father hummed, letting go of their face. They shrank back against the wall, shielding their face with their hands, as if that would do anything to stop her from seeing just how pathetic they were.

“I’m so sorry,” they repeated hoarsely.

“No apologies, dear.”

She paused for a beat of silence, letting them try to pull themself together.

“Do you know why I dislike tears?” Father asked quietly.

“Because crying is a sign of emotion.” They murmured mechanically, repeating the words the older residents drilled into their skull the day they arrived. “And emotion is a sign of weakness.”

“That is partially true.” Father agreed, tapping her cheek rhythmically with her nail. “As a member of the Fatui, you will be faced with many adversaries. You cannot afford unnecessary emotion; not when it earns you a target on your back.”

She paused to swipe a stray tear from their chin with her nail, wiping it on a handkerchief and continuing.

“It is dangerous out there for you, and I have a duty to train my children to be able to withstand the treachery that they will no doubt encounter. I do not tell you emotions are a weakness because I am cruel. I tell you it is a weakness because it is. You must learn young to control them; lest it cost your life.”

“I-I understand, Father.” They said in a strangled tone.

“I’m not finished,” She chided softly, without any real irritation behind it. “While out there, concealing such emotion is a strength, there isn’t a necessity to do so certain times. When you are in a place of safety, such is the time to let it out.”

Father extended her arms out in a clear invitation. Their eyes widened in shock, but they didn’t hesitate to fall forward into her waiting arms, letting themself be drawn tightly against her chest. Their hands grabbed fistfuls of the back of her coat, while she traced circles across their shoulder blades in a soothing motion.

“You are safe, my child.” Father crooned, dipping her head low to kiss the top of their head. “While you are here, there is no one to harm you.”

No one…

With arms strong enough to hold the weight of the world circling their waist, and nails that were sharp enough to tear out a person’s throat drawing lines up and down their back to sooth them, they believed her easily. She held them there for what had to have only been a minute, letting them sob into the front of her coat, clinging to her until their cries evened out into nothing.

And in that quiet moment, all they could comprehend was the soft, steady feeling that they are loved.

reblogs and comments are appreciated! ♡

[liz-allyn]

sugar and vice, pt. 7 [mob!tasm!peter x fem!reader]

summary: For better or worse, they're talking it out.

words: 8.4 k

warning: mob-typical violence. graphic depiction of gun violence, whump. hurt/comfort. descriptions of violence. references to drug use. coersion. kidnapping. blood. toxic/yandere!peter (maybe, sorta), negative self talk, shameless forced proximity trope. ‘only ten one bed oops’ trope, imprisonment. slowest burn. a dash of questionable and/or morally grey intentions. extremely toxic relationships.

this is a darker, messier version of TASM Peter.

18+. you’re responsible for your own content consumption. but that being said, something, something, something, dark side... should mean something to you.

Go back to Part 6.

Part 7

What’s your biggest regret?

Where to begin?

Peter felt weak. The weight of Honey’s body in his arms was too much to bear. She sat with her back to him on the floor, legs akimbo, hunched over herself. Violent sobs racked through her body as she bawled, and screamed, and begged. Neither of them were even sure what she was begging for.

“Jus’wanna disappear,” she mumbled through hiccups and wails. “Please jus’wanna go’way...dontwannabehere...idont wanit... i don’t wannit”

Sitting on the floor behind her, he tightened his grip. His forearms harnessed her in, crossing them loosely across her chest. Every once in a while, she’d dig her nails into his skin, either knowingly or unknowingly. It didn’t matter. He let her. He’d let her flay him alive if it would end her suffering. Except that he knew that it wouldn’t. Personal experience.

She won’t forgive you. She won’t look at you. She was right about you.

weak... pathetic puny... useless 

She was right. In many ways, this was his fault. 

It’s a strange exercise to think of the million different decisions one makes in a day that binds them to their inevitable fate. In Honey’s case, all she had to do was smile at him. All Peter had to do was keep coming back to visit her. In the case of the two unfortunate victims of Fisk’s rage, all they had to do was show up for work.

And Honey didn’t know what Peter knew. Didn’t know the gory details the police left out of the press coverage. He wondered if he should ever tell her.

...you failed to protect them, you will always fail, you can’t protect the people you love, you can’t protect anyone, you are useless... alone... a drain on the world...

He listened to the voices in his mind as he listened to her agonized weeping. Soon the sounds were the same. A contrite sinner, standing trial for his crimes against the world. Ready to take whatever judgment handed down to him.

Just let her go... monster... Just get her as far away from here as possible. Somewhere warm, sunny beach somewhere... pariah... Just get as far away from her as possible... no good can come from this...disgusting pest... Don’t let her see what you really are.

Her cries began to fade, her body drained of its energy. He helped her stand, her legs wobbly, and moved her slowly to the couch. There, she buried her face in the cushions and cried even harder. 

It was like a broken limb, even the slightest touch sent searing pain through ravaged nerve endings. The pain of a broken heart. The kind of pain that makes you want to detach from reality. 

Peter knew it all too well.

His heart ached at the sound of her sobs. All he wanted to do was help the pain go away. Outside of jumping in front of a train, he only had one thing to offer her. 

Hesitantly, he made the suggestion—the same dose of medicine she swallowed the day she arrived at the cabin. The only kindness he could offer was the reprieve from him. A break from the world that he’d trapped her in.

Without a second thought, she agreed. Hollow. Apathetic. Reckless. 

With a frown, he crushed a pill and dropped the pulverized powder in a glass of juice. 

He gently declined her request to give her back the bottle of champagne to wash it down. Watched her sorrowfully, as she downed the juice without a moment’s hesitation.

He knew it well. The kind of pain that makes you want to detach your soul from your body. 

Without another word, she laid down on the sofa, squeezing her eyes shut and waited for unconsciousness to overtake her. Only when her eyes closed did he allow tears to squeak through his lids. 

He had fought them off for as long as he could, rubbing his eyes furiously. Dragging his calloused fingers down his weathered face, muffling quiet sobs with his palms. 

He listened carefully, focusing on her steady breaths. She was asleep at last. Peter was alone again, just him and his failure. He observed her body as she sunk into the sofa cushions, drifting further into a dreamless rest. He hoped that wherever her mind was, it was at peace. 

He considered the awkward angle of her spine, the way her chin jutted in a way that was surely going to strain her neck. It looked uncomfortable. She was uncomfortable. He wanted her to be comfortable. His instinct was to pick her up and carry her to bed. 

He stopped his hands from moving on their own accord. His heart sank as he thought about where his mind was leading. 

Not her bed, but his. Their bed, if only she wanted it to be. It all felt so futile. A silly dream. For a young, foolish boy with nonsensical, fairy-tale thoughts, an old skateboard, and holes in his jeans.

He lifted her body from the couch and once again ascended the staircase. This time, he stopped at her door. The gate to her cell.

He laid her on the bed, carefully removed her shoes from her feet, and buried her in blankets. Brushing the hair from her face, he frowned at the tear trails on her cheeks. 

He went to her bathroom and warmed up a washcloth. When he returned, he gently dabbed at her makeup, removing it to the best of his ability. Her skin was already so ravaged from salty tears, rubbing was only making it worse—you’re hurting her—no peace, only pain— and cursed himself again. He went back and located the makeup remover once it had proven to be difficult. 

Returned to the bathroom. He used another washcloth, soaking it in cooler water, wringing it out, and using it as a compress against her flushed forehead and swollen eyes. 

He sat in the armchair in the corner of her room, listening to the steadiness of her heart. The calmness of her breath. When the cloth had warmed up and dried out, he replaced it with a fresh one. 

Again and again.

Over and over. 

For hours. 

He caught sight of himself in her mirror and could barely recognize the person staring back. Peter looked—he felt—so old. When did he get so old? Tired. Worn out from more sleepless nights than the current one. Dark-rimmed bags under his eyes. Stray silver hairs and dried blood dotted his dark beard. The lacerations made by her fingernails healed almost instantly. But he could still feel them.

