#I'm getting a better grasp of light and shadow i think

[dawntheduckrb]

I drafted this on the wrong blog and I can't go back and change it, so here's some early doodles from church

Posts resuming on my main on next Thursday (tentative plan) :D finals are almost over!

[heeseung64]

BAD HABIT

your best friend jay knows everything to do with you. your sleep schedule, hobbies, habits - and above all- he knows how to make you feel better.

bestfriend to lovers enha jay x fem reader. long (not proofread). reader is a cleanfreak! jay is in deep love, mental breakdown, angst to fluff to smut. | inspired by this one gojo fic on ao3 i cant remember its name but it was crazy af

"Pick up next time. Or maybe I will stop finding you." A wheeze of huffs and catching of breaths add fog to the air around you. The patter of rain stopped drumming at your crown from an umbrella shaded upon your shadow. You look up and see the look of concern grow on Jay as the light finds your face.

You were crouched upon the kerb, tears streaming down your rosy cheeks in the summer night. You don't spend your nights like this at all, in some random street crying, but today- the day where everything didn't turn out right? the day where you spot your betraying ex across the street- reminiscent of your worse days, the day you spill your coffee, the day you get told off for not doing things right; the day you start to feel the world has no longer any means for you to be here.

you decided that the kerb upon the side of the river's bridge was where the universe wanted your peace.

but of course, Jay had other plans. ㅡmore under the cut ♡。

He watches your pink nose and wet hair collide with his chest as you grapple him for a hug. You croak, contradicting your actions with your words, "You didn't need to find me."

"But I always end up finding you anyway." He scoffs, hesitantly stroking your back with his thumb, scared you'll hear his heart quickly thump for too long. It wasn't long til he dragged you into his car, the fan on blast in attempt to keep you dry. He watched silently in his peripherals as you tried to claw onto your skin, hearing you mumble how dirty and unclean you were.

Everyone knew you liked to stay clean, to them it felt like it was your way of keeping routine.

But Jay knew cleaning yourself was how you breathed life. He knew if you didn't apply your favourite scents, or if you didn't scrub til you bled- your whole year would be over. There were so many occasions where he knew you were crying over the smallest fact that you didn't apply your favourite lotion. Your ex didn't even know that you had a favourite lotion, but Jay had extra in his bathroom just for you.

You didn't think of it too much, you've done so much together with him and yet you lived both of your lives away from each other- having relationships to had relationships, complaining about school work to now college complaints, hearing about family gossip and being in each other's milestones. It wasn't weird for him to always be at yours and vice versa either. Jay was always there, and yet, why haven't you noticed?

"We're almost home." Jay whispered at the red light, pulling your arm away to make you stop scratching yourself. He holds your hand and grasps it close to his thigh as he continues to drive. Home? you wonder as you try to stop picking at your skin. Your memories can't even bring up the first time Jay called your place home, it's like he always said it. The spare key is always paired with his keys to his own place- and you call his home too.

"Home?" you breathe out, a rare word amongst the plethora of remarks against your own thoughts.

"Yes, silly. Home." He chuckles, making no more of your confusion. "I'm silly?" You pout at his mockery as he turns into your driveway, opening your door to yank you out. "Very." His breath ricochets on your neck as he takes out your seatbelt for you.

Since when was Jay so handsy? You thought to yourself. Jay was always an act over say man, but were you guys always this close? Not even any of your friends got this close. You turn away as heat rushes to your cheeks, yet it was still unhidden, caught by his eyes.

"Do you have a fever?" He asks, only for you to push away his hand that was going to touch your forehead. "N-no." you say, "Just filthy." You go back again, taking yourself inside with Jay.

You felt his stern look since the moment he saw you huddled up like a lost puppy on the side of the road. This time felt weirder, with his jaw tightening at every time you scratch, and his eyes narrowing every time you sniffle. It's like it was hurting him too, but you always believed it's because he was sick of you. This night, you knew he was mad. But it didn't stop him from doing what he does best.

"Sit there. I'll start the bath." You were instructed by the stern man who made you sit on a towel on your bathroom floor. He knew you didn't want to dirty your bed with the clothes you wore, and you didn't want to dirty your floor either. He rummaged through your closet, taking your intimates and your favourite set of pyjamas ready for you, placing them on the bed.

"I can do this mys-" "And if I lose you in the process?" He stops to look at you, softening his eyes as he kneels towards you, "Let me take care of you."

You didn't even get time to respond as he gently pulls you up, undoing your buttons and brushing your hair to the side. "If you're uncomfy, just say the word." He stops, holding your shoulders as he reads your face for an answer.

All you could do was look at his lips, glistening under the white light. Speechless at his service, waiting for him to utter another word out of his sweet lips. "Jay.." was all you could fathom. He watched as your eyes practically kissed his face with the way you stared back, yet he stood his ground, silently waiting for you (like all this time) to give him your consent.

You help undress yourself as a response to Jay, making him clear his throat, pulling himself back to the present.

He looks away as you take off your last pieces of clothing, taking your dirty clothes away from your sight. He leaves you for a second and you capture the mess in the mirror, causing tears to spill over the rim of your eyes and your breaths to be shaky. "Jongseong.." You call out his full name in times of trouble, and he hears your whimper, coming out to hush you and wipe your tears.

"I'm so ugly and dirty!" You cry out, only for Jay to shush you, squishing your cheeks. "You're beautiful." He says, touching the bare skin of your shoulders, gesturing you into the shower as he starts it, hot. Just how you like it.

"Can you stay with me please?" Your shaky voice echoes across the bathroom. Jay chuckles as he unbuttons a few of his from his white long sleeve, rolling it up to his elbows as he compiles all your favourite soaps and scrubs. "What happened to "I can do this myself"?" He asks you over the sound of the pouring shower.

"Because.. I'm silly." You blurt, crying out again. The shower door opens again, this time with Jay lathering all sorts of your favourite things on your bare back, with all the perfect ratios you put on yourself too. Vanilla bean and small jasmine musk, coffee bean.. Hints of flora.. The sweet salt.. and honey. It's all expensive, but they were all gifts from him, every one of them, and it made you content.

Jay admits he'd never wanted to eat you if you were dessert, but in the spur of things he blurts, practically confessing. "They say you know when a pretty girl walks into the room." He starts, as he massages patterns on your back, water dripping and staining his corporate uniform, decorating his belt and dress pants.

"You can smell her goodness before you see her." Jay says that as he looks into your eyes, soap running down your bare skin and neck. You blush, turning away as you palm your hair with shampoo. "That's bullshit." You chuckle, scrubbing at your scalp as Jay moves his way to your waist.

"Look at you. I don't think that's bullshit to me."

You stop your tracks as he continues to scrub away at your waist, gently working his way up and down and around your intimate areas, telling you that you can clean them yourself, but he insists on scrubbing everything else. His fingers are foamed as he massages your legs, mentally screaming and silently mumbling at how you should let him take care of you more. He moves up again, catching your eyes.

"Jay.." You start, done with your hair, watching his hands falter and reach for your face. "Mm?" He replies, drunk by your scent and the image of your body.

"Did you ever do this to your ex girlfriend?" You blurt, causing Jay to pause, furrowing his brows. He gestures you to step out as you dip into the bath.

"No," He bluntly responds, "Not at all." He says, unbuttoning the rest of his buttons, before going completely shirtless.

"Y/n." He calls your name, easily forgetting your question. And you gently look up to him from the bathtub, "May I join you?" He kneels against the bathtub, caressing your warm skin as the petals from your favourite salts pour over the giant pool.

You freeze at his eyes, need and determination written all over it, the facade has been broken, and you read him ever so clear now. To the service, the questions and the blatant confession, you realise how badly you loved each other. As if knowing and living in each other's presence wasn't enough, this man had asked if he could bathe in it.

"Please." You whisper, reminding him of the days when you were in high school, where your pride would only falter when he was around, and the first time you said please was the first time Jay offered you a ride home, ironically a day where you were found on a kerb again.

"Wait for me, pretty." He cooes, showing his vulnerability to you. He undresses himself, belt hanging on the door knob and his pants folded over the basket, glad that he was always here enough to have spare clothes. He showers, fog and steaming covering himself, but not his torso, to which you remember was the same toned figure you always manage to catch yourself staring at. He watches you intently fron the distant bathtub, softly scrubbing your arms as you wait for him quietly.

You blushed, tearing your eyes away swiftly as he comes out, bare. He chuckles at your reaction as he steps in, sitting right opposite from you. You turn away, still sniffling from all your little cries, and pink from this current situation.

"Silly. You've seen me before, why are you so shy?" He whispers, a bit of his deeper voice seeping out as you scoot away.

"Seeing each other naked isn't normal.." You seep out, and he sighs. "It really isn't." He responds, waiting for you to catch his hint. "You're the one who wanted me here." He teases, hands coming up to poke your cheek.

"I didn't ask for you to find me. Why did you?" You try to change the subject, but it prevails. "Bad habit of mine. I like chasing after you." He casually replies, grabbing a soft sponge before handing it to you. "My back." He gestures turning away as you begin to go over his back.

"All these years of chasing after me, when you could've said one of the sentences you told me in the shower and I would've folded?" You chuckle, tracing the lines on his back. You hear him chuckle, turning around. "When you had boys lined up trying to date you? I didn't believe I was the perfect match."

"What makes you think you are now?" You tease, to which Jay's eyebrows knot. He comes closer to you, wading against the foamy water, reaching your sides as he pulls himself closer to face you.

"I know I am. You know that." He smiles the same confident smile, and your eyes couldn't help but trail down to his lips again.

Jay sees your eyes forming constellations with his features, and he doesn't hesitate to bring your face close with his hands, gently pulling you to taste your lips for the first time.

You go limp at his touch, hands reaching up to rest on his chest as he holds your nape, kissing your lips like he's unable to drink for tomorrow. You don't stop either, eventually throwing yourself on him.

The still waters eventually rock, swaying as you both erupt out of heat, hands still connected to each other's bodies as you begin to dry each other.

"I love you." You blurt, towels covering the both of you up. "Stay the night, please." You plead into his ear on your tippy toes, kissing his jaw as he watches you slightly pout.

He leans back covering his hardened member from looking at you, clearing his throat as his ears redden. This was his last straw. Can't you get it already? Jay needs you. He always wanted to be by your side, forever. And now that you confessed? He's not going away, not ever.

"I wasn't planning on leaving you, princess." He maintains eye contact with you as needily grabs your sides, tugging you to your main bedroom, the dimly lit lamp caressing the tone of his body as he hovers over your body- sprawled and bare under his eyes.

"What makes you think you are now?" Jay repeats your question, "What a stupid thing to say." He scoffs, parting your hair behind your ear. He leans into your face kissing the sides of your lips. "You're just as stupid for not showing me." You scoff back, and he raises a brow. "What do you want me to show?" He asks, suggestive of his actions. You couldn't bear to drag your eyes up to his face, distracted by whats touching your core so forcefully. Jay notices this, and lifts your chin up to face him. "Answer me, y/n." Just with his voice, the call of your name was enough to pool warmth between your legs, in the stretch of everything, your scent is clouding his mind. You're hazed by his image, and in doing so, you reach to hold his face, tugging it to bring your lips to his ear.

"Show me how much you've been wanting me." you plead.

It was enough- more than enough actually. He couldn't help but smash his lips onto yours after hearing it, tangling his slender fingers around your hair. "I'm afraid I might make you all dirty if I do." He whispers, biting your ear as you shamelessly moan under him, mewling and squirming under his confinement.

"I don't care. I want you." You beg, tears spilling over his member grinding on you and your thighs, you're so full of wetness you couldn't even build your walls of pride anymore. You find his eyes narrow at your words, smirking as he uses his hands to roam down your torso, groping your breasts.

He cups them, maintaining eye contact as he peppers his kisses down to meet your breasts perked just for him- and you moan, impatient. Jay kisses them, twirling his thumb on your nipples as he groans at your reactions, wanting to hear more. "You want me so bad hm?" He groans as he moves down, groping your sides, tracing your curves. "You smell so sweet to me, princess." He says while looking at your entrance, so swole and pink, "I've been waiting to know if you taste just as good." He confesses, placing a finger on your fold, tickling you as you squirm under his touch.