They say that beards make you look older. He looked geriatric. Still, he didn’t look as old on the outside as he felt inside. Inside he was ancient. A relic. He’d only been on the earth for just under thirty-five years, but every breath felt like a chilly gust of wind through a decrepit, old tomb. His heart was a fossil. 

You should’ve stopped Kingpin a long time ago, the quarreling voices reminded him. You could’ve saved those women. They’re dead because of you.

it should’ve been you... you are the weakness, the disease... you are the parasite... they are dead because of you...

Light was not her friend. 

It fact, it was skull-fucking her. 

Honey groaned as she wiped a semi-dry film of saliva from her cheek. Gross.

She felt gross. All over. Her head was throbbing, sinuses sore. Like the world’s worst hangover with a dash of the flu. Her mouth was desert dry. With bleary eyes, she glanced around to find herself back in her ‘guest’ room. Her prison cell, made of down-feathers and sherpa blankets. 

Daylight chased away every shadow and lobotomized her aching skull. But it illuminated another fact: she was alone.

It was unclear whether that was a good thing, given that she felt like death. She glanced over and her eyes narrowed on a glass of water sitting on the nightstand. She practically licked her dry lips at the sight. She didn’t remember bringing the water to her room. Nor did she remember going to bed. Or drinking so heavily that she blacked out. Or—

Darkness shadowed over her like storm clouds on the horizon. She felt her heart sink into her chest as she suddenly remembered.

The party. The laptop. The news article. 

Peter Fucking Parker.

Whatever sickness she felt multiplied ten-fold. It was like being sucked under the current of a black sea. She was drowning in agony once again, and all she could do was bite her wobbly lip. She had no more tears to shed. She’d cried them all out last night.

The details of the previous night were still unclear, like remnants of a dream slipping away. Only a vague recollection remained—her blubbering nonsensically to be knocked out.

He must have obliged her. Nothing after that registered.

She glanced around at her bed. It looked like she had been the only occupant. Looking to the beside, she noticed the wingback armchair had moved overnight. It drifted several feet from the corner, and had crawled suspiciously near the edge of the bed.

She glanced back at the water. It was from Peter. A kind gesture. An olive branch, perhaps. Something to ease pain that he knew she would feel in the morning.

She buried her face in her pillow, swallowing back her dry tongue.

Fuck his olives.

Hours passed. 

She repeated the action of waking up to her nightmare, and then diving back under the waves, hoping to drown her misery in sleep. The cycle repeated, at least 5-6 times. 

The sun shifted. 

Her throat was raw.

The water had probably long-since warmed to room temperature. Maybe even more from being cast in the sun. She didn’t want it. Didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to care. 

At some point, between the 8th and 9th cycle, she heard a light knock at the door. Two quick beats, then a third. 

“Honey?” a voice called from the other side. 

It could only be one person.

She rolled her eyes, the action reminding her just how dry they were. She squeezed her eyes shut. 

“You awake?” 

She stayed silent. Hoped to fall asleep again. Hoped he’d go away and leave her alone. Leave her in that room, to wilt and die like a neglected plant.

“It’s gettin’ pretty late in the day,” he explained kindly. How dare he provide her with that information. “Wonderin’ if you were hungry.”

Was she hungry? Yes. Did she want to move? Never. She should say so. She should tell him she’s not hungry. She should tell him to jump off a building. She should give him a piece of her mind. Scream. Scratch him again, but this time aim for his eyes. Bite. 

She just didn’t want to move. The thought of getting out of bed, opening the door to see his likely apologetic face, and then spitting in it seemed so stressful, she’d rather not do anything at all. 

Hate was exhausting. She’d never hated anyone before.

“I, uh, made you some food, uhm...” 

She flicked her apathetic gaze back to the wall. Scoffed lightly. Pulled the blankets back over her head.

Seconds passed. She expected more of his charmingly-shy kind offers to spill out from behind the door, but instead there was silence. She wondered if he could somehow hear her indignation, as impossible as it seemed.

“Well, it’s ready. If you are.” 

He sounded sad. Not just sad, but defeated. Resigned. She heard the scuff of his leather heel, then footsteps retreating, reverberating off of the hardwood floor. 

Then it was quiet again. 

She was alone. Again.

Another knocking rhythm. This time, when she opened her eyes, it was significantly darker. Late afternoon. Her stomach growling could confirm that.

“Honey, you decent?”

She rolled her eyes. How grandpa of him.

“I’m comin’ in,” he followed up, and suddenly she wanted to shout in protest. But the handle twisted and the door popped open, and from her periphery she could see Peter’s tall silhouette in the doorway.

She adjusted her head to remove him from her view. It was the most she’d moved in hours. 

“How’re you feelin’, huh?” 

She tucked her chin down, pulling her head further under the covers.

“Yeah, figured as much.” His somber tone held the weight of being the sole participant in the conversation. Much to her disappointment, Peter didn’t leave. Instead, she could hear him enter the room, the sound of his footsteps mingling with a gentle rattling noise. 

She threw her eyes over at him for a moment. He carefully steadied a wooden tray in his arms. A several plates of different comfort foods were spread out, the aroma of which was enough to make her dizzy with starvation. She tried to ignore the gurgling of her stomach as he padded closer to her.

“Brought you some dinner,” he said as he approached the bedside, a pitiful glimmer of hope in his voice. She pierced him with a silent glare. “I know you gotta be hungry by now. I can hear your stomach growlin’ from downstairs.”

He said it with a light chuckle. She said nothing. 

He sat the tray down on the foot of the bed, getting a good look at her broken state.

Good, she thought. Let him. Let him look upon his work, and despair.

Peter glanced over at the glass of water on the nightstand, still untouched. He frowned at the sight. Looked back down at her, chocolate eyes full of pity.

“A little water’ll make ya feel better,” he gently offered.

She stared into nothingness, avoiding eye contact. Imagined that she was a dead body. He was talking to a corpse.

Her silence made him fret. He kept trying. “How ‘bout a hot bath, then?”

“Why, were you planning on waterboarding me, too?” Her voice came out sharp and raspy, like the hiss of a rattlesnake. Her words packed the same amount of venom, too. She looked over at him selfishly, just to see the tissue damage her toxins inflicted.

A glimmer of disappointment crossed his face, his lips turning downward. It made her feel bad. 

Damn it to hell.

He gazed at her quietly, reeling from the bite. Pursed his lips. Set his jaw firmly in place. “You gotta eat,” he declared with a carefully controlled tone. It was an edict.

She glowered defiantly. “I’m not hungry.”

“Bullshit,” he snapped back, nearly before she even finished her sentence. His volume remained muted, but his eyes were not. “You gotta take care of yourself. S’not a suggestion.”

“And what if I don’t?” Her voice had dropped an octave. She challenged him through slitted eyes. “What then, huh? You’re so busy with trying to protect me, what if we just cut to the finish? Take one thing off your to-do list.”

Peter’s jaw tensed. Nostrils flared. The sight of his anger was intimidating, despite her bratty resolve. Briefly, her nerve started to falter, but then he took a slow breath. “You’re angry,” he said, matter-of-factly. “I get that.” She was thrown off by the calmness of his response, despite every word coming out clipped. “You’re angry at me. I get that, too. You wanna take a shot at me? That’s okay. You wanna hit me, hit me. What you did yesterday? It felt good, din’it? Made you feel better. Stronger. By all means, don’t stop.” 

As much as she fought against it, she felt a tinge of guilt at that. He railed on.

“Do whatever you want,” he added, raising his voice in challenge. “Scratch me. Beat me. Hit me with a rock. If you wanna hurt somebody, hurt me.” His eyes hardened as he fixed his gaze on her, timbre dropping deep. “But you are not allowed to hurt yourself. Got that?” His eyes pierced her as he said it, as if he could shoot lightning from his fingers and write his commandment in stone.

She gulped unintentionally, the courage she had moments ago evaporating in the heat of his stare. She locked her jaw to keep her lip from trembling. Her own weakness enraged her.