He gathers two fingers to play with your wetness, his cold digits warming up inside you, and he can't help but gape at your glistening pinkness, adding his thumb to swirl your clit around as he reaches down to kiss you again. "Fuck." He groans, pain from the hardness of cock throbbing as he watches you go undone by just the touch of his hand. "Just two fingers and you're going crazy, are you going to be okay, my princess?" He calls you princess again, another nickname he always called you- but this time, the nature of it unfolds, and he treats you so unconditionally with his fingers, lapping and folding in you as you can't help but moan out his name. "Just like that?" He asks, his palm being covered in your slick as you furiously nod, tears seeping out of the corners of your eyes and your nails digging into his forearm thats shaking on you. "Please.. Jay.. I want your-" He shushes you, kissing your neck as he moans. "You can't fit me if I don't play with you like this baby."

You pout, feeling him swirling in you and the sound of his breath rivalling yours as he fucks you with his fingers. You're frustrated, getting hushed every time you feel a climax approach, only to be stopped and kissed sloppy, the slapping of your thighs and juices from his messy movements echoed, with occasional spit decorating your body. Jay was needy, and you were full of his desire, forgetting how bad your day was, forgetting how clean you are.

"Please!" You beg this time, pushing him off, making him under you as you sit on him, your folds practically grinding against his shaft as you place your hands on his chest, kissing his neck vigorously. You grind on him as he watches you do it, sucking on his finger, raising a brow as he moans. "Taste s'good." He breathes, ragged, raw. Unhinged. "Fuck. Where did you learn this?" He asks, eyes fierce, full of intent. Jay genuinely wanted to know. Jealousy was growing in his pants, and his hands that were digging onto your folded thighs that cradled him were showing it well.

"Where did you learn how to fuck too?" You comeback at his words, and he groans groping you as you straddle him. "I should've been the first. I should've been your first. You should've been mine." He mewls, kneading at your skin. "I am now." You reply, getting off of him, stroking his shaft with slick and wetness lapping bubbles between your fingers. You bend down, kissing his girth, your body churning at his size.

"Fuck." Was all he could breathe, watching your eyes follow his as all you continued to do was please him, teasing him. "You taste so good." You blurt, licking his tip as it pops out of your mouth. In return, he tugs you, placing you on your back again. "Enough." He starts, "Let me fuck you right." He growls, holding your legs apart as he kisses your neck again, distracting you from the stretch beneath you.

You gasp, clawing on his back as all he could do was smile. "See?" He teases, starting slow to make sure you don't get hurt. "Jongseong.." You whimper again, making him slow down, peppering you with kisses as he gently places his thumb over your clit again to make you moan. "Shh," He hushes you, "How do you feel baby?" He whispers, and in your reply you moan his name. That was enough to know he had you.

"Shit." He curses, finding it hard not to cum so early. His dream, true and unfolding in front of him, and the noises were exactly as he always imagined. He couldn't slow down either because you kept moaning, so he fucks you hard, rough. Your voice was broken by now, overpowered by the slapping of each other's skin and the erotica of the room. "Princess, I'm so close," Jay starts, his abs contracting hard in front of you and his chest heaving as he holds your legs together, kissing them as he continues to shove himself.

"Cumming-" Was all you could say, pointing to your own hole as he lets you know of his release. He brings up the pace, pressing your legs down on you as he fucks his length deeper into you. "Fuck I'm gonna cum-" He yelps, and you moan, feeling his hips falter, stopping inside of you as he releases it all.

You hold your breath as he does, heaving out as he gets himself off, cum dripping out. He sloppily tries to stick it back in, kissing your thighs and intertwining your fingers with his as he mumbles sweet words to you.

"Baby, I feel so filthy right now.." You mumble, pouting at the mess on the sheets, not to mention the marks on each other's bodies. "But you'd look so hot like this all the time." He blurts, earning a playful slap from you.

"I'll clean you up princess, don't worry." He smiles, "Just let me enjoy you while you're dirty." He teased, planting a kiss on your forehead, caressing your sides and massaging your legs as he pulls you close, hearts beating in sync. "I love you." He chokes on his words, and you kiss his lips, reciprocating his statement; "I love you too."

[yandere-yearnings]

*zombie noise* uuurghhhh.. Titties.. Man titties.. My sickness can only be cured if I am able to suck on some man titties 🧟‍♀️

AUUUGgGgGg My aching hands can only be remedied with a dose of squeezing chesticles various times a day 💀💀

nonnie the way i got war flashbacks reading the word chesticles😭💔 i believe this was in reference to this ask so today it's sun's turn to be reduced to an absolute mess🥰 i'm sorry this took so long to get to btw and also that the writing is largely shit, dar has not been vv good at this lately😔

NSFW under the cut!

“You’re being forward,” Sun laughed, bright-eyed, “hard day?”

“Very.” You stressed, leaning into him, finding solace in the softness of his shirt. His calves brushed against your lower back, drawing you between his thighs.

Sun's hands flicked up, fingers pressing to your scalp and massaging gently. Tenderly, to the shell of your ear, he hummed, “anything I can do to make it better?” 

Blinking at his innocent question, you couldn’t help but grin. Your arms stretched to either side of him, caging him all the more across the counter he was sitting on. “I can think of a few,” you whispered, revelling in the little exhale you received in response, “namely…”

“Y/N.”

“These.” You groped his chest with a happy tilt to your head. “They’re there for a reason, right?”

Sun groaned, curling into you to hide his obvious blush. “Not for you to… play with…”

“Why not?” you teased, feeling your neck heat from where he rested against it. “You didn’t have a problem with it last night. You begged me to touch them more actually, don't you remember? Crying so prettily, saying-”

“That’s enough!” He covered your mouth, pushing you slightly with a shaky grip on your shoulder. Red-faced and refusing to meet your gaze, Sun was the perfect picture of adorable. “If it’ll make you feel better, you know-” he paused, getting quieter, “you know I’m yours so… do whatever. Please, just stop embarrassing me.”

“Me? Embarrassing you?” You gasped, ever playful and swooping in to nip his cheek. “I would never.”

“Y/N,” Sun said again, this time whining, “you’re literally doing it right now!” He swatted at you lightly, but your energy was not lost on him, not in the giggle that preceded your pinning him down.

“Well, hello there,” you mumbled, attention completely focused on the expanse of skin exposed to you now that his top had ridden up.

Sun kicked you, half-hearted. “Don’t talk to it.”

“Sorry.” The both of you knew you weren’t sorry at all. Your thumb had already found its home, kissing into the flesh layered above his sternum, tracing the shadows cast.

Sun arched into it, and suddenly, every move you made became weighted.

Muscle beneath fat, driving your digits in until there was no more give, clawing, kneading, feeling his pulse soar — kisses trapped within his ribs that you knew his heart desperately wanted to send your way. How could you call yourself his lover if you didn’t reciprocate?

Saliva dripped, and your tongue followed, laving into cushioned tissue. You could get addicted to the taste of him, to the gasp and coil that brought you even closer. “Does it feel good, baby?” you mouthed around his nipple, relishing in his shiver.

“Good, so good,” Sun whined, breathless, writhing. “Don’t stop.”

“Who’s being forward now?” your teeth sank in, nothing akin to a light bite. “You can’t be giving me mixed signals like this Sun, you were so shy earlier…”

“Sorry,” he cried, “I’m sorry. I’ll be good for you. Please.”

Tears on his lashline when you pulled away. Your palms squeezed his pecs, let the pressure run down his entire body when they trailed to grasp his hips. Sun bit his lips to muffle his sounds, and you undid them with your own. “Tell me then,” you coaxed, “what do you want?”

“Bed.”

“Okay.” You caressed his face, and his turning to nuzzle into it was all you needed to forget about the stress you’d been feeling prior. "Bed," you repeated. "Bed sounds good.”

[patscorner]

PROLOGUE: HIT

pairings: paige x oc

contains: angst

word count: 686

a/n: let's try another shot at this series thing... here we go

JUNE 2020

I dribble the ball between my legs before taking a step back and shooting the ball. It's almost midnight, and the thunder claps should've kept me in bed, but it seems like the last thing I can do is sleep. It's been three weeks.

Azzi already got her acceptance letter to Uconn. We'd applied at the same time, yet hers came almost a month ago, and I'm sitting here empty-handed.

What if they denied me? What if they just forgot to send it, and I don't find out until I'm in the middle of Texas? Sure, it's not common for colleges to scout one school and find what they're looking for. But with us, I feel like they could. It's always been us two- Azzi and I- and even Paige, and although Paige and I aren't speaking, I don't think I'm ready to let that go yet.

I don’t think I’ll ever be ready to let that go.

But here I am, letting them slip through my fingers. Letting her slip from my grasp.

How did I get here? How’d it get like this? It seems like these past few months have been nothing but loss, love, and the bittersweet taste of change.

I’m a great basketball player, I know that. But if any coach was scouting me right now, they’d cross me off the list immediately. The way the basketball clangs off the backboard once more causes me to groan in frustration, throwing my head back. I chase after it, positioning myself at what would be the wing.

Basketball is a mindless game. Something I do well without even thinking about it. The movement of the ball, the way it bounces off the court, the way my wrist flicks when it leaves my hands, the swish of it passing through the net, whatever; the motions are fluid. Subconscious, even. Something I can do with my eyes closed without a second thought. But right now, I'm thinking about everything, including her. And as though I'd summoned her…

“Dude, it's midnight, what the fuck are you doing?” a groggy voice calls. I flinch at the unexpected presence, and turn around to see Paige. She's got her hair down, the blonde locs frizzy from her sleeping position.

The house lights illuminate her hair, the yellowish glow casting a shadow on the cement. Her red plaid pajama pants hang dangerously low on her waist, her Nike Pro boxers peeking above the cotton material. She's wearing a Uconn hoodie because, of course, she is.

I roll my eyes. “Just throwing shots up.” I say, holding the ball on my hip. I could practically hear her eyes roll. “No, no, I can see that, I just mean, why? It's literally about to rain.”

“Why do you care? Why don't you go back to sleep?” I huff, shooting the ball up again.

She scoffs. “I'd actually love to. In fact, I couldn't think of anything better to do-” I wince as the ball bounces off the rim again. “-but when all I can hear is a fucking ball bouncing, it's kinda hard to enjoy slumber.”

I roll my eyes. “Whatever, I'll be done soon.” I mutter as the ball bounces towards her, internally sighing as she picks it up. I hold my hands out, motioning for her to give it to me. She doesn't.

“Why can't you sleep?” She asked, her voice sounding genuinely concerned. That's the thing. She's pretty fucking good at that.

I sigh. “Can I just get the ball, bro.” She can't make anything fucking easy.

She smirks. “Nah. Not ‘till you tell me why you're playing basketball in the middle of the night when it's about to storm.” I groan.

Don't let her in again.

“Nevermind, I'm tired anyway. Court's yours, asshole.” I say, shoving past her and stomping into the house.

There's nothing more I've wanted to do than break down in her arms and tell her everything that I'm thinking, and have her hold me and tell me everything's gonna be okay.

But I've already done that.

And I'm not making that mistake again.

=======================

taglist: @wintersstan @bueckerrss @lilia22hicks @fake-intelligences @girlokwhatever @pbloverr @breeloveschris-deactivated20240 @cosmopretty @hellokittyfeenie @averagelobotomyenjoyer @elliewilliamsthang @chelisbae @angelscovee @st4rrzynight

[yiiyiiwrites]

🗡️ | Relics and Ruin | 2 |

Part Two [Previous part] [series masterlist]

Summary: you're a mender in the dawn court, tasked with fixing cursed and broken relics. Azriel x dawn court reader 2,546words

Two days of staring at the truth-teller and it kept repeating the same word. Lies.

The dagger rattled on the table, your older sister pacing the free space in front of you. If you didn't know any better you'd think the relic wasn't fond of her hurried speech or tone either.

"Mother above," she snapped, her hand steadying the truth-teller. "You can't even talk about it, yet you're going down there with those people."

"I think they're more than capable to go there," you said swatting her away from the table.

Truth truth, the murmurs somehow reassuring your fears. You wondered what other energy surrounded the dagger, the thought pulling you to pick it up. The hilt warm against your skin, surprisingly light and it moulded to the curve of your palm as if it were meant to be.