“Now sit up if you understand,” he reprimanded, through gritted teeth. As if she were a child. She felt like one—little in his gaze. Peter fixed a hard look on her, waiting impatiently for her to comply. 

With rageful eyes, she sat up, yanking back the covers. Her spine cracked from the lack of movement. She threw her socked feet over the edge. Came to a firm stand, straightening herself in front of him. She took a bold step forward, holding his gaze. Bitterly and slowly, she reached for the tray of food.

Then she shoved it off the bed onto the bedroom floor. The china shattered with a crack, food and liquid splattering on his shoes, pieces of glass splintering out in every direction. 

Neither of them ever broke their steel gazes. 

She glared up at him and he leered down at her, both silently fuming. Hearts pounding. Chests aching.

“I think I’ll have that shower now,” she nonchalantly replied. The arrogance in her voice was sharp. Stunning, especially to herself. They remained in their stalemate before she took the first step, brushing past him into her bathroom and slamming the door.

In retrospect, it was a dumb idea. She stayed in the shower longer than necessary. Part of it was to maintain the facade of her new-found, devil-may-care attitude. The other utility was that she could hide.

After her bold protest, it took her all of about 5 seconds before she jumped back across the bathroom to lock the door. She prayed silently that he wouldn’t kick it down and respond—fucking brat, little bitch, I’ll show you—to her actions.

Frozen, she stood still and listened to the shower running. Listened for his inevitable footsteps. When they didn’t come, her shoulders relaxed. She took deep breaths until she had enough confidence to rid herself of her clothing and step inside the shower.

When she emerged from the bathroom, she cracked the door slightly. Peered inside. She opened the door a bit wider and glanced around. Peter was gone. So was the mess. She sighed with relief. And a bit of guilt—Always cleaning up your messes! When will you learn?—that she pushed to the back of her mind. 

Wrapped in a bath sheet, she padded bare feet across the room towards her duffle bag on the dresser. She paused before reaching it. Felicia’s revelation from the night before echoed in her mind.

She turned to the double doors of the closet in her room, gazing at them nervously. Stepped up to it, as if she was approaching a gateway to Narnia. Threw open the doors to look—but this time, she really looked.

It was a gateway to Narnia. Or to a Neiman Marcus.

For all intents and purposes, it was a room within itself. A beautiful collection of steel-gray wooden cabinetry and opaque frosted glass. The room was brightly illuminated by recessed fixtures, and each shelving unit was individually lit. In the center of the walk-in closet—or, more aptly, the portal to a fashion blogger’s wet dream—there was a freestanding island for accessories next to a tufted ottoman.

Fascinated, she stepped over to one of the wardrobe doors and opened it. Lights flickered on to reveal a section of blouses hanging on a rod from velvet hangers. Each item of clothing was organized by color, starting with black, travelling with the natural flow of the spectrum, and ending on white. 

The pattern repeated over again, this time sorted by type. Long sleeves. Short sleeves. No sleeves. Another cabinet revealed a drawer dedicated to dress trousers and jeans. Divided by fit and style, and then again by wash and color. 

Whatever space there was reserved for pants, seven times that amount was dedicated solely to dresses. 

So. Many. Dresses.

Bodycons. Shifts. Sheaths. Empire-waist. Cinched-waist. Drop-waist. A-line. V-line. Peasant, peplum and princess. Midi. Mini. Maxi (in case she grew a foot). Every color of the rainbow. In every pattern imaginable. For every imaginable occasion—weddings, funerals, runways, and run-ins with the law. Covering cocktail parties and Casual Fridays. 

Additionally, each label was an alphabetical roll call of every reputable designer name, from the bold cuts of Alexander McQueen to exotic, flowing gowns from Zuhair Murad. Or so she guessed, since she hadn’t heard of most of these designers. They had yet to make their way to her local TJ Maxx.

She’d watched The Devil Wears Prada before. Certainly, Meryl Streep would’ve died of a heart attack at the sight of this room.

Jaw still agape, she turned her attention to the island. Approaching the side with drawers, she slid open the chest and her eyes went wide.

Lingerie. Sexy, sweet, and sensual. Row after row of lace, silk, satin, and mesh stacked neatly with coordinating pieces in rich colors. Fabrics that felt silky on her fingertips. Fabrics as soft and intimate as the inside of her body. She picked up and examined piece after piece, imagining the woman who would wear each one.

A black mesh and polyurethane open-cup playsuit with matching diamond garters and a jeweled leather collar. Perfect fit for a Femme Fatale.

For the Servant, a pink satin and lace brief paired with a Shibari-inspired body harness made from twisted, plaited, silk rope.

A silky-smooth navy blue corset embellished with cut Swarovski crystals on the bust for the Enchantress.

A lavender silk babydoll dress with a plunging V-neckline and French Chantilly lace floral accents for the Maiden. 

So many women. All the archetypes represented. A multitude of girls to choose from. 

She felt ill. Dizzy. Felt so hot under the recessed lighting, the back of her neck was sweating. Lightheaded. Clammy skin. She backed away from the island, fingers gripping the doorframe. 

She remembered thinking, foolishly, that all of this must have belonged to other women. A girlfriend, or ex-girlfriends. Or just... girls. As if Peter had a harem, or a rotating troupe of interchangeable parts. Each of them serving their own utility. Each of them replaceable. 

She was wrong. 

Peter wasn’t a player. He was particular. A planner. And every item in that closet had been planned for her. Meticulously, he had chosen each piece. For her. Not for a multitude of different women. But for her to be any woman. Every woman. Whoever he wanted her to be. 

His doll. Accessories included. 

Two distinct forces clashed in her belly, like storm fronts converging. Pressure shifting. A cyclone forming.

One fomented horror—outrage, even—at this obsession with her. All of it looked like her size, too. How did he know her measurements so intimately? Clearly, he’d been looking at her—really looking. Fixated. That half of her brain felt disrespected by his objectification. Violated. Dirty at the thought of him picturing her in such intimate and provocative ways.

The other half felt heat building in her core. Tension pulled taut at her insides. Wetness between her thighs.

Each thought made her shiver.

The last remnants of the sun had vanished when Honey opened the door to her bedroom. She had changed into a conservative loungewear outfit: a pair of silky soft joggers and an oversized cotton t-shirt. She was extremely relieved to have found it.

Hesitantly, she poked her head out around the door, glancing down the hallway for any sign of Peter. Nothing. She looked down to her feet. On the floor next to her door was a covered plate. She picked it up. Inspected it.

A plate of turkey and cheese sandwiches. Cut into triangles, just like the picnic platter. She felt a pang in her chest at the sight. 

Frowning, she soured at the memory of throwing her food on the floor. Such a waste. She would've never gotten away with that as a kid. Or even as a baby. It was so rude—ungrateful brat—why? Why was she always so rude? 

With a sigh, she brought the plate inside her room and quietly cherished the meal. When she was finished, she had the urge to be a polite houseguest. She carried her emptied plate and empty water glass down the stairs to the kitchen. The least she could do was wash her own dishes.

She stopped suddenly as she rounded a corner, seeing Peter leaning over the kitchen bar. On the table surface, he had two books open in front of him, one of them a ruled composition book. He popped his head up a second after she arrived, mirroring her surprised expression. 

She noted the dark-framed glasses on his face. He took a moment to push them back up the bridge of his nose. They made him look boyish. Cute, even. It was another bizarre subversion of expectation versus reality. Peter Parker, fearsome mob boss: hunched over his kitchen bar, scribbling notes like he’s studying for a Spanish quiz.

The moment he locked eyes with her, he was already looking away. Helplessly flustered by her appearance. He cleared his throat. “Um, hi.”

She shifted her weight between her feet, outwardly gripping the plate and glass in an awkward stance. “Hi.”

A long silence followed, for an indeterminate amount of time. Days, probably.  “I... have this plate. And a cup.”

It was a promising beginning.