Your sisters words were muffled, the sharp blade drawing your attention. The hold it had on you, intense. A dull twinge pierced your chest and you recognised the aching tug of longing. You'd felt it under the mountain, the burning desire to feel the sun upon your face and breeze washing over you.

A gloved hand circled your wrist and you gasped, truth-teller clinking to the table. Blinking back the blurry vision, shadows swarmed around you, the wind tracing your cheek. The hold on your wrist acted like an anchor, firm but light as you calmed your racing heart.

"Hello," a low, smooth voice spoke beside you. If there wasn't a weight clutching you, you'd think it was the shadows speaking.

Just like the truth-teller, it's owner seemed to tug and draw you in. His touch oddly welcome and familiar, it had been years since you'd allowed someone so close. You stared up at him, hazel eyes focused on your sister.

You slipped out of his grasp and stepped back, your hand shooing the wisps of darkness. Of course he'd look at your sister, so much light and love.

Lies, lies.

The difference was startling as Lena, your sister stood in the golden light of the sun. Her bronzed skin held a warmth you denied yourself, keeping yourself in your studio. Hair that reminded you of rising sun, long and swishing halfway down her back. You on the other hand had chopped your hair off as soon as you were free from under the mountain.

As Lena spoke to the Illyrian, you took the opportunity to study him. He's quiet, but his gaze focused on Lena's as he listened to her rambling on. His gloved hands tucked behind him, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as if he knows you are admiring him.

He didn't say a word to your sister, but she's leaning closer and smiling up at him as if he's inviting her. Maybe that's why you feel a pull towards him, he's magnetic and drawing anyone in.

Lies, Lies.

Lena placed her palm on his arm, "I'm sorry, I didn't get your name." She'd been weaving through the court, denying her hand in marriage until she either met her mate or someone with high nobility.

You couldn't help but feel the burn, brows furrowing at your sister and the smooth action, something you'd never dare to do.

"Azriel," he said, stepping back and bowing his head slightly.

His gaze met yours and you looked away, finger following the woods grain of the table. The relics hoarding your studio were quiet, truth-teller the only one seeking your energy. The silence all too consuming, your thoughts flowing freely. Multiple energies were dulled since the dagger had been left in your possession, commanding you to face your mind or maybe your own truths.

Bidding your goodbyes to your sister, eyes trailing after her to make sure she left. As you turned back to your desk, you flinched away from the shadows. You hadn't realised how close he was, didn't hear him approach your workstation.

"What are you doing here?" You asked, regretting the harsh tone of your voice.

Azriel picked up his dagger, turning the blade over and inspecting it. His shadows snaked around his gloved hand and to the scripture on the hilt as if reading it aloud. "Just wanted to see if you'd familiarised yourself with the energy."

Lies,lies.

He tensed, wings twitching briefly, but you caught it. Could the truth-teller speak to him too? Truth, truth

"You lie." The words tumbling from your lips before you could stop them.

His brow arched, "so you have familiarised yourself. Truth-teller rarely calls or speaks to others, you must be special." You didn't say how his energy matched, how you felt the same tug to him. A reason you couldn't hold his gaze, didn't want to get lost in the possibilities of your emotions.

You shrugged, "I'm not, just merely open to an objects energy and have a well trained ear to seek them out." The one advantage of rotting under the mountain meant you could hone your mending abilities, not that you had any choice. Fifty years tethered to cursed objects and magical relics, haunted by touch alone.

"And what do the other relics tell you right now?" Azriel asked, once again distracting you from your thoughts and memories.

The energy you used to seek comfort in was nothing but a withering buzz. Even the cursed relics usual shrieking, underwhelming. “Truth-teller calls above them all, draws me in as if it’s the only thing that matters.”

Two sides of the same blade.

The boundary of the dawn court and the beginning of the middle was somewhere you vowed never to step over again. You glanced over your shoulder at the rising sun, as if you’d never see it again for another fifty years.

Your body moved on memory alone, legs carrying you through the large stones entrance hidden beneath the weaving branches of trees. All source of natural light vanished as you stepped over the threshold. Your boots squelched in the trickling water that ran down the caves wall.

A small ball of light floated in front of you, but you were the one guiding them through the maze of passageways. Your head tilted to the side, pointed ears straining to hear of anything beyond your path.

Under the mountain was a place no one had mapped out completely. This entrance however led to the least desirable section. Not intricately carved out like the main area or the throne room. Granted, you’d never been out of this quarter, only three times had you walked the narrow passageways. You’d always remember though, your memory being something you trained as well as your mending skills.

No one had uttered a single word, afraid to hear your voice echoing back to you or summoning something from the depths of the darkness.

As you rounded the corner, your steps faltered. The familiar dingy hallway, doors lining each side. It felt just like before, the deep rooted knot in your stomach twisting. You expected to be shoved forward, but a light touch pressed against your lower back and you leant into the warmth.

“Rhys will go in if you cannot face it.” Azriels whispered breath fanned against the shell of your ear. You’d gone over the plan with them over a hundred times, each time Azriel had reassured you that you were not alone. That you did not have to do anything you were not comfortable with.

You shook your head, retreating from his touch and away from the warmth. Seven doors down, you stopped outside and glanced to the one opposite, the one that still haunted you at night.

“This is the relic room, I will check the other.” Your hand hovered over the broken chain, the ward spelled over the wooden panel zapping your fingertip. Thesan had warded the room so that no one could steal the relics, Rhys learnt how to break and remake it from entering his mind.

Rhys nodded, “we’ll meet back out here, try to keep it quiet. Don’t want to wake anything lurking,” he said, his magic making easy work of dropping the ward. The energy of the spell fell like a sheet of liquid gold, particles disappearing into the gravel.

Halfway through the door opposite you paused, “oh, stick to the shadows and if you hear screaming do not follow the light. Stay in the darkness and do nothing.”

The floating light whizzed past you into the room, it followed your gaze and lit up the areas you searched. You took the gloves from your pocket and shoved them on, the one thing they never allowed you under the mountain.

Touch meant more to menders than any other fae. It being both creation and destruction. Normal fae were more inclined to destroy something they did not understand, whereas you studied and mended. Just couldn’t mend all the destruction they’d done to you.

You tried not to remember this room, the contents still exactly how it had been when you’d last been there. The bed unmade, desk strewn with papers and his messy cursive writing. He’d always have ink staining the side of his fingers, sometimes it’d transfer to your jaw or cheek.

“This was your room?” Azriel asked, sifting through the papers on the desk. His hazel eyes glistening in the dull light as he glanced to you.

Those eyes, you couldn’t quite hold for longer than second. “No, this is someone else’s.” You dropped to your knees and pressed your cheek to the ground, arm sweeping underneath the bed. A small silver box scraped towards you, lock sealed shut.

You didn’t miss the scrunch of Azriel’s brow or the burning gaze that trailed your movements. It’s like he’s in a trance, that or he’s trying to figure you out in a room that isn’t, wasn’t yours. You removed your gloves, the leather too stiff, the constant squeak unbearable in the silence.

He sidestepped you as soon as your hands traced the side of the desk and opened the drawer. Vials of ink rolled to the front, a set of keys jingling on a metal ring. You took the keys, knowing what each one was for.

“I have what I need, let’s go to the relic room,” you said, glancing over your shoulder one last time before you leave the room for good.

Azriel’s hand hovered behind you, but you can feel the warmth and energy alone without his touch. It calms your racing heart and gives you the strength to the meet the relics again.

Cassian’s gaze flicked from the box in your grasp and to Azriel who remained close to you. Rhys staring at the hoards of relics, eyes glazed as he tried to listen for the murmurs of the desired object.

Dark wisps tumbled over your shoulder and twisted around one another as they travelled towards a glimmering spec of light. You would have missed it, if it wasn't for the pesky shadows whirling around the hilt.

The moment your gaze latched onto the relic, a high screech tore through the room and you dropped the box, silver slipping through your fingers. You heard the echo of voices, they merged with the swords energy as if they were connected.

"We've got company."

Azriel spoke, but as you turned to look at him you were met with nothing but shadows. Rhys vanished in a blink of an eye, Cassian crossing the space between you. He balanced a small dagger, blade between his fingers waiting for you to take it. You shook your head and picked the small silver box from the floor.

You grabbed his wrist, "stay in the shadows, don't go to the light." The lock clicked open with the turn of the key, you hesitated with the clasp, steadying your breath for what was to come.

Before you could open the box, Azriel's heavy hand slammed into yours keeping the lid closed. "Together," he said, giving you a slight nod, keeping his promise of not doing anything alone. His shadows swarmed around the two of you, those Illyrian wings curling in as you opened the lid.

You did not know, nor did you ask what spirit lived within the box. Only knew that when you closed it again, you would summon it back to its dwelling it was contained to.

A grey mist snaked out of the top and dove towards the remaining light through the gap between Azriel's wings. The hair on the back of your neck stood up, goosebumps rippling your bare arms. An icy cool breeze hung in the spirits wake, but it seemed to drag Azriel's shadows with it.

The darkness cloaking Azriel and you faded, his grasp on your hand loosening. "Go, help your friends," you whispered. You don't know what possessed you, but your finger smoothed the line of tension settled on his forehead. Blue ink stained his forehead, your fingertips painted the same colour.

"Autumn guards are here, the darkness devours them," he said, more to himself than you. The screams in the passageway filtered through to the relics room, high pitched shrieks tugging at Azriel like his shadows were trying to draw him out to the destruction.

He moved as quick as the shadows, the floating ball of light flaring in front of you. You saw the darkness shift, felt the breeze knock you back a few steps.

Stumbling back, you crashed into a firm chest. Scorching heat enveloped around you, burning touch forcing your hands to close the lid before the spirit devoured your light. You leant into the embrace, eye's closing as you savoured the thousand sparks of energy spreading like wildfire through your body.

"Do not touch her," Cassian spat.

You opened your eyes, the three Illyrian's scowling at the one behind you. The one you knew so well, the one that knew you too well. He let go and you turned to face him.

"Vanserra," you whispered. Eris Vanserra smirked down at you, his hand picking yours up. Ink smudging his fingers, he glanced between your stained hands and the blue smeared across Azriel's forehead.

"It's good to see you," Eris crooned, lifting your chin with his ink splotched hand. "My little mender."

You hated the way your body betrayed you, the mark on your chest burning at his silent command. The tethered bond coaxing you to lean into his touch, despite the stinging burn. You couldn't bring yourself to look at the shadow-singer or his friends, but you knew from his silence that whatever he thought of you before, was nothing now. Why did it bother you so much though?

Before your lips could touch Eris's, he'd winnowed you away in a blur.

taglist: @rcarbo1, @st4r-girl-official,@azrielswhore, @cynthiesjmxazrielslover, @shizukestar, @wolfbc97

I'm already writing the next part, sorry for the long wait between the first part...I was sick so only just getting back to writing now -Yiiyii

[mandowifey]

What kind of father figure behaviours would Miguel have?? I’m thinking protective af

Oh boy oh boy oh boy BUCKLE UP.

Father!Miguel O'Hara Headcannons

Warnings: ANGST, SO MUCH ANGST, Mentions of child loss, death, violence, this is canon Miguel, reader can give birth but is not gendered. Mentions of trauma, depression, bad brain times. He's a broken man, yknow?

× × ×

First and foremost, Miguel is scared.

This is a man who had lost it all twice. He had watched his child die. He had lapsed so terribly into himself that he was able to rationalize stepping into another man's life and pretending to be him. He isn't right minded, he's broken and hurting.

All that self blame and doubt chokes him sometimes.

He hurts, constantly.

When you tell him you're pregnant, everything goes still. Fatherhood is something that had always been just outside of his grasp, and now it was here right in front of him. He doesn't fill with light, or smile and laugh, but he does look at you like he's seeing a ghost. There is fear in his eyes, not of you or the baby, but himself.

Because what if he fucks this up again?

Miguel can not stand the idea of opening himself to that pain. He already shoulders that guilt every day, rewatching videos of himself with his daughter. Can he even find room in his heart for another child? He almost feels like it is a betrayal, that he was never a good man to begin with if he were so willing to move on.

When your face drops and your eyes brim with tears, he pulls out of it.

One of Miguel's best abilities is being strong for others. He can be what you need right now, and he will.

Cue the absolute nightmare of expecting his child.

Aside from you being sick, Miguel worries, constantly.

The man can hardly focus on his work. He always asks one of the doctors to go check on you or have you in contact with him. Just because you're pregnant doesn't mean the multiverse loses its importance. But god is he distracted.

"Have you been eating enough?"

"Taking your vitamins?"

"How much water have you had?"

It'd be cute if you didn't know better.

You know how much he has lost and you know that he is petrified of losing you both too. Not to mention you are certain he feels undeserving of another chance, especially after destroying an innocent alternate universe.

The way he looks at you tells you everything; he thinks you are made of glass. Something fragile that could break any moment. While you try to assure him that isn't the case, he still worries.

Once you start showing, it's over.

He is constantly caressing your stomach, holding you close, breathing you in. He thinks you smell so good pregnant. Miguel loves to feel your belly, cooing to you about how good you look carrying his child. You don't doubt for a second he loves you.

Miguel is protective, most assuredly. When you want to go walking around the base or go grab snacks he is on you like a shadow. Always watching, always protecting. He makes sure the other spider folk don't bump you, and offers to carry you when you mention your feet swelling.

God, he'd love to feed you. Checking on you constantly if you're hungry, offering to run and grab any cravings you ask for.

When you get further along, he likes to talk to the baby. Speaking in Spanish occasionally but mostly asking if they are giving you trouble.

"They are gonna have my attitude, I know it."

Oh boy, when the baby comes?

Ohhhh boy.

First off it is a way bigger deal than it has to be.

That man would be in the middle of a job and get a ring on his watch.

"JESS, I GOTTA GO."

And she looks at him in time to watch him clawing back into a portal.

Him running full speed, throwing himself against walls and scratching down them to get to your room faster.

His mask withdrawing to show messy hair and wide brown eyes, coming to your side and taking your hand.

"I'm here, Im here." As he kisses into your damp hair.

You get to surprise him, twice.

He didn't know the sex, and didn't know you were having two.

When he see's his daughters for the first time, his eyes leak. The smile on his face stretches miles, his arms open as he cradles them into him. Oh he'd be melting.

You'd never seen him cry, but that day he does.

He's so proud of you, telling you how well you did and how much he loves you.

"Okay Miguel, gotta let me hold one." You laugh.

He's inseparable from you. Looking at those babies with such love and surprise, unable to believe that he was a father, again.

When you fall asleep with the girls tucked in your arms, he stays up and pets your hair.

And he promises himself that this time it will be different.

Your babies would be HELLA protected.

Good god, he is like a hawk with those girls.

Always watching, always making sure they were safe. He'd have eyes on them constantly.

Miguel is a good man at heart, and now he wants to make things right. He'd dedicate as much time to your family as possible, asking Jessica to stand in for him as often as possible (until she herself has her child).

He'd want to teach them to be like him. One of your daughters can stick to walls, and the other has tiny claws like he does. You enjoy lounging on the couch while he climbs the walls with the girls giggling after him.

Your family is beautiful, blissful. He protects all three of you.

And while sometimes you have to hold him at night and assure him that its okay to move on, he knows he's doing his best. He wraps you in his arms and looks at the baby monitor screen, watching the girls sleep. He begins to doze as you pet his hair, assuring him they were just fine.

Miguel would fall asleep against you, head tucked in your neck and strong arms locked around you.

And he would believe it was okay to forgive himself.

[dira333]

To come home - Kageyama x Reader

for @writingsofanomnivore - Haikyuu Taglist: @lees-chaotic-brain

Coming home is both the best and the worst part of your day.

There's no free seat left and your feet ache from the shoes you thought were cute in the morning. You're tired in a way no coffee can appease but you still have to get through half an hour train ride before you're remotely close to your bed.

Your phone vibrates in your pocket and you pull it out, stress lifting just from the sight of the message.

Because coming home also means coming home to him.

It's not that hard to find him in the crowds, the last drops of evening sun caught in the shadows of his dark hair. His eyes are closed and you'd assume he's falling asleep standing up if you didn't know better.

"Hey," you link your arm with his and lean into him, "I'm here."

Ever since Hinata introduced him to it, Tobio has been trying to meditate. So far with limited success.

"Hey," he presses a kiss to your lips. "Welcome back."

"How was your day?" You ask, hand in his as you cross the street. There's a Konbini not far from your shared apartment and you listen to his recollection of today's training as you fill your basket with fresh produce.

"Blueberries?" You ask, holding up a box. He nods, loading his arms with milk, cheese, and some yogurt. "Buy two," he says, "You'll probably eat one on your own. Anyway, while I was practicing my jump serve, Hoshiumi-"

Arms heavy with groceries you make the short trek down the street and up the stairs to your apartment. It's your turn now to tell him about your day and you're in the middle of explaining something when one box of Blueberries slips from your grasp.

You can see it fall, dread the moment it will hit the ground and catapult its content everywhere but Tobio is a little faster and picks it out of the air like he's receiving in a match.

"That was close," you gasp but he snorts, clearly insulted by your lack of faith. "I'm sorry," you lean in to kiss him again, your hands still occupied, "You're my hero."

-

Coming home with him is still your favorite thing in the world. You love coming home earlier and getting everything ready, surprising him with his favorite meal ready to eat and seeing his eyes light up on the doorstep. You love coming home to him, hair damp from a shower, his figure drowning in the comfiest clothes he owns, the one and only meal he's perfected making bubbling on the stove.

But coming home with him just hits differently.

How you giggle in the doorway, somehow always in the way of the other person, stumbling over and around each other, pressing kisses to every speck of skin you can reach just to annoy, distract, confuse.

Tobio loves playing Tetris with the Fridge and you don't mind getting started with Dinner, inspiration overflowing after you've spent picking out ingredients at the store. There's the chitchat that flows into each recipe, the jokes he remembers from last week or how you suddenly remember that Yachi invited you over for the weekend and you still need a present to bring along.

Tired feet stretched out under the table when Dinner is finally ready and the satisfied hum at the back of your throat when it's exactly the thing you'd been craving all day.

-

"What are you doing?" Tobio asks, towel in his hands. He finished doing the dishes while you freshened up a little and grabbed your Tablet on the way back.

"I wanted to do some online shopping."

"What are we in for today?" He slips onto the couch, curls around you like the world's cuddliest snake, chin hooked over your shoulder. "You didn't buy the shoes you picked out last week."

"Yes, because I told myself if I didn't think of them again on my own I'd take them out of the cart. Now you made me think of them."

"Oh," he grins, "So I get to buy them for you?"

"No, I get to buy them for myself."

"But I wanna spoil you," he tries to grab the Tablet from your grasp but you've learned to defend yourself against Tobio's bouts of generosity. It's not that you don't like it when he does it, but he's yet to learn a healthy balance. And sometimes, you don't really wanna buy the stuff you put in your cart, you just want to look at cool things and put them away for later consideration.

"Not those shoes," you beg, "Let me find some other ones."

"Fine," he eventually relents, huffing as if this is a great sacrifice for him. Not that he falls silent, though. He's got an opinion on everything.

"They're too brown. Ugh, not brown enough. What even is that strap? Trying to strangle your ankles or what? No... This dress reminds me of Hinata in our orange jerseys, that's not the connection I wanna make. Oooooh, this one!" He interrupts your scrolling and taps the screen violently, opening another tab.

"The dress, the purse or the jewelry?" You ask, a little confused. It's a nice fit, you suppose, but you're not sure what he's getting at.

"Neither. She's wearing a hat and you need one for the summer. You always get sunburn on your ears."

-

There's a certain type of coziness that can only be reached when you're ready for bed, curled up in the comfort of clean sheets, waiting for your partner to step out of the bathroom.

You can hear Tobio brush his teeth and just the sound of it, so well-known you could probably pick him out of hundreds of others, lets you relax just a little bit more.

By the time he slips into bed with you, your eyes are already closed and you manage little more than a "Love you T-" before you slip away.

-

Tobio drops a kiss on your forehead, checks if you're really asleep by snipping his fingers next to your ear, and when he's satisfied with the results, picks your Tablet from your bedside table. The password is the day you two got together so he doesn't need long to find what you had been looking for not long ago.

He might not be the smartest guy in the world, but at least he knows what he's getting you next...

[kissofthemis]

hello!! i saw request of reader saving nxx boys from people flirting/harassing them so i was thinking could you write about the opposite? id love to see nxx boys being protective^_^ love your writing!!

Thank you for the kind words, anon! Sorry for the wait!

❤️ Artem ❤️

"Yes, I have plans tonight. Yeah, tomorrow night as well. I'm a rather busy person, honestly...."

Despite your best efforts to deflect the stranger's attempts at flirting, clearly "no" was a hard concept for this pushy person to grasp. Artem could not blame you for not wanting to be direct; you were kind and courteous, never wanting to offend others or hurt their feelings if you could avoid it.

But this arrogant persistence was a force to be reckoned with.

"My phone number? To schedule something later? Ah..."

Artem Wing could hardly call himself a champion of justice if he allowed someone so conceited and disrespectful to be victorious here.

"Are you ready to head home?"

You seemed a bit startled as Artem appeared beside you, but the relief in your eyes was evident. "Y-yes. I just finished up for the day."

Artem nodded briskly. "Excellent. I took out chicken this morning, and I was wondering if you'd rather have it grilled or breaded & stir-fried. We can discuss in the car."

He gave a quick glance to the stranger who'd been pestering you, who had become strangely silent once Artem had shown up. The look in the attorney's eyes was collected and calm, but sharp with an iciness that could freeze one to the bone.

"Have a good evening."

More indirect than his usual style, but intense enough to get the point across.

~♡~♡~♡~♡~

💛 Luke 💛

"I'm in a hurry, I'm sorry."

"Can't even give me your number? Just your number, for when you aren't busy?"

"I... I'm running late...."

The discomfort in your voice was evident as Luke turned the corner to pick you up after work. Evidently he should have chosen a better spot to meet up, because this corner was swarming with pushy, insensitive animals.

"Swarming" may not have been the correct term, but just one scumbag harassing you was one too many in Luke's eyes.

"You're so cold." What a pitiful whine. "Would it kill you to smile and be friendly?"

"You want a smile, huh?"

Luke pulled up to your side at that moment, and he firmly placed his hand on your shoulder as he stared the harasser down. "You're not much to smile at, hotshot, but I'll do my best."

"Who the hell are you, kid? Get lost."

Agitation. A natural response when a greedy predator comes face to face with a rival.

But Luke had no qualms about knocking a small fry down a peg or two.

The corners of his mouth turned upward into a smirk, and he stretched his lips into a wide, toothy grin. At least, his face read "grin," but the light in his smile did not reach his eyes, which only swarmed with smoking fury and threatening shadow, like a stormcloud about to burst.

Perhaps it was the unsettling, cocky grin that made this fool step back. Perhaps it was the bloodlust in Raven's gaze. In any event, a loud curse was the only word of farewell before the nuisance turned and headed off. Luke felt as though he were watching a small dog stomp off with its tail between its legs.

"L-Luke..." you began cautiously. The brunet turned to you curiously, his eyes now sparkling and his mouth set in a lopsided, well-meaning smile. At the sudden change in demeanor, you couldn't help but let out a loq chuckle. "You're going to give someone a heart attack one of these days, you big guard dog."

~♡~♡~♡~♡~

💜 Marius 💜

Backed against a wall.

This wasn't the first time someone had inquired into your relationship with the Marius von Hagen, president of Pax, but...

"Good morning! Meeting Mr. von Hagen? How does he take his coffee? Would you answer a couple of que--"

You slammed the door in the paparazzi's face. Never in your wildest dreams could you have imagined that getting caught on one outing with Marius would result in nosy reporters coming to your home!

With a sigh you slid down against the front door, landing in an unceremonious heap on the floor. How were you supposed to leave today? Or any day? You had errands to run, tasks to do, bills to pay, and you really, really wanted to check out the craft fair at Central Plaza this weekend!

A soft buzzing in your pocket distracted you temporarily from your growing worries.

"See you in 10."

What? Marius was on his way here? Wouldn't that cause even more problems?

You didn't get a chance to assemble your thoughts before a low rumble began to vibrate in your ears and make your entire body shake.

"Go on! Get out of here! You're a public nuisance, and I've got a fantastic attorney! Isn't a guy allowed to have friends?!"