“Oh,” Peter replied quietly and uncomfortably, as if he were part of some odd British comedy. “You can just leave them by the sink. I’ll get to ‘em later.”

“I can wash them.” Her stomach was twisting in knots.

“No, no need for you to do that.” Kindly, he waved her off.

“I...I-I can put them in the dishwasher, if you’re gonna run it?”

“Oh, uh... I, um, don’t think we have enough for a full load.”

“Right. Conserving water. Important.”

“Don’t worry about it, I’ll wash ‘em before I go to bed.”

“But... I can wash them now.”

“No, really—”

“Peter,” her voice came out clipped. “I want to wash my dishes.” It was an edict. He pursed his lips, looking away sheepishly. She finally moved from her spot, carrying on to do what she came downstairs to do. She stopped at the kitchen sink, glancing around the counter. “Where do you keep your soap?”

“Oh, uh—under, under the-the sink.”

“I don’t see it.”

“It’s there. It’s... uh... blue.”

Her head was in the cabinet below when she exclaimed, “Jesus Christ, is this Ajax? You cheap bastard.” She pulled her head up over the edge of the counter, throwing him a scandalized look. “Where did you get this? The clearance section of a Dollar Store?”

Her abhorrance triggered a smile, flitted across his face as he shrugged. “Hey. It works.”

She wiggled her head, staring at him in disbelief. “It works, like... like the atomic bomb worked!” Her passion was evident. “You’re irradiating your hands every time you use this stuff.”

A light chuckle left his lips. “I’ve had worse.” His tongue stuck out idly as he licked them, a peculiar quirk. Her eyes were glued to the action. She remembered to close her mouth, then composed herself quickly. She could see and hear the vibration of his knee bouncing anxiously. Or it could’ve been the sound of her heart.

“I’m sorry,” she blurted out. She exhaled sharply, eyes dropping to the floor. Full of guilt. “I shouldn’t have hit you. I never should’ve done that.” 

Fidgeting, he tapped the pencil in his hands, but kept his tone calm. “It’s-It’s okay.”

“It’s not,” she countered immediately. The shame in her voice was palpable. “That’s... never okay. I’m sorry.” Her eyes wandered around the kitchen until she finally had the strength to meet his gaze. When she looked up at him, his eyes were heavy with a similar burden.

He exhaled gently, closing his notebook. “Look, it’s late.” He reached up and rubbed the bridge of his nose between his index and thumb, shifting his glasses briefly. “We both should get some rest.” 

She mellowed as she observed the vulnerable gesture and decided that the glasses suited him. They were adorable.

Wearily, Peter pushed himself up to a stand, limbs heavy from exhaustion. He stepped out from behind the bar, stopping an arm’s length away from her. Politely, he extended his hand to her.

She looked down at his outstretched, calloused palm, then back up at him. Confused. “Where are we going?” she asked.

“To bed,” he said. As if it were obvious. The most natural thing in the world. 

Her heart fluttered dizzyingly. It irritated her endlessly that she could not determine whether it was from excitement or fear. Her body tensed regardless, hair standing on end. A look of worry darkened her features. “I...uh...” She gulped. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

He tilted his head, disappointed. “It’s sleep. Just sleep.”

“That’s...” She struggled to form words, “No, I don’t know—”

“We can make a wall of pillows if it makes you feel more comfortable,” he teased flippantly.

“I don’t think it’s appropriate for us to sleep with each other,” she declared with resolve. She crossed her arms over her chest, feeling exposed. He read her face, recognizing her discomfort. “Next,” she urgently clarified. “Sleep next to each other. On the same mattress. Especially after...” She let the sentence drop. “Everything.”

Peter sighed gently, “That’s exactly why we should.” She tilted her head, curious and confused. She waited for an explanation. “Look, my Uncle Ben had a rule. When he and my aunt would go at it about something—it wasn’t a lot—but when it happened, he always made sure that they didn’t go to bed angry. No matter how bad it got.”

Honey gazed at him in disbelief. “That’s... what you think this is?”

“I don’t know what this is, Honey,” he replied. “And I don’t think I can figure that out tonight. So let’s sleep on it.”

She shook her head in timid protest. “Peter—”

“Please,” he replied, cutting her off. The vulnerable sincerity shone through his tone. “All I’m asking is for you to sleep next to—” He cut the sentence short, as if he could hear how it sounded and was frustrated. She watched him push his fingers back through his hair, tugging nervously. Brought his hand to his calloused lips, rubbed tiredly. His face told the story of an anxious, needy, touch-starved boy afraid to ask his crush to the prom. 

“I need... I just need...” he struggled to say the right words as his eyes darted in every direction but towards her. Each time he’d open his mouth to speak, he’d slam his jaw shut, losing the nerve. He sighed in defeat, gazing up at her with warm, bourbon eyes. “I don’t think I can sleep,” he said, “without knowing you’re beside me. That-that when I wake up, you’ll still be there.”

There was something tragic in the soft way he spoke that threatened to rip her heart out of her chest. One look at his Bambi eyes and she felt weak. For a woman who’d always doubted that she possessed any maternal instincts, the urge to comfort this man reigned supreme. Forget the fact that he had a beard and was older than her. His vulnerability made her want to let him crawl into her lap like a kitten.

She sighed, and hated being a cat person.

Honey stood on the side of the bed that Peter had delegated to her two nights prior. There wasn’t any communication that affirmed that side of the bed was hers. It just happened. She pulled back his percale cotton covers and slipped her body inside.

It took some adjusting to get used to. She wasn’t used to wearing pants to bed, even if they were technically pajamas. But given the circumstances, Honey didn’t even want to remove her socks, like a Puritan zealot trying to pray the devil away.

And speak of the Devil. She glanced over in his direction right he approached. 

The expanse of Peter’s milky-smooth skin yanked her from her thoughts and made all other brain function falter. Uncontrollably, she ogled him as he distractedly strolled into the bedroom, nonchalant and shirtless. Time slowed enough for her to take a good look. And she was embarrassed by how hungry for the sight she must have seemed.

What she couldn’t see from the back in the shower was on full display. He was ravishing. In sweatpants, no less. Deliciously carved pectorals, abdominals, biceps, and triceps, and suddenly she was an anatomy scholar—all the names for the muscle groups that she failed to remember in biology sprang to mind. 

He had the same light freckling across his chest that she’d spotted on his neck and back. A few hairs on his chest, but the majority of it was located south of his navel, blazing a delectable dark trail beyond where his waistband hung low on his hips. 

A closer inspection revealed discoloration around his ribs—the skin appearing as different shades of pink and white in contrast to his primary tone. Her eyes widened sinfully at the V of his torso. It was like a giant neon sign, and had always been her favorite part of the male physique to stare at. 

Even at that moment, she was gawking. Imagining his torso as a slip-and-slide. His Adonis belt as the ridges of a soft-serve ice cream cone. Her tongue felt heavy in her mouth.

“Thirsty?” 

She snapped out of it, her face blushing red. Back as straight as a board. “What?”

“Sometimes I bring a glass of water to bed,” he explained, conspicuously innocent. “In case my throat gets dry.”

“Nope. No. I’m good.” She was nodding too much. “No dryness here…” The sentence crashed in her throat as she focused on the pattern of the silk duvet.

She could feel the heated smirk emanating from him, like a solar flare on her blushing cheek. “Good,” he muttered in a tone so low it bordered on obscene.

He pulled back his side of the sheets and crawled inside. As his body slid home, she sat up urgently, putting more space in the gap between them.

“Look, I don’t know what you think is going to happen tonight,” she blurted out shakily, “but-but I’m not that kind of girl.”

He raised a brow. “And what kind of girl is that?”

“The... I… I don’t—” Her brain shot forward faster than her mouth could articulate. “’m not … I don’t just—I don’t just sleep with strangers.”

The humor died down his face, sinking behind the horizon of his regret. “Is’at what I am?” he mused in the shadows. There was a matter-of-factness to the statement, punctuated by lament.

Goddamn Bambi eyes. 