You peered out of your window, and there was Pax's main man, wind whipping his dark bangs in his handsome face. He gripped a megaphone in his hands, looking relaxed and smug, but his knuckles were white with his stress. Vincent must have given him a heads up.

Marius' voice blasting out of the megaphone simultaneously filled you with hope and warmth, but also horror and despair. How would you ever beat the dating allegations now?

More importantly, where was he planning to park a helicopter?!

~♡~♡~♡~♡~

💚 Vyn 💚

"Thank you."

You dipped your head politely to acknowledge your gratitude to the stranger who had offered to lead you to the student center. Stellis University's campus looked much different in the evening light, when fewer students were milling about. You should have been able to find it on your own, and yet...

For better or for worse, a young man had noticed you, and when he approached you explained your situation. He had agreed to lead you over, perhaps a bit too gleefully. But you were grateful for the help, and so you acquiesced, but you kept your finger hovering over a "dial" button on your phone just in case.

After your quick goodbye, you spun on your heel to enter the student center.

However, your escort didn't seem too thrilled to see you leaving so speedily.

"That's it?" he huffed. "A half-assed thank you? No phone number, no hug, not even a last name? Are you serious?" His voice kept rising with each word, his tone growing steadily angrier. "I did you a favor by even talking to an ugly brat like you. Have you ever tried smiling with that gloomy face of yours, you miserable fuck?"

Ah. One of those.

You weren't going to dignify that with a response, but then you heard footsteps behind you.

No. Don't come closer. You didn't want any trouble, least of all from an entitled, arrogant--

"Aha. I was afraid I'd have to send campus security out looking for you."

A familiar voice hummed by your ear, and your face lit up with relief. "Dr. Richter!"

A slender but firm hand rested on your shoulder, and you looked up to see bright golden eyes meet yours. Those eyes were like a beacon in the darkening night, and you couldn't help but smile at the sight of them.

"The swing dancing starts any minute now. You have impeccable timing, as always." He let out a breathy chuckle.

"That should be my line, Dr. Richter," you retorted lightly.

Of course, the punk behind you hadn't left or stopped shouting. In fact, his rage only seemed to have grown since Vyn appeared, but Vyn paid him absolutely no mind. He must deal with rowdy students regularly, but this was something else entirely.

"Before we go inside," Vyn began, reaching into his coat pocket. "Let's clean you up."

"Hmm?" You didn't think you had any dirt on you, but you didn't protest as Vyn pulled out a silk handkerchief and gently began dabbing at your cheeks, nose, and hands.

"After all," he continued, and he lifted his gaze from your skin. But his eyes didn't go to yours this time; he appeared to be staring past you, at someone else.

You were grateful you couldn't see the exact look in his eyes as he murmured in a voice colder than the night breeze and sharper than a doctor's scalpel, "Spending too much time around ill-mannered, foul-tempered, idiotic boors is proven to be terrible for your health." His voice dropped an octave, and you couldn't help but shiver as he finished,

"And... if they are as foolish as they are filthy, terrible for their health as well."

[xcherricutie]

๋࣭ ⭑⚝ shit sandwich ᯓ★

⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆

[Shadow the Hedgehog × Reader]

[Word Count - 2k]

[Summary - Forced to become a villain, you think your life is completely over, but a certain hedgehog shows you otherwise]

[Tags: Swearing. Idk if you could tell by the title but there's a lot of swearing. Shadow drops an F NUKE. Reader is written as a female human, but you can read however you like, it's never mentioned. Pretty platonic, mostly just the reader and Shadow bonding over their misery]

[Notes: I'm gonna be honest, Shadow is super OOC in this, I was kinda just having fun. I was listening to Loser, Baby from Hazbin Hotel while looking for oneshot ideas, and this came to me. I haven't written Shadow, or even played any games featuring him aside from SA2 in a while, so he might act a little silly goofy. I also wrote this in one night and it's 2 am so y'know]

⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. You had a life once, hopes and dreams that you aspired for. You didn’t ever let life get you down, always looking on the positive side. And you felt like you were actually doing pretty good in life. You had your own home, friends and family. You felt like you were at the top of the world. You didn’t think anything could take you down, turn your world upside down. 

And then he appeared. Just plucked you up from the streets as you were walking home one day. Told you no one would miss you, that he was doing you a favor. In one fell swoop, your whole life had been ripped from your grasp, and you lost everything, at the hands of the mad scientist, Doctor Eggman. 

He had promised you a better life, said you were the first in a series of experiments to create artificial life. He had stripped away your humanity, turned you into a monster for his own use. He turned you against your own friends and family and forced you to attack your hometown as a “starting point”. You were his very first biotechnical android, trapped by the code he put in you, turning you into just another villain for his archenemy to take down. Your doom had already been sealed the moment he took you that fateful day, and the only thing you could do was watch. 

You let out a pained cry as your back hit the wall of a dark alleyway. As you slid to the ground, your bleary vision landed on the silhouette stretching before your feet, the moonlight casting the shadow of your foe. You tilted your head up, ignoring the pain that shot through your back and neck, your eyes immediately drawing to the bright red pools glaring down at you. You knew you were dead the moment you had become an android, but it was just your luck that you were up against the morally grey side of the hedgehog counterparts. Shadow the Hedgehog, once someone who had worked alongside the Doctor, now someone who went around destroying everything related to the Doctor, regardless of innocence. Not that you were innocent anymore, you knew you had to accept your fate, but Shadow didn’t make it any easier. 

You didn’t even bother trying to speak on your behalf. You were fully capable of it, you had freedom on that part. The only thing in your life you couldn’t control was the strong urge to destroy everything in your path. You couldn’t resist it; it was in your own coding to destroy without regard. So there was no point in trying to prove your own innocence. 

You couldn’t even fight anymore, Shadow had made certain of that. With your eye blackened and swollen, your bones ached and begged for you to stay down. Every twitch of your muscles made them throb, leaving you to lay on the ground, waiting for what you could only hope to be a swift end. But it seemed your luck wouldn’t allow that, as the sound of his approaching footsteps stopped just before you. 

You forced your head to lift just enough to see what the holdup was, brows furrowed in confusion as you looked up to see his face. The moonlight shone down through the cloudy sky, his body blocking the light from you, surrounding you in his cold silhouette. But through the darkness, you could see his bright red eyes, and the confusion in them. 

“Why?” 

You almost didn’t catch his singular word of question. Blinking, you looked up at him with wide eyes, your mind disoriented and foggy. You had even begun to wonder if you had imagined it, until you heard his gruff voice speak up, much more annoyed this time. 

“Why are you doing this? You look like just a regular person, you don’t have any business with the Doctor,” Shadow spoke, bending slightly at the hips, staring into your eyes. You could only look up at him in shock, astounded that he would even take the time to ask you such a question. From everything you had heard about Shadow, he wasn’t one to ask questions. He was more the type to act first, ask questions later, or so you had assumed. What was so different now? 

“Don’t make me ask again.” Shadow’s eyes squinted, his patience quickly thinning. You swallowed thickly, taking in a quick, shaky breath. You had your opportunity to explain yourself, so why? Why were you hesitating? 

You had nothing to return to. Even if you somehow got out of the situation you were in, you had nothing left. Your friends and family were gone, running away from you. Your home was gone, your whole life was gone. This was all you had left, all you were. The villain you had been forced to become had consumed you and became your entire identity. 

You didn’t even realize your cheeks were soaked with tears until you choked on a sob, squeezing your eyes shut as you turned your head away in shame. You didn’t have any right to shed tears, you were a horrible person, weren’t you? Even if you were forced, even if you tried to resist, you had still done bad things. You still had to accept your responsibilities and let go of the hope that you could go back to your old life. 

Shadow’s eyes widened as he watched you turn away, raising a shaky hand to your face, trying to wipe away your tears. He couldn’t wrap his mind around you, around why you were like this. You showed up without warning some time back, going around city to city just destroying with reckless abandon. Or so that was how it had seemed at the time, but with the way you were breaking down in front of him now, he had his doubts that you enjoyed it or even wanted it. 

“You don’t want to, do you?” 

Your hands slowed to a stop as you looked up at Shadow, your tears streaming freely now. Hesitantly, you shook your head, unable to open your mouth. You were surprised he had even deduced that much, but then again, Shadow had been defying your expectations since the second you met him. 

Shadow sucked in a deep breath as he stood up straight, before looking down at you with what you thought was an almost sympathetic look. Your eyes widened as a hand was suddenly stretched outward to you, your gaze snapping between the hand and Shadow’s eyes. You only took the hand when you noticed Shadow’s growing impatience, his eye twitching with irritation. 

“What did he do to you?” Shadow asked, pulling you up and onto your feet, leading you out onto the sidewalk. You rubbed your arm nervously, tempted to just make a run for it, knowing you were stuck like this no matter what. The look Shadow gave you told you it was a bad idea to even think about trying, making you exhale in enervation. 

“Turned me into an android,” You muttered, avoiding Shadow’s gaze. You closed your eyes, as if to try and block out the world, your voice barely above a whisper. “I can’t control it. Sometimes, it’s just an accident. Sometimes, he forcefully directs me towards places he wants gone. I was just a normal person before he took me away from my home. I can’t go back even if I wanted to, he made me destroy everything I cared about.” 

You didn’t open your eyes to see his reaction. You didn’t care to see it; you didn’t want to see the pity in his eyes. You didn’t want your enemy pitying you, unable to help you. What could he do? Besides destroying you, there was nothing Shadow could do to help you, as far as you were aware. 

“Your whole existence seems fuckin’ hopeless,” Shadow muttered, making your eyes snap wide open as you looked down at him, completely dumbfounded. You didn’t think you’d ever heard anything quite as rude as the words that had just come from his mouth. You could feel yourself bristle as your fists clenched, nearly splitting at the seams with anger when Shadow’s voice dragged you from your violence-filled thoughts. “You think your life is wrecked, huh?” 

Your eye twitched with anger, rolling your eyes heavily as you slumped down onto the edge of the sidewalk, your muscles aching too much to care about fighting him. Just as you sat down though, you felt Shadow’s presence just behind you, an almost evil smirk pulling at his lips as he bent down to your level. 

“Well, let me just say, you’re correct,” 

“Wait, what?” You looked back at Shadow with wide eyes, your gaze lifting from his shoes as he backed up, up to the small smirk on his face as you met his stare. 

“You’re a loser, a fucked up whiny bitch,” Shadow’s grin grew almost sadistically as he noticed you flare up with anger, your fists clenched as you tried to get up, your tired muscles keeping you down. However, just as you had begun to turn away and ignore him, you heard his voice drop to a mumble. “You’re a loser, just like me.” 

Slightly surprised, you tried to shrug it off as you hugged yourself, giving Shadow the middle finger as you faced away from him. “Thanks, asshole.” 

Shadow rolled his eyes, but couldn’t help the smile that graced his lips, an odd feeling blooming within him. He didn’t think he’d ever relate to anyone’s situation, let alone sympathize, but he supposed there was a first time for everything. 

“There was a time I thought no one could relate to me, but letting walls down can sometimes set you straight,” Shadow stood beside you, shooting you a small smile, as if to comfort you. But the glint of sadism hadn’t quite faded as his canines flashed. “We’re all living in the same shit sandwich.” 

You looked up at Shadow in shock, before an almost airy feeling washed over you, a giggle escaping your lips. And just like that, you had completely forgotten why you were mad in the first place, returning the smile as Shadow sat beside you. 

As the silence filled the air once more, your gaze was turned onto the full moon in the sky, basking in its cool blue hues of light. You sighed deeply, eyes drifting shut as you hung your head down. “I’m trapped and it gets worse with every hour.” 

Shadow stared down at your small, miserable form, before his eyes jumped to something in the distance, avoiding you as he spoke. “You’re a loser...” 

Shadow watched you bristle in the corner of his eye, making him smile as he continued. “But just maybe, if we eat shit together, things will end up differently.” 

And just as soon as he had angered you, Shadow had somehow stunned you into silence, your eyes staring into his. Your silence dragged on for an awkward moment, as if waiting for him to say some new obscenity to anger you, but it never came. You rolled your eyes, scoffing as you smiled. 

“You know, you make a pretty shitty friend,” You said, your words making Shadow chuckle softly. 

“So I’ve heard. But I mean it,” The smile on Shadow’s face faded as he turned to you, looking you directly in the eye. “I can find you the help you deserve. You shouldn’t have to be forced into a life of servitude for that man, and I’ll make sure you can get back a better life.” 

Shadow stood up, holding a hand out to you. But this time, you didn’t hesitate or think about it, placing your hand in his own, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips. Once again, Shadow had defied your expectations, pleasantly surprising you with his odd offer of something akin to a friendship. 

Perhaps it wasn’t meant to be like this in the beginning. You had never intended for your life to go this direction, but maybe it didn’t have to be so bad now. You had finally found the positive side, and had something to look forward to again, alongside your new friend, Shadow the Hedgehog.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

[cafecourage]

Little Red Riding Hood where Reader is Little Red but also a werewolf

Love Interest and rest of chain can be assigned however

(Cause I'm always down for a fairytale au)

I did a little twist on this. Idk if this was what you wanted. I had to ask doggo experts for how doggos act around each other. I am leaving this off on a small cliff hanger because I do want to write more of this.

Twilight didn’t trust the new person in the group. Well. It’s more like he didn’t know what to think of her. She came in like a hurricane running after the Shadow like it was her prey. Then when the dust settled and she calmed down the group quickly learned of why. The short of it being that for some reason the Shadow attacked her brother and she took chase. Which then led to her to finally agree to join the chain. Much to the Ranchers chagrin. However, he knows better than to start an unnecessary fight. Twilight could be civil.

Civility could only go so far.

Little Red, as Warrior’s likes to call her, noticed Twilight’s presence and slight unease of her and ran with it. Twilight couldn’t understand just why she was always running circles around him talking about this and that. It confused him to no end when she instantly would stick to him even when he was wolfie. He had to on more then one occasion threaten to bite Little Red’s hands. She never cared or backed away from Wolfie when he showed a bit of aggression. “He is going to bite you.” Wild warned her as he watched Little Red try to play with Wolfie.

She looked up at Wild while holding Wolfie’s face, “what? No the baby is just playing.” That comment only made Twilight growl more.

“Baby? Wolfie isn’t a baby.” Wild was torn between being completely amuse and helping Twilight out as he did know about his slight distrust of Little Red.

“No no no, Champion. This is a wolf pup. He has to be like…” Her attention draws to the wolf as she observes the good boy. “Man… I have to say maybe 10? He is very small even for that age. Wolfie is like an adult dog size but he is definitely a wolf.” She boops the snoot and quickly pulled back as Twilight tries to bite her hand again. This only makes her giggle more.

“I think your wolves might be just bigger than my Hyrules.” Honestly to Wild, Wolfie was the same size as most wolves, but he just shrugs and not questions that further. Twilight couldn’t understand why you were like this, he wonders if it was just an eccentric thing. He has met a lot of weird people in his life and Little Red might be one of them. After being free from your grasp he takes it upon himself to run away for now. Only because you don’t tend to grab his face while being Twilight and thats the most annoying part of being wolfie around you.

It wasn’t until they finally came to her era that he finally understood.

The village Little Red lived in was small, but cozy. It reminded Twilight of his own home. People tended to light up when seeing Little Red. But given the size of the group following them most villagers tended to just say hi and remarks that they needed to talk to her later. “My house is a bit further.” Little red said pointing to a path that ran into the woods. “It’s just me, my brother and Grandma oh and our cat. I’ll make sure to keep her out of your stuff. But we should have room to fit everyone.” She explains as the path slowly clears up to a cottage in the wood with a small garden. There was a small pup running around in the yard playing with said cat. Who was purely annoyed at ready to pap the puppy in the head.

Little Red’s eyes brightened “Link!” She calls out gaining the Pups reaction.

She dashes towards the house as the puppy starts running towards her. They meet halfway and the puppy shifts into a young boy. “You’re back! You’re back!” This Link giggles as he gets lifted in the air by his sister and spun around.

“I am! For now.” Little red nuzzles her brother’s face as she shifts her grips on her brother to put his weight on her hip. “Boy’s this is my brother. Link these are the adventurers I’ve been traveling with.”

She turns to the group with a smile. The chain was utterly confused and silent before Wind speaks up “Did he transform into a wolf?”

[powderblueblood]

HELLFIRE & ICE — eddie munson x f!oc as enemies to star-crossed lovers

CHAPTER FOUR — HOT SKIN and a HALL PASS

PREVIOUS | MASTERLIST | NEXT

summary: rules, you've recently learned, are for breaking– sanity is also, apparently, relative. after making a statement in the cafeteria, you play hooky with eddie in main street vinyl. content warnings: MINORS DNI tension you would need a chainsaw to cut through, farm-to-table snarking, do they even know they're yearning, nancy wheeler i'm sorry i shittalked you again (it will get better i swear) word count: 4k

Dear reader, do you ever feel like you’re completely losing your grasp on reality? 

You’ve cruised through life almost seamlessly up to this point. Yours is a well-oiled machine, one you painstakingly built yourself. But do you ever feel like you’ve spent so much time constructing something so carefully that it doesn’t make sense to you anymore? 

Like you can’t see the forest for the trees, or the treason for the thrill. 

Do you ever want to light your whole life up in flames, just to see what’s really fireproof?

“So, which is it?” 

You’re standing at your locker, making a bad job of touching up your now-flaking under-eye concealer when a voice rings out from the other end of the hall. It bounces off the cool metal of the lockers, the tack of the linoleum. It makes your shoulderblades go tense. 

“Has little Lacy been hiding a pair of brass balls this whole time, or is she on a suicide mission?”

You’d roll your eyes, but your face is aching. 

“Showing up with me this morning would have been one thing, but sitting yourself at my little table of outcasts? At lunch? The most important social event of the day?” 

Munson lets out a low whistle from where he leans, a couple of lockers up from yours. 

The hallway is deserted save for the both of you; you, out on a forged hall pass and him, probably just ditching to ditch. You peer at him from behind your locker door. He’s standing slanted in a long, lithe line made bold and jangly by his carefully curated metalhead armor. 

You, and this comes with a hefty dose of begrudgery, have to hand it to him– he leans great. 

“Talk about blowing up your reputation beyond repair.” 

You know he’s making fun of you– he’s not exactly subtle about it, nor is he about anything. It’s all in the lilt of his tone, how ridiculous he thinks the interwoven politics of the cafeteria are, how dumb he thinks you are for considering that in the least bit important. 

Munson’s idea of survival in high school is attacking conformity with a nuclear bomb, whereas yours is a little more artful. 

“I know this might be hard for you to comprehend, Munson,” you sigh, and the sound rattles through your ribcage– you are tired, tired of him, “given that your understanding of object permanence has clearly been stunted at an infantile level, but the world does not revolve around you."

"No?!" he croons, sarcasm slicking out of him.

"I was catching up with Ronnie.”

“Right, because you guys have been such good gal pals up to this point,” Munson scoffs. 

His face, framed by those wild waves, materializes in the reflection of your locker’s mirror, peering over your shoulder. You slam the door and pivot to face him properly, impact ringing out like a gunshot. 

He does a little jump, a shadow of his shock at you on Harrington’s porch. 

That reaction is like a shot of espresso straight to the veins.

Good. Be afraid. Asshole.

You're sure as fuck awake now!

“Lab partner love never dies,” you say, leveling his stare. “You’d know that if you showed up for Biology once in a while.” 

“Maybe I need a tutor. I could use someone to help me brush up on anatomy.” 

“Sorry. I don’t teach remedial.” 

“Maybe you should start. Rehabilitate your image.” 

“Again, who died and made you my parole officer?”

His expression cracks; a gasp of a laugh. “Oh, so you remember all that?”

“My hippocampus is alive and kicking.”

“Your hip– what?”

Your lips purse, and just as you’re about to throw another verbal dart at him, the voice of Ms O’Donnell cuts through the both of you. 

“I hope you two have a damn good excuse for loitering in this hallway– because if not, Mr Munson, I believe you’re less than one detention away from suspension.” 

Munson’s got this terminal disease where he’s more smarm than charm, despite his warped perception of himself. There’s no way he’s going to handle this with the grace that’s necessary, because O’Donnell hates him anyway. 

He keens his head in the teacher’s direction, ready to roll out some useless excuse. 

Before he’s even got the chance to speak, you cut him off. 

“Hall pass, Ms O’Donnell.” You flash the fake yellow slip at her, careful to obscure the names– you’ve usually got one of these forgeries to hand, just in case you need it, and teachers generally trust you enough not to check them out. It comes with the whole work-life balance you’ve been treading for the entirety of your high school career; you’re well-liked and you’re maintaining an impressive grade point average. They don’t give a shit what you do other than that. 

“The Weekly Streak has run into a printer snag and Nancy Wheeler’s car is on the fritz. Eddie,” his first name, which you never ever use, feels weird and heavy on your tongue, “offered me a ride to the printers to make sure it gets worked out– it’s a big issue. What with the game this weekend and everything.” 

O’Donnell’s eyes narrow. You nudge Munson right in his funny bone– hard enough for him to wince. 

“Right?”

“Right! That big game. Front page news, Ms O’D. Gooooo Tigers.”

The teacher clicks her tongue against her teeth, her rock hard stare challenging the delinquent beside you– it’s entirely likely that Munson could have blown it for himself just by virtue of being alive and in O’Donnells sight line, but you know she’s got no reason not to believe you. 

See, your reputation at the school newspaper precedes you; it’s just about the only thing that really holds your interest within the monotonous structure of Hawkins High. With your finger on the pulse of Hawkins’ student body, it only makes sense that you serve as a fierce and unforgiving editor of the Streak’s society pages– funnily enough, that hardline professionalism included never giving Munson’s infamously lame Dungeons and Dragons club a single mention in them. 

Vetoed, you’d drawled at one of the more well-mannered members that had shyly approached you about writing a piece. Not Ronnie– she knew better than that.

How come? they’d whined, as their fearsome leader glowered near the lockers just like he was doing now. 

On grounds of irrelevance. I’m not wasting valuable inches on a make believe board game club. 

This activated Munson. Lacy, you wouldn’t know valuable inches if they rammed you in the–

“Make it fast,” O’Donnell decrees, and you feel her watch you as you take off down the hallway. With a snappy quirk of your painted fingers, you gesture for Munson to follow your lead. And you better believe he does, almost tripping over his ratty Reeboks trying to keep in step with you. 

You both heave open the double doors, squinting against the unseasonable late autumn sunshine. Heels of your ankle boots clicking against the concrete, you make an unconscious beeline for the parking lot– for Munson’s van. 

“So– what now?” he asks, dur-dur dumb as all hell. 

“What now is I just got you a free pass to play hooky,” you say, little miss cactus flower, prickly with annoyance. You shield your eyes against the blazing light. “Weren’t you ditching anyway?”

“Yeeaaah,” Munson hums, scratching the back of his head, “But… the plan kind of was to smoke a joint and go to the record store.” 

“Doesn’t sound like a complete waste of time,” you hear yourself saying before you realize it, yanking at the van’s passenger door. You pause, raising an expectant eyebrow at Munson. Isn’t this your cue? 

Baffled, bewildered, but grinning despite himself, he extends that silver ringed hand and helps you haul your ass into his beat up chariot. 

Completely losing your grip on reality.

–

It’s a fugue state. It’s an out of body experience– you’re watching yourself from outside your corporeal form and you have no logical control over what you’re doing. 

That’s the only way to explain why you’re standing in Main Street Vinyl, elbow to elbow with Eddie Munson. 

But that might also be the weed talking. 

You don’t know where the hell he gets this stuff, but it’s strong– way stronger than the shit he’s sold to your friends ever since he started dealing. Well, you guess it makes sense that he’d keep the good shit for himself. You’d do that too, if you were him. 

What if I was him, you idly wonder, peering up at him as he flicks through letters R through T in the metal section. His tongue peeks out of his mouth as his ringed fingers work though the vinyl, carefully considering each one. 

This is what you mean by obvious– you, for one, would have the good conscience not to look so stoned while you’re so stoned. 

You definitely don’t look stoned right now. 

No one can even tell that you’re looking at him, up from underneath those thick lashes of yours. 

He’s got thick lashes too, come to think of it. 