She felt a rush of panic. Sympathy. Guilt. More panic. Self-loathing. Panic again. Then, inspiration. “Look, I’m deeply religious and I don’t believe in sex before marriage.” 

Flailing, she clung to the lie like a buoy in the South Pacific. Wincing, she peeked to see his reaction.

Both of his brows raised now. “Is that a proposal?” he grinned. Mischief returning.

“Yes,” she quickly replied. More panic. “I mean no! Not—“ She huffed in frustration, mouth moving uselessly like a goldfish out of water. “I-I-I just... I don’t want you to touch me.” 

Face flushed red, she looked like she’d just ripped off a bandaid. But it once it was done, her voice steadied. “I don’t want to be touched,” she declared, more confidently. Eyes bore into him. “Tell me you understand that. You want me to trust you, then swear to keep your word.”

He hesitated for a moment, sobering as he observed her veracity. His eyes softened. Nodded.

“Promise me, Peter,” she said. “I need you to say it.”

A shadow fell across his face. A memory, perhaps. Something bittersweet.  

“I promise,” he replied. “No touching.” He gazed at her, watching her shoulders relax. There was a twinkle in his amber eyes—a Cheshire smile that didn’t quite reach his lips. “Until you ask me to,” he added.

She fixed him with an incredulous look. His cockyness was breathtaking.

Not that she was focused on his cocki—

“Deal?” he nudged her, recapturing her attention.

She held her gaze for several seconds, measuring the sincerity of his response. With a sigh, she nodded. “Deal.”

A few moments later, Peter turned out the bedside lamp. In the dark, she stared up at the canopy of the four-post bed, trying to steady her pulse. Trying to get what was happening out of her mind. Whatever it was that was happening.

The next morning, she woke up alone again. The room was quiet, and this time, she listened for the shower. Nothing. She used the opportunity to slip away.

Wandering down the hallway and tip-toeing back to her room, she paused at the top of the stairs. The TV was on, voices echoing from the great room below. Curiously, she followed the sound down the stairs until she saw her sorta roommate.

He was hunched over, sitting on the sofa, resting his weight on his elbows. There was a grim look souring his face, and at the same time, his eyes were distant. Like he was somewhere else again. His ankle moved anxiously, causing a bouncing tremor in his knee. He cupped his hands against his mouth, absentmindedly brooding in the glow of the TV screen.

He was fully dressed, wearing pressed dark trousers and a crisp black dress shirt. A slim silver neck tie hung loosely around his neck. Not a lock of hair out of place, as it swooped up into a dark, thick, gelled wave in the front. A tiny curl escaped the crowd. How someone could look so dapper and so... disheveled, was beyond her understanding. It was confusing as much as it was unsettling.

Honey waited at the foot of the stairs, unsure whether or not she should interrupt his—whatever this was. 

“I stopped an armed robbery once,” Peter said to her.

The morose statement jarred her. She paused, eyes wide and blinking away confusion. She hesitated long enough to question whether he was addressing her. Wearily, he looked up at her, confirming his intent.

When she found his eyes, they were darkened with tragedy. Bleary. Red-rimmed. It was a contrast from the confident, flirty man she saw the night before. Gently, he patted the seat beside him, beckoning her to sit.

Nervously, she urged herself forward. Sitting next to him, she had the strange sensation of joining an awkwardly-tense family discussion, in front of TV dinners over an episode of Jeopardy! 

Instead of a game show, Peter had been watching New York’s local morning newscast on mute. She was grateful, because having a TV on in the background had always been troublesome for her. She frequently found herself distracted, disoriented, and unable to distinguish each voice from one another. It made those awkward evening discussions much more tense—what are you, deaf? I asked you what you did in school today!

Idly, she glanced at the screen to see reporters mouthing silent words about a Nor'easter approaching. Powerball numbers scrolled across the bottom of the screen. Up next, footage of an early morning fire in the Bronx, and coverage of a press conference the Mayor gave last night.

“I know it’s probably hard to believe,” Peter began ruefully, pulling her back to the present, “‘specially seein’ me now. Like this.” 

He gestured to himself and around the room at the fancy house, as if they were the same thing. The spite in his voice piqued her focus.

“You probably look at me and think I’m some rich asshole, but it wasn’t always like this,” he explained softly. Honey thought of disagreeing, but he wasn’t waiting on a reply. “My parents died when I was little. And no one ever plans to die young, y’know? So when they left my aunt and uncle were it. The only family I had.” A crease formed in her brow. She was confused as to why he was telling her this, but she listened attentively. 

“We got along fine most of the time,” he continued. He sounded like he was recounting a fairy tale with a sad ending. “My aunt got sick when I was in junior high. Breast cancer. She fought it off, though. Into remission. She was always a fighter.” A bittersweet smile melted his lips. “Downright scary when she wanted to be.” The smile faded, as did the visage of whatever it was he was remembering. “Anyway, medical bills are a bitch. So this—now... Is, uh...more than I ever had growin’ up. But they tried. So hard. To make sure I had what I needed.”

He pursed his lips, lost in thought. She was unsure of what to say next, or whether or not she should say anything. Should she congratulate him on his financial success? Something like ‘I’m sure they’d be proud of you if they could see you now’ seemed in poor taste.

“I could be a real prick sometimes,” Peter recounted, dejected and regretful. She saw the faintest tremor reach his lip. He bit down to steady it. “When I was 17, I got into this big fight with my Uncle Ben. I was, um... goin’ through some stuff. Changes, I guess. I was supposed to be somewhere and I wasn’t. He got pissed. I got pissed. I end up stormin’ off. Even broke the front door on my way out.” He sighed, relieving the memory with each word. “I had to get outta there. Needed to blow off some steam, I guess. Didn’t even know where I was goin’. I stopped into a bodega, to get somethin’ to drink. And then this guy walks into the store and pulls a gun.”

His voice quivered, describing the odd twist of fate. “I see ‘em put the gun in this guy’s face, demand the money in the register. It’s like everything was moving slow. I couldn’t move. I just stood there.” Peter swallowed hard, and Honey followed the lump in his throat. “He takes off,” he continued delicately, “and then it hits me. I can’t let him get away.” Another deep breath. “So I go after him, chase him down this alley. He’s trying to get to a car waiting outside. But I catch up with him, bring him down first. The car speeds off. I look up, just a moment. I see the driver. His partner. He locks eyes with me. And he knows. I got ‘em.”

He described it carefully, with a sweet sense of victory attached. Seeing his eyes light up caused Honey’s heart to swell. It materialized as a smile on her face.

“By the time the cops get there, their job is pretty much done, right?” he laughed softly. “Bad guy’s tied up with an old clothesline. I got the money back. Handed it over. I tell ‘em everything I saw, figured that they’d handle it because it was their job.” He stopped suddenly, his voice growing thin. He swallowed hard. The pain in his eyes made it seem like he was swallowing glass. 

“When Uncle Ben found out what I did— I… I’ll never forget that look on his face. He tells me I did a good thing. Calls me a hero.” Honey spotted the first signs of overwhelming emotion threatening to break him down. A light glimmered from the rim of his eyes. “That was the last conversation I had with him,” he declared, gravely. 

Her brow dipped down, not expecting the sudden turn. “Went home,” he recounted. “Went to bed early.” He drew a shaky breath. “Next thing I know, bullets start flyin’. Guns goin’ off all over. Hundreds. Rapid fire. AKs.”

Eyes wide and entranced, she listened.

“I took a bullet to the thigh,” he explained, “but I don’t even remember it. All I could think about was my aunt and uncle. Gettin’ to them—”

The sentence cut off with a strangled noise. A weak, final breath before the darkness settled in. Peter looked decades older. Eyes staring blindly, haunted by horrible memories. “I found them on the floor in the kitchen. Arms wrapped around each other. Blood all over. So many bullets hit my uncle, I… I couldn’t recognize his face. He didn’t have one anymore. He’d tried to protect May, he was covering her body, but… didn’t matter. You never forget what a gun like that does to a human body.”