Munson is actually not completely unfortunate looking– but again, if you were him, there’s no way you’d wear your hair like that. You’d keep it long-ish, though, you think. He’s got a point there; a nice curl pattern. Maybe to your ears. And the clothes obviously have to go– that denim vest is a patchwork disaster. Did he sew all those patches on himself? 

A vision of him hunched over the thing with a needle and thread in hand flits through your brain, pricking himself more than he can pick up a stitch. He’s gone out of his way to make himself look like this– kind of similar to the way you pick up your skirts so they’re always impeccably just short enough. 

Now, the leather jacket you could forgive if at least the collar was different. Maybe one of those Brando-style biker jackets, you could rock that. Or a brown leather number, to bring out your eyes– which are his eyes, of course, his crazy dark empty universes of eyes. 

The kind of eyes with the kind of stare that nails you in place and makes you want to do crazy shit like ditch class and get loaded and stand dumbly in a record store. Those eyes.

That are staring at you. He’s staring at you. Right back at you. 

“I can read your mind,” Munson monotones, unblinking. 

You go flush, heat crawling all the way up to your ears. “Wh–what?”

Then he nudges you and snorts, breaking the spell. 

“You have gotta stop thinking such dirty thoughts about me, ice princess. You’re gonna melt.” 

You scoff, shaking your head– but the cartoonish move is more to ground you in reality than a reaction to him and his idiocy. You’re Wile E Coyote after blunt force impact with an Acme anvil, shaking the circling birds away. 

“They don’t even have what I’m looking for here.” 

Stalking around the stacks of records, with no clear direction in mind, you feel Munson’s laser stare follow you. “Yeah, they don’t usually file Madonna next to Motörhead, Lacy.” 

They’re both filed under M, aren’t they? is what you want to say. “I don’t listen to Madonna,” you protest instead, all quietly miffed and earnest with a crinkle in your brow. 

“Mm, don’t think that’s true,” Munson smirks, rounding on you around the rack. “You gave me a pretty spot on rendition of Like a Virgin– or does your hippocrampus not recall?”

“Hippocampus,” you breathe out, but it’s lost in the din of Main Street Vinyl’s quiet, carpeted atmosphere, “I don’t listen to her, like, recreationally. I can’t help if that song’s an earworm.” A beat. “I also can’t help if you’re a particularly serenadable virgin.” 

“She’s gonna touch me for the very first tii-iime…”

“That was a threat.” 

You make an active attempt toward tunnel vision as you slowly tread through the store, feeling the high starting to turn on you– this was the part smoking weed that you hated, the few times that you’d imbibed in it. That lack of control over the way you were coming across. For a girl trained in the art of saying all the right things, this was dangerous. Your tongue felt both loose and heavy in your mouth, like it could come out with anything and you couldn’t stop it, it’d just roll on out. 

The malevolent presence of Munson and your pathological need to one up him wasn’t helping matters. 

Ever since the parking lot at school, you’ve been stalking around like there’s a target on your back. Evidently, you’re not the kind of girl that chills out when you smoke, which is equal parts a relief and a disappointment to Eddie. He wonders what you’d look like, mellowed out and floating. Your eyebrow unarched and your lips not poised for attack.

He’s also acutely aware that he wouldn’t know what the hell to do with you then, either. 

But he can’t tear his eyes away from you, a hyperfocus that he’s assuming is a symptom of his own buzz. Every little twitch and jump you do– it’s like it’s begging him to pay attention. Like if he looks away for even a second, he might miss something. 

“What are you looking for?” he asks, eyes trained on you while you thumb through the records. 

As much as you love music, and you do, you have a tough time describing exactly what you want to listen to. The notes in the songs that you revisit again and again read more like physical feelings, sparking off in your nerve endings. For example, listening to River by Joni Mitchell feels like something heavy is sitting on your chest. Listening to Hong Kong Garden by Siouxsie and the Banshees feels like you have fairy lights at the end of your fingertips. 

“I want something that sounds…” you say, noticing the distinct feeling of cottonmouth setting in, “Ticklish.”

“Ticklish,” Munson deadpans back at you. 

“Something that sounds like someone’s running a xylophone mallet down my spine.” 

He regards you for what feels like an excruciatingly long timewith this terrible, awful look on his face– brows ticked up over his glassy bloodshot eyes, pink mouth peeling into a grin, and this look, this look of wonderment. Like he can’t believe you’re real, and you’re here, and you’re saying shit like this to him. 

Join the club. 

“... You don’t get stoned a lot, do you?”

“Ugh!” you groan, a little louder than you mean to– the cashier shoots you a glare as you stalk past Munson, stalk past him, cheeks flaring pink. “I know what I’m talking about. I know it when I hear it– I heard a record just like that earlier this year! It’s like, some band from Scotland or something? Totally incomprehensible lyrics, yeah, but that’s what it felt like. It was like… bone deep.”

You hear Munson emit the teeniest hehe! and you just about snarl at him over your shoulder.

Rounding on the alternative section, limited as it is, you feel a welcome sense of familiarity. You haunt this corner when you can, when you’re out of sight from prying eyes. There’s only one other regular purveyor of this little corner of Main Street Vinyl that you know of. You trace a thumb over the spines of the cassette cases–it’s mostly tapes, rarely ever records because tapes are easier to import and harder to damage, and it’s always haphazardly organized–and then you spot it. 

Victoriously, you thrust it in Munson’s face, which is right over your shoulder. He’s frequenting that spot a lot recently. “Ha!”

“Oh!” he chirps, sounding almost pleasantly surprised and plucks the tape from your fingers. “... Cocteau Twins?”

You falter, eyelashes flickering as you look up at him. Dammit. He even pronounced it right. 

“You know them?” You hate how high your voice sounds.

He runs a thumb over the plastic casing, edging a little closer to you. That came outta left field. 

“This shit… sounds like what a haunted music box would sound like.” 

Aaand we’re back in the room.

“Okay…?”

“This is creepy, cursed doll music.” 

And the room is filled with assholes.

“Alright.”

“This is what you hear right before you’re about to get possessed by the ghost of Tiny Tim. The whiniest little bitch ghost of all time.” 

And all the assholes are named Eddie Munson. 

“I get it.”

“You better be careful with this stuff, Lacy-Wacy,” he teases, mocking that fraudulent concern ripped straight from an episode of Donahue. He taps the cassette case against your forehead. “Music like this is a gateway drug. A gateway drug to hanging out with, like, Jonathan Byers.”

You reach out and grab his wrist, tugging his hand and that damn tape away from your face. You’re shocked to find that the skin under your fingers is blazing hot–same as you felt through his shirt when he helped you to the door in your drunken stupor. 

Does he always run this warm? you wonder. Is it all that Satanic poseur poison coursing through his stupid veins?

“Well, it’s a little late for that,” you tell him, and you’re not quite sure why. Probably because every secret you swore would die with you is slowly but surely punching its gnarly hand from the grave, like fucking Carrie from fucking Carrie.

Munson doesn’t even express any overt shock, like he’s learning to roll with the punches of you revealing bits and pieces of yourself through sheer annoyance with him. He just cocks his head, challenging you with a silent, Really?

This chick. This blink-and-you’ll-miss-it chick.

“I ran into him in this corner a lot,” you explain breezily, tilting a shoulder up like it doesn’t bother you, like it’s never bothered you. “We’d always be standing next to each other at the listening booths, and I’d be listening to stuff I couldn’t take home and he’d be listening to stuff he couldn’t afford to buy and… We like a lot of the same music. We went out on like, one date if you could even call it that, and it didn’t work out.”

“Because he’s a creepazoid?”

“Because he was hip deep in it for Nancy Wheeler,” you supply, a green monster gurgling in the pit of your stomach. “Like every other respectable member of the male species.” 

It was the summer before junior year, a punishingly hot one even by Hawkins standards. You’ve never been good in the heat and that summer made your entire body feel ill-equipped, your skin ill-fitting. Main Street Vinyl had those big, big box fans right near the cash desk which was right near the listening booths, so you would spend the majority of your time there when you weren’t being forced to the lake or Skull Rock with your friends. 

Jonathan would look at you with alarm at first, like you were trespassing. Then he’d spy what you were listening to and sneak these small, shy smiles at you that you indulged in– at first, because you weren’t copping a lot of male attention from anyone else that summer. Eventually, it was because his shadowy eyes were always ringed with this tenderness, with knowing. Like you two were sharing a secret. It made you be able to look past the greasy hair and crippling social awkwardness. 

You know you rocked his world the day you breezed past him at the listening booth, leaned in and whispered, I love Linda Thompson's voice, don't you?

But still, the Love’s Baby Soft scented specter of Nancy Wheeler loomed large. You picked what you thought was a secluded spot in the park for your ‘date’, which included a conversation that was almost entirely cruise directed by you. Said conversation completely flatlined when you both spotted Nancy Wheeler cresting a hill, walking her family dog.

At this point, you and Nancy were most familiar with each other from the school newspaper– she, the peachy-cheeked junior, the rising star that was sure to make editor and you, the girl who knew where the parties were happening and where the bodies were buried. 

The picture of coquettishness, she offered you and Jonathan an awkward, stilted wave. Jonathan spoke a grand total of three words after she left, zeroing in on the spot where she appeared like a man possessed. 

You didn’t acknowledge his existence after that.

It’s not that you were particularly hung up on Jonathan Byers, but you didn’t expect someone like him to be able to elicit that cold sinking feeling you were used to experiencing at the hands of other boys and their ignorance. Maybe it hurt more because you thought you had something in common– something real, something that wasn’t shotgunning a can of Busch. Whatever it was, it made you sure of two things. 

You hated Nancy Wheeler, and she wasn’t going anywhere. 

You wished you didn’t hate her. But you also wished she’d dissolve into a fine mist.  

“Wheeler’s a priss,” Munson pulls you out of memory lane in a harsh left turn, face contorting into a half-grimace. It’s the general consensus on Wheeler– the shoes are too goody for everyone to be falling head-over-heels with her, if you want Eddie’s honest opinion. There’s no there there, not like with–

“I’m a priss.” It sounds like you’re defending her. In some weird way, you might be. 

I know what guys like you think of me.

“No, you’re a bitch.” 

His weight on the word bitch makes your knees feel unsteady. The way he says it. It’s not enunciated like an insult. It’s a dagger cloaked in velvet. It’s warm, like he is. It’s almost filthy. It makes you look at his mouth. 

“You’re a stone cold killer bitch,” Eddie’s voice hums low in his chest. His heartbeat is picking up, and he wonders if you can feel it where your freezing fingertips are squeezing his pulse point, “and I think–”

“You two truant assholes gonna buy anything today or am I gonna have to call the goddamn dog warden on y’all?” 

Heaved back into reality by the clerk at the cash desk. A trickle of cold sweat runs from the nape of your neck into the collar of your sweater. Heaved back into reality to see you’re still clutching Eddie Munson by the wrist, and he’s looking at you like you’re the last Popsicle. Cold shock in the middle of a summer’s day.

It gets so hot here in summer.

“I think,” you breathe as you unstick your fingers from him, suddenly aware that you’re parched and starving and your face hurts, “it’s time for me to go home.” 

“I– yeah,” Munson stumbles, also perturbed by the interruption. His red-ringed eyes gain a little more clarity. He’s seeing something you’re not seeing. He shouldn't be letting himself see that. “Let’s go.”

Let’s go back to the van. Let me make you look at me like that again. Let me see if you’re cold all over. I can fix that.

“No, I gotta…” Your head pounding, your thoughts swimming– the sharp and stupid realness of this whole afternoon coming into perfect view. What are you doing? “I need to walk it off.” 

He inhales sharply, a strangled chuckle– oof. That other shoe, that buckled heel of yours, clattering to the floor. He should have expected that, right? There’s no way you’d wanna… Because you’re you and he’s…

Eddie retreats back into himself a step or two; it looks like he’s gone all bashful, a little color dropping out of his cheeks. His hands clasping behind his back. His heart is in his big intestine. 

“That’s the second time you’ve turned me down today, sweetheart. Keep it up, I’m gonna start thinkin’ you don’t like me.”

Munson, get the fuck out of here before I ban you again! and Jerry, can’t you see me talking to somebody right now! explode in a cacophony, the boy and the keeper of the keys to the record store hollering at each other. You take this moment of interruption to nudge the door open with your shoulder. But you don’t start into the street without giving him one more look. 

“Lacy.” He’s grinning this dumb grin, eyes gone soft at the corners.