Honey was holding her breath unintentionally. Her skin crawled as she imagined what younger Peter must have gone through. 

Taking a shaky breath, he continued. “Cops show up not long after. Didn’t even have to call ‘em.” The pools in his eyes grew deeper. “I told them what happened. They didn’t believe me. Said I couldn’t have heard that many shots fired at once. They kept trying to change my story around. That’s when I realized those bullets weren’t meant for my aunt and uncle. They were meant for me.”

He practically spat out the phrase, a bitter taste left behind. The corners of his mouth pointed downward, ire in his words. “You see, the guy I caught was a little fish. He worked for someone bigger. And the cops were in on it. They told me I didn’t hear that many shots because those could only come from an automatic weapon. Police-issued.”

A breath caught in her throat as she understood his meaning. He pressed on, self-loathing in every word, “The second I ratted out their guy, my family was as good as dead.” He swallowed hard, almost unable to finish the sentence. “That’s when I realized that everything I knew was a lie.”

She tilted her head in confusion and he looked directly at her. “The good guys versus bad guys story is all a sham,” he explained, spitefully, “because no one is ever truly good. There’re monsters everywhere. All over.” She noticed the nausea overtaking his expression, like he was describing a roach infestation, and not the state of the world. “They’re in the streets. In the law. In the banks. They even hold office. Right all the way to the very top.” She grew more unsettled as she listened to his bitter summarization of humanity. “Corruption is the game. All the players are evil. Everyone else is just collateral damage.”

The coldness of his voice stunned her, chilling her. She pulled back her gaze, confused as to where this was all coming from. It’s like he could read her mind. 

“I know you think I ruined your life,” he explained. “That I destroyed everything. But bad shit happens to everyone, regardless of whether they deserve it.” He paused for a moment, and she noticed the glimmer in his eye return. He bit down on his jaw hard, in an effort to hold back. “Everyone that ever loved me is dead. Did they deserve that? Did I?” His words went over her like a dagger to the heart. She pitied him, even if she couldn’t understand where this was coming from.

“You asked me what my biggest regret was,” he explained. She recalled their earlier conversation and the question that was left unanswered. “It’s the night I tried to do the right thing, and I lost everything for it.” 

Her heart twisted as he said it. She was in awe of the bitter, broken man beside her. He’d lost so many things and isolated himself so completely, it’s a wonder that he was still alive. 

“That’s how I ended up on the other side of the law,” he preached from an invisible pulpit. “From this side, I have a clear view. People show me who they really are.” Reflexively, she shook her head, but stopped immediately. She didn’t have any evidence to support her argument.

“I can see now that the only way to fight fire is with fire,” he added, his voice growing stronger. More resolved. “So i'm all in with everything I got. Soon I’m gonna rain down hellfire like it’s the Fourth of July And when the smoke clears, the man who hurt your friends will be dead.” His voice echoed as he said it, as if she could hear bells in accordance, proclaiming his glory. “That's my promise to you, Honey. Whatever it takes, I’m gonna burn it all down.”

Peter’s eyes left her face and focused on the television. “I’m gonna make him pay,” he said darkly. He took the remote and turned up the volume. 

The sound of the Mayor’s voice cut in, stretching the limit of her focus. She struggled to ignore it, trying to process what Peter had just said, but the volume was turned up too high. It was footage from an earlier press conference.

She watched as the stocky man stood behind a podium at City Hall with a dozen microphones fixed at his mouth. He towered against the backdrop of the American flag, his deep voice bellowing, “The crime element that poisons this beautiful city is out of control. Abhorrent acts of violence, like those perpetrated against those women in Midtown this week, will not go unpunished.”

Her eyes lit up, recognizing who he was talking about. 

“I’m committing to working closely with local law enforcement, and will not stop until the animals responsible for these horrible crimes are brought to justice,” he proclaimed. “Whatever that looks like.” 

Against a valiant array of uniformed police officers and banners of patriotism, it seem like more of a joke than it actually was. Another politician’s promise to be forgotten after a few weeks. 

Except that it didn’t feel funny. There was nothing remotely humorous about the tone.

Perhaps it was the tension in the room sitting with Peter that gave her pause. She felt something ominous building. Something threatening. Like crawling through brush and hearing the slithering rattle of a snake.

“Whatever it takes,” the man on TV declared. “I will restore law and order to this city.”

She heard a slow exhale release from the man beside her. She glanced over at Peter to see his eyes narrowed into slits. Intense. Focused. Possessed.

Honey blinked at him, and looked back at the Mayor of New York, dread filling her. 

He wasn’t…? Wait, was he talking about— 

“Are you talking about him?” she asked, trepidation filing her voice. Her eyes went wide. “Are you talking about Mayor Fisk?”

Peter’s jaw twitched. He kept his eyes glued to the screen. “We don’t say that name,” he muttered with a look of pure loathing. 

A chill came over her as the pieces connected. The name he had spoken the night of her kidnapping. Wilson Fisk.

“To me, he’s the Kingpin.” Peter looked her dead in the eye, aflame with righteous fervor. “And I’m gonna kill ‘em.”

Continue to Part 8

a/n hee heee heeeeeee

i'm excited for what's next. are you??? thank you for reblogging! if you want to be tagged in future chapters, you must reblog. (it's the only way I can keep up)

[limbusdove]

One specific hc i brewed up in my sweet lil head . Wuthering Don, being Isabella, and aroace Wuthering Ishmael with undying love for her mistress, the one she sees as her little sister

Ishmael remembers vividly the day she was tending to the manor's garden, until she hears pained whimpers coming from the gates. As she reaches the place, she sees the mistress, knees and hands filled to the brim with wounds and scratches, sobbing as she's sat down on the grass. Her custom-tailored beautiful dress stained with dirt. Oh, the mistress was so troublesome and reckless, like a young child. The butler kneels down, pulling a roll of bandages out of her bag to patch the young mistress' wounds. "What on earth were you doing to have these kind of injuries, mistress?" She says gently, a hint of worriedness on her voice. "I was trying to climb high into the end of our fence gates, but... I have failed..." The mistress responds between sobs as she stretches out her hands to be bandaged. With care, Ishmael leads Don back into the manor, slowly and gently so she doesn't bring her too much pain. "Ah, so many thanks to you, dear Ishmael... Papa and Mama are barely around to watch me, and Gregor always refuses my pleas to play.... You are my true saviour, hear ye!" The mistress says, a big, wide smile on her face, as if she never cried one day in her life, even if she was bawling mere moments ago. This was when Ishmael wishes she could have been there when Don tried climbing up the gates, so she didn't injure herself. She wishes she could make sure the mistress never hurts again. This was when Ishmael realizes. She loved the mistress. More than anything, more than anyone- The mistress, one to cause so much trouble, brought warmth so pure, her laugh was so infectious, it felt like they were daughters of the same mother, connected to one another, tailor-made to care for one another - Ishmael would tend to the mistress' troubles, and Don would bring joy to the butler's life. When the young mistress passed, for the first time in her life, Ishmael didn't feel like doing her chores. As required, she did them, but with no love, no care, no laughter from her dear mistress, there was no reason for her to do her job as passionately as she did before. There was no passion, as the mistress wouldn't see it. She managed to heal over time, but the warmth of Don's laughter, and the memory of patching up her wounds, had a deep, undying place in her heart, like an older sister weeps as she's separated from her younger sister.

[pandorascripts]

Absent

pairing: poison ivy x reader

warnings: mediocre angst, proofread once.

note: wrote this at like twelve last night. I just need to get something out lmao. I’m going to start writing a bit more DC stuff until I get get my spark back. Currently writing another Ivy fic based on the comic, Harleen.

———

The door creaks as you slowly open it, peeking in. Pamela’s mixing green and purple liquids, mumbling to herself as they bubble and ooze. 

“Hey, what are you doing? It’s, like, three am,” you say. 

“I’ll be up soon, just need to do a couple more things.” 

You frown, never knowing Pamela to not look you in the eye when she’s speaking. 

“Alright.” You turn to head out, leaving her to her work. “Love you.”

“Yeah.”

You close the door, swallowing harshly. This is ridiculous, it’s been going on for months now. The neglect, the off-handed responses to meaningful statements, and it hurts. It hurts so much, and you swear to God you can feel your heart shattering. 

You blink a coup times, rubbing at them. 

 Why are you crying? She’s got more important things than you, you know that.

You walk up the wooden steps, but stop short. You’re way too tired to climb up another flight just to get to your room. Curling up on a way-too-short step, you let yourself weep. 

The step above you digs into your shoulder every time you let out a sob, but you don’t adjust. The pain somehow grounds you, keeping you from actually bawling your eyes out. Your hand sits in your mouth, stifling what should have been louder cries. You don’t care about the bite marks that will be there tomorrow. 

Pamela didn’t come up to bed that night, not did she bother to put you in an actual room. 

You’re thinking about leaving, ditching Pamela in the night. You cant go on like this, but you’re way too worried to confront her about her behavior. She’ll just put you off, gaslight you and tell you you’re just being dramatic. 

You want her to notice your bruised hand, you want her to notice your puffy eyes the next morning, you want her notice your pain. 

She doesn’t. 

She ignores you all day again, sitting in her lab and talking to her plants. You know she loves those things more than you, she used to tell you that she loved you more. It’s a lie. It always has been. 

You open the door to her lab again, forgetting to knock. 

The creak of the door must’ve thrown her off, because the next thing you know Pamela’s cursing and yelling. Things are spilling over her desk, papers are soaked and burning. 

“Pam! Oh my God! I’m so—“

“Get out!” she yells, pulling her hair as she finally faces you. “GO!”

You close the door with a slam, mortified. Pamela’s never yelled at you before. She knows you hate it, you hate arguing and screaming, she knows what your past was, and she promised to never yell. It was a mutual agreement, and even when you both made each other upset, it didn’t last long. You’d both apologize and talk about it, get over what was causing bumps and come out stronger. You didn’t know if you’d make it out of this one. 

You can still her Pamela yelling, things smashing against the door your head is lain on. 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, and after that, the only noise you hear is her yelling and your own tears hitting the floor. 

Your knees give out and you slide against bumpy and splintered wood. Your face is soaking, tears painting an ugly portrait on your face. 

As your sobbing against the door, the only thing you can think of is leaving. And right now, it seems like the smart thing to do. 

You don’t bother Pam for the next week, you leave her to be in the greenhouse, actively skirting around her when she leaves for her lab. You don’t like being like this— awkward strangers. For God’s sake, you’ve been dating for five years, you know her inside and out. But she feels different, unstable. It scares you, mortifies you. You don’t know what she’s capable when she’s like this, and you don’t know if you want to find out. 

The letter you write is long, it takes up two full pages of paper, and your handwriting is neat. The only thing screwing it up are the copious amounts of wet spots, which smear the ink. You place the note on her side of the nightstand, and start grabbing essentials. You take everything you can think of, everything that seems important. 

You don’t realize your crying until your vision is completely blurry, but still, you push onwards. You grab a couple sweaters and a couple pairs of jeans. You don’t fold them, instead slamming them into a suitcase as you zip it up. 

“What are you doing?”

Everything stops. Your hand, the loud zipper, your breathing, even your tears don’t flow anymore. It’s like everyone’s waiting, waiting and waiting for Pamela to understand. You take in a shaky breath, finishing the zipper. “Leaving.” 

You don’t turn to face her, instead you pretend to do more with the suitcase, checking empty pockets and extra compartments. You hear her footsteps getting closer and closer and closer, her hand rests on your shoulder. You still don’t face her, you can’t. The moment you look at her you’re screwed, you’ll melt into her and fall into the same pattern. It cant happen. 

“Stop. Please.”

Another hand rests on your other shoulder, slowly turning you around. Pamela looks so heartbroken, and you let out a sob. It’s useless to fight her, you can’t, you’ve never been good at sticking up for yourself. She tucks your head into her shoulder, apologizing from some stupid thing that doesn’t even matter. Pamela cant even figure out what she was doing wrong, she’s reaching, apologizing for yelling, as if the months of emotional neglect aren’t a problem. 

“I’m so tired, Pam.”

You know she’d be crying if wasn’t stopping herself, the last thing either of you wants is you to be covered in bubbling blisters. 

“I’m sorry.”

You don’t bother trying to correct her, to tell her that you miss her. How could you? She’s always there, she’s never not fifteen feet away from you. You cant miss her. But still, you do. 

“I miss you,” you cry out, repeating it over and over again. 

“Hey, hey, hey, I’m right here, okay? I’m right here.” Her voice is soothing, lulling you into hopeful security. It isn’t until your eyes are drooping shut, you’re breathing heavy and loud, that you realize what she’s doing. 

You don’t know what time it is, how long you’ve slept, or where you are, but it doesn’t matter, because the familiar scent of spring wraps around you like a blanket, and you sigh. Everything feels right, a sense of calm eases you, and you really can’t remember what you were so upset about last night. 

“Morning,” Pamela whispers. 

You feel her hand slide up to your shoulder and her chin softly pressing into your head. This is right, everything is okay. 

You mumble back an obscured “G’morning” and bury yourself deeper into her. 

Her chest shakes as she laughs lightly, and you grumble in protest from the movement. 

“Can we just stay here?” you ask, threading your hand in her hair as you do so. 

“I wish, but we’ve got plans, darling.”

You grumble, clearing annoyed. “Yeah but this is so much better.”

Pamela starts playing with your hair, careful not to tangle it. You feel happy at this, happy that she remembers how bad your bed head is. 

“It is.”

“So we can stay here?”

Pamela starts laughing again, her chin rubbing against your head as she shakes her own. “No.”

“Plans, shlamsh! We don’t need to go anywhere.”

“I suppose we don’t need to, but we should. Selina and Harley are waiting on us, though.”

“They’ll entertain each other just fine without us.”

A moment of silence passes through the two of you, each taking in the thought of those two alone together. 

“Yeah we need to leave.”

“Oh God, why did I tell them to wait for us?” Pamela asks, you don’t need to see her face to know she’s mortified. 

“Selina’s probably at Harley’s throat about now. You told her not to bring those mutts right?”

No response. 

“Right?”

“No…. I figured it would be common sense!”

“Harley doesn’t have common sense! She has Harley sense! She probably brought Bud and Lou!”

“We really need to leave, darling.”

Pamela’s up and out of the bed, dressed in a green blouse and black shorts before you even know it. You get up too, looking to the end of the bed. Frowning, you unzip the suitcase. 

“I-I’m sorry, Pam. I don’t know what I was thinking last night. It was stupid, really.”

Pamela closes the suitcase, handing you a sweater of hers and a pair of leggings. 

“It’s my fault, I shouldn’t have yelled.”

You nod your head, still taking the blame. Pamela smiles, giving you a kiss on the cheek. 

The first kiss you’ve gotten from her in months. 

[mimikyvvnz]

nevermind he forgot about mme CRIES

i think my boyfriend is dead

[itsdrawingmen]

Run your hands through my hair

'Cause I'm the child that's so defiled,

Cleanse me, wash me upside down,

Turning, and turning, and turning, and turning

To keep it from hollowing out,

'Cause I'm the

Ruiner,

Ruiner,

Ruiner,

Ruiner,

that's not good enough, that's not good enough

that's not good enough, that's not, that's

‘You’ll have to deliver a message to your higher-ups. Will you do that for me?’

Zen’s breath hitches, his shaky, weak, disobedient arms try to fight — in vain. Then comes a click, then cold steel against his forehead.

‘There, there.’

A hand under his jaw, so mockingly gentle. Then it grabs, painful pressure where his teeth are clenched behind his cheeks — they unclench past his will, and horror pools in his abdomen.

A thick, calloused thumb between his lips, between his teeth.

‘Don’t you dare bite.’

The steel is warming up against his forehead, and he’s too terrified to even try to look up at it.

His breath is short, shallow, he can’t get in enough air in the premonition of what’s to come. Little, stifled gurgles escape his throat past his will — he sounds so helpless. There’s a laugh above him. He doesn’t look up. His stare is locked in front of him — he squeezes his eyes shut, but his eyelids are transparent, and he’s forced to look, forced to see. Another little gurgle — almost pleading, is he pleading? Pleading with this entity, this thing between his teeth, against his forehead?

He draws a sharp, shaky inhale. The wait is scarier. The sound of metal against metal — zipper. He wants to look away. He cannot.

The hand squeezes his jaw, presses on the joint, forces it loose.

Zen tries to stifle the sound, but it slips out, a squeak, almost a sob.

Then the thumb escapes his mouth, replaced immediately with — something else.

The smell is overwhelming, making it even harder to breathe. 

The hand is on the back of his head now.

If he bites down…

The steel is warm against his forehead.

‘Good boy.’

And then he lunges, he rips through disgusting flesh, he climbs the wet skeleton up to his freedom, clawing at meat, screaming, screaming, screaming —

‘Zen-ie!’

Everything is gone, and as he opens his eyes, everything comes back: himself, sitting up on the soft bed, his wet, sweaty back, his hair, clinging to his face, his sore throat, dread like nausea in the pit of his stomach.

A voice.

A pair of warm hands.

‘Zen-ie…’

He turns his head, he focuses.

He registers his own breath — shallow, wheezing, erratic.

He registers the face: big eyes, different, mismatched; thick eyebrows; small upturned nose; the worried line of the lips.

Moles like stars.

He registers his own wet cheeks.

A hand reaches to his face — he catches it. It’s soft, warm, it rests in his. Nails cut too short, little healing scratches.

Yoosung.

‘Zen-ie, it’s okay.’

His voice: soft, quiet. Alarmed.

His flat.

His lover.

His fortress, his nest, his haven.

It’s okay.

Zen releases his hand. His shoulders are suddenly heavy. His fists clench involuntarily. He curls up, presses the heels of his palms into his eyes — and he cries, he weeps, he bawls, not even holding back ragged, wretched sobs.

There’s a little shuffling by his side, then an arm wraps around him, a hand squeezes his shoulder. Something presses into his hair.

A kiss.

His kiss.

‘It’s okay. I’m here. I’m with you.’

The tender hands are softly pulling him in, closer.

‘Come here. Come. It’s me.’

Yes, fuck, it’s him. Yoosungie. It's his Yoosungie.

His lifeline.

His love.

Giving in to the gentle nudge, Zen unravels — his nose buries into the warm shoulder, his arms wrap around the small frame before him, he grasps so tightly, like a drowning man grasps at a straw.

He feels the grasp in response. An arm wraps around his head, covering him.

‘It’s okay. It’s all okay. I’m here.’

Zen sobs into his shoulder, letting a stifled wail escape.

He doesn’t know.

He wants him to know.

This is getting so big within him. It’s getting impossible to carry alone. Before, he would hate his own guts for daring to think this way.

He knows better now.

He cries into Yoosung, cradles him, strokes his back.

Grateful.

One of these days, he’s going to let him know. He’s going to show him this: disgusting, humiliating, painful. He’s going to show him himself: defiled, robbed, dirty, — and weak, so weak.

Zen nuzzles into the crook of Yoosung’s neck, breathing him in, breathing his comfort, his safety.

He can trust him with this.

That much he knows.

[cels-not-so-secret-love-affair]

future ghosts (pandora, evan, barty)

a/n: learning how to write these guys! for this one i’ve got pandora in a sort of cassandra-esque sitch - her “episodes”, as barty calls them, are moments where she’s attacked with visions of the future, of her friends meeting their untimely deaths. but she’s unable to speak about them, and so cannot warn people. thus ensues angst!

‘Evan!’

Barty rockets down the stairs two at a time, dark hair bouncing wildly as he legs it into the common room. His entrance causes a bit of a stir, and a few curious heads turn away from their conversations or look up from their chess boards to see what all the fuss is about. Evan, however, has not noticed him. Or rather, is pretending not to have noticed him. Barty swears under his breath - ‘stupid fucking bastard’ - and marches across the room to grab his elbow. Evan glares at him, tries to writhe out of his hold. But the grip just gets tighter, and he’s hauled viciously away from his book and off up the stairs to their dormitory. Barty only stops them when they’re just before the door.

‘Listen, I know we’re fighting, and we can go right back to it immediately after this, or if you want I’ll blow you so you feel better. But right now I need you to ignore all that and help me. It’s Pandora - she’s had another one of those fucking episodes, a proper bad one. Everything I do seems to make it worse, but… you’re her brother, you know? Just do something, Rosier. She’s not in a good way.’ Evan’s pale gaze takes in Barty’s eyes, flecked with concern, and then his hands, fidgeting helplessly at his sides. He takes a deep breath, swallows thickly, and nods.

‘Let me in.’

The room is shadowy in the evening light. His eyes take a few seconds to adjust, and for a moment he can’t even see her, only hear her. Hoarse, heaving sobs, halfway between weeping and vomiting echoing from the corner of the room. They sound wet and deathly, like they’d be more at home in a hospital ward for the gravely ill than in the body of a teenage girl. It’s disgusting. Then she comes into focus, and it’s worse than he imagined. Her frail frame is sprawled out on the floor on the far side of the room, limbs strangely limp. Her ribs surge sporadically as she cries, and it seems as though with each new wave of gasping breath they come closer to cracking. Horrified, he rushes to his knees beside her, searching for some way to help. If only he could see her face, he thinks, maybe she would… maybe she would notice him. Come back to him from the horrors she keeps housed in her head. He tries to turn her over, and ends up with her awkwardly cradled in his arms. It doesn’t really have the effect he’s hoping for. As soon as she registers his face, she starts bawling even more fiercely, obviously distressed. Her mouth opens and closes as if she’s trying to scream something at him, but her vocal cords aren’t cooperating and the sound that should be crawling its way out of her throat is entirely absent. It’s just hiccups, and choking on her own saliva, and anguish. Evan’s at a loss. He tries to content himself with holding her, tries to comfort her like he imagines he ought to. He leans his head numbly against the cold, harsh reality of the wall and waits desperately for his sister to be okay again.

Somewhere along the line, Barty comes to sit with them too. He looks about as terrified as Evan feels, but he does sit with them. And so it’s just the three of them. Well, just the two of them really - Pandora’s not properly there, not yet. But she does start to calm, after a while, very slowly. Her eyes begin to lose their faraway look and her body seems more her own, less like it’s being tortured by some cruel, ghostly puppeteer. Evan’s arms start to ache, so he moves her as gently as he can manage and props her up so that she’s sitting more independently, with just the wall and his side keeping her body upright. He makes eye contact with Barty over her head, and inhales shakily.

‘Do you know what started it?’, he asks. His voice is weaker than he wants it to be.

‘Haven’t got a clue. I came up here to… well, to avoid you, and she was just here. I think she could feel it coming on, or something, and I guess she didn’t know where else to go.’

‘Did she say anything?’

‘She told me she was sorry. She said… she said she was very sorry, for what I don’t know, and then she collapsed.’

The silence swoops back into the room icily after that. Pandora, now seeming much more aware of her surroundings, pulls her knees towards her chest hurriedly like she’s feeling the cold. Barty’s eyes flick over to her immediately. Then his gaze fixates on her fingertips, which are scanning across her face, searching for something to pick at. Wordlessly, he gets up and crosses to his bedside table. There he finds a ballpoint pen, a muggle one. He returns with it, sits back down beside Pandora, and offers it to her. She blinks slowly at him. Carefully, he takes her hand and wraps her fingers around the barrel, before sticking out his right forearm. Realisation dawns across her face. Humming to herself, she grips the pen with more conviction, and begins to draw spiralling patterns on the pale canvas of his skin. Barty smiles.

‘Hello again.’