He’s giving this one last nudge.

Your heart thumps. A reminder– this is really happening. Shit. Fuck.

“That’s the thing, though,” you say, attempting to smooth your expression out with a frosty smile. “I don’t like you, Eddie.”

author's notes: of course, my eternal eternal ETERNAL THANKS for all the love you have shown this story and the anons you've sent!!! writing is crazy so thank you for caring about mine. onto the fun stuff because you know i love a reference: - he leans great. a shameless my so-called life drop but eddie to me is a kind of stunning midpoint between catalano (left back twice) and krakow (would go down on you for days) - someone in the tags said ronnie and lacy should hold hands and i don't disagree. lab partner love never dies! - there's never a bad time to listen to ace of spades by motörhead - there's also never a bad time to listen to treasure by cocteau twins, which is the album lacy is referencing - i always fee like the zombie hand reaching out of the ground motif is unfairly accredited to the living dead franchises or something like that, but of course the most iconic instance to me is from carrie (1976) because women own horror - god, we really need to bring back listening booths in record stores! like we really need to bring them back lest romance die forever. - richard and linda thompson, also forever!!!!! my headcanon for this re: jonathan byers is this particular record is a joyce byers influenced choice. joyce and lonnie loved this record (when they were happy... lol) and played it all the time when jonathan was a baby. their original copy got lost (or destroyed) and sometimes jonathan will play it in the main street listening booth but he won't bring it home because he knows it's painful for his mom. - all my stone cold killer bitches in the house make some noise - jerry from main street vinyl you will always be rob from high fidelity in MY HEART (eddie is barry even though he doesn't work there lmao) - ok my hellcats! that's all the cultural education for this chapter!! thanks again for reading, reblog and scream at me in the asks because i so appreciate (and need) the support and i'd also love y'all to send me prompts! don't be shy! i love an in-universe blurb!

[freeuselandonorris]

hhhhnnnnnffffff fic ask game i think i’d die if u flip flopped is it cold in the water?

oh oh OHHH anon the excitement i felt when this came into my inbox thank uuuu!! this fic is so so close to my heart.

someone else has also requested this and i had so much fun writing it that i'm going to do another scene from later on in the fic, but for now, this is the first scene from oscar's pov.

cw for consensual non-consent!

He can hear Lando getting out of the shower, singing along to the synth line of whatever music he’s playing, and the sheer innocence of it makes Oscar’s heart ache. 

It takes an effort of will to focus himself on the task at hand. To not just say hey Lando, let myself in, hope you don’t mind. 

Oscar feels the ripple of shock that goes through Lando when he grabs him, starting from the point where his palm’s pressed over his mouth and going right down to his toes. He presses until he can feel the blunt shapes of Lando’s teeth through his lips, muffling the sounds he’s trying to make, and says: “Stop struggling. It’ll be better if you don’t struggle.”

He hadn’t been at all sure about the idea at first, when Lando had brought it up. Oscar considered himself, at heart, a nice person. Certainly not capable of – that. But it was just play-acting, Lando had assured him; sexy roleplay like playing doctors and nurses, just a bit more. Edgy. 

He’d thought about it, read about it, shaped it in his head. And now he’s here, in Lando’s hallway, with his spare key in one pocket and a bundle of stolen zipties in the other. A perfectly-ironed pillowcase from the linen closet tucked into his waistband. A roll of duct tape around one wrist. A sick, giddy twist in his stomach.

Without warning, Lando goes limp in his grip, slumping back against his chest. It hits Oscar how easy it is to manhandle him, despite the fact that they’re not hugely mismatched in terms of height and weight. He’s strong, and Lando’s scared, or pretending to be. Oscar tightens his core and knows, deep and sick in his heart, that he could overpower Lando. 

He also knows that if Lando starts talking, he’ll lose confidence. He’s clutching the persona to himself like a shield, but it only works when Lando can’t pick holes in it. 

“Don’t talk,” he says, and without giving Lando any time to figure out what’s happening, he drags the pillowcase out of his back pocket, snaps it at his side to unfold it – Lando flinches at the sound – and drags it over Lando’s head. 

It snags on Lando’s nose, scrapes down his cheeks. He hears Lando start to say something, unintelligible and high-pitched. He’d be mad about that, wouldn’t he, if he was – if it was real. He’d punish Lando for disobeying his demand. Scare him, make him realise he’s not fucking about.

Oscar grasps a handful of the pillowcase into the nape of Lando’s neck and twists his wrists, pulling the material taut across Lando’s face. 

He’d tried it out himself, feeling like a lunatic in his bedroom with a pillowcase over his head, but he could breathe through it, that was the main thing. 

“I said don’t talk.” 

He has to let go of Lando to get at the end of the duct tape, half-expects him to run or yank the pillowcase off immediately. But he stays where he is, chest heaving with his panicked breaths. He looks different already. Holding himself small and scared, cowering in on himself.

Oscar squares his shoulders, pulls his spine to its fullest extension so his shadow looms big across the light filtering through the pillowcase. Hopes it’s the last thing Lando sees before he wraps the tape across his eyes.

Lando looks terribly vulnerable when Oscar’s done with him.

He doesn’t look like Lando at all, now – faceless, any rich young guy with a personal trainer and designer loungewear. His head looks borderline monstrous, taped up like a discarded Christmas tree, and the part of Oscar that knows this is all fake aches for him.

“That okay?” he says quietly. 

He’d mapped out the shape of Lando’s face as he’d wrapped, made sure not to cover his nostrils, but it’s surprisingly hard to tell in the moment, all his careful plans fraying at their edges.

Lando nods, and Oscar takes a moment to breathe. He touches the back of Lando’s neck in acknowledgement, a silent reassurance that they both understand the terms of engagement here. Lines himself up behind Lando, anticipating the way he does in the car. Accesses that cold, cruel part of himself and asks himself what it would do next, if it could do anything.

Because he can, now, can’t he? Do anything. To Lando.

fic ask game!

[annaphoenix1994]

Silver Run

Previous Chapter - Masterlist - Next Chapter

»»-------¤-------««

The group returned to the safe house, Ghost wanting to desperately push everyone aside to get to her, but he knew he couldn't make it obvious, but a part of him didn't care anymore. He needed to know if she was alright. 

"Watch the plates." Ghost warned Price as they entered the home, seeing that the lights were on and the long corridor that led to where he was sure Kiera was. Alejandro walked up to greet them, Ghost's eyes immediately going to the bloodstains that were on his shirt. Her blood. 

"How is she?" Soap asked him. 

He sighed, "Pretty rough, Hermano. This way." 

They all followed the Colonel through the corridor, opening up the double doors to reveal a workbench-type table, Kiera sitting in one of the chairs, weakly holding her vape pen to her lips. Thank God, they didn't take it from me, she thought, releasing a long drag, knowing damn well she needed it. It was stained with her blood, her cracked knuckles grasping it as if it were her lifeline as the prints from the pads of her fingers stained the glass of water next to her. She was still yet to drink from it. 

Ghost's heart sank and his fists clenched, suddenly wishing it was him that found her, knowing he'd kill those Shadows a hundred times over knowing they touched her. Soap was astonished as well, not able to take his eyes off her battered face. If he didn't recognize her by how she smoked or sat, he wouldn't know who she was. 

Her blonde hair was matted in the back from Graves' grasp, some strands still sticking to her face as the blood acted as a bonding agent. She hadn't looked their way as she was still stunned by the attack, thankful that she was still alive. 

"How are you feeling, señora?" Alejandro asked as Ghost and Soap followed him, Price and Gaz soon joining after relieving their tension with a much-needed drink. And a bloody cigar, Price thought. 

She exhaled another puff of smoke, looking his way with half-lidded eyes, her right fully swelled shut, "Like I just left the fucking spa." 

Her sarcastic remark caused Alejandro to chuckle as he admired her attitude. Soap couldn't take his eyes off of her damage, wondering how she was still conscious, but he could tell she was in throbbing pain. Ghost was still silent, desperately fighting the urge to tend to her like he would if they were home, but he knew he couldn't. Not now, anyway. 

"Jesus Christ..." Price muttered as he entered the room, taking a good look at her. 

"You need to drink that water, señora. And eat something." 

"It's fine," She sighed, slowly and steadily standing to her feet, reminding Soap of a newborn fawn. "I'm going to go lay down." 

She inhaled another drag, making eye contact with Soap before speaking, aiming her exhale towards the ground to avoid blowing the smoke in Soap's face, "You should see the other guy," She whispered to him before her gaze turned to Alejandro. "What doesn't kill us, Alejandro-" She began to say regarding the popular saying. 

"No, I don't believe that. I don't believe it makes us stronger. Harder, perhaps." 

She scoffed, "Hard is the goal."

Alejandro smirked, "I don't think you can get much harder." 

"I'm shooting for Teflon." 

He chuckled, "Down the hall and to the right. There's a shower in there as well. I'm sure you need it." 

"Very much so. Is my bag still in the car?" 

"Yes, señora. I'll go get it for you." He replied. 

"Bless you." 

Before she stumbled away, she glanced at Ghost, his eyes holding so much pain for her state. She knew he was angry as well as heartbroken, his eyes telling her that he wouldn't be far behind her. 

»»-------¤-------««

The night was still young - Price and Gaz taking guard duty as the others slept, the pair puffing on a cigar as well as a can of Coke. 

Ghost awoke to the sound of water rushing through the single line above his head. Looking around, his other comrades were sleeping soundly, perhaps better than they have in days. Soap was sleeping on his stomach close by, his rifle ready to fire as his vest was hung on the nearby chair, ready to slip on when it needed to be. 

He slowly stood to his feet, remembering the layout of the house as he made his way to the bedroom that Alejandro let her use as it was the only room that had a bed as well as a shower. 

He slowly entered the bedroom, unaware that Price had glanced back after hearing movement, watching him go the direction of the bedroom. He knew Ghost had a spot for her, but he chose not to say anything. The bloke deserves it, he thought. They're just alike. Price had always been a type of father figure to both Ghost and Soap, as well as his second Sergeant, Gaz. 

Hell, Price had met his own wife while on duty, except she was a field medic. He would occasionally recall the times he and his wife would sneak off to spend time together in between missions. He shook his head and returned to puffing on his cigar, wishing the lad well in his relationship, hoping that they both made it. I'll be sure to make it to the wedding, He chuckled to himself.

Ghost watched as steam came from the area that the shower was in as well as a dim light. She had kept all of the lights off as any light shot a beam of nausea to her through her damaged eyes. He leaned against the doorway, watching her stand under the water, facing it as she let it roll down her bruised face. She hadn't noticed him yet unless she already knew he was there and waiting on him to join her. 

He slipped his clothes from his body, setting them aside, and stepped into the shower, wrapping his arms around her waist gently, afraid to hurt her even more. She continued to cry, her insecurities taking their toll on her. "I don't want you to see me like this." She frowned, referring to her naked body and not her wounds.

He placed a gentle kiss on her bare shoulder, "I see all of you, love." 

He looked down to see the battered areas on her body - bruises littered her back and legs, her face, arms, and hands being the worst of it. 

She scoffed, "Yeah, how's that going for you?" 

"I don't mind. Never will." He replied in a low tone, pressing another kiss to her shoulder. He wasn't there to be intimate but to be comforting to her in her time of need. Hell, if she told him she didn't want to see him naked, he'd put his clothes back on and still tend to her in the shower. Whatever it took, he didn't care. 

He heard her whimper out another set of tears. He wanted nothing more than to hold her for eternity, to show her that he would never hurt her, but love her with every fiber of his body. He didn't give a shit that she had cellulite on her legs or that one breast was bigger than the other, nor did he care that the polish on her toenails was flaking off. She was fucking real and natural, and that was enough for him. 

He let her cry, knowing there was nothing he could do to stop it. Instead, he reached down to grasp the only bottle of shampoo that was on the side of the tub, putting a small dollop into his palm before gently putting it in her hair, careful not to put too much pressure on her head as it was swollen as well. "He hit me here," She whispered, carefully touching the area around her temple, warning him to stay away from that area. "It hurts." 

"Okay, sweetheart," He whispered. "Does this feel okay?" He asked as he slowly massaged his fingers through her wet tresses, using his fingers to separate the strands that were matted together with both of his hands. 

"Better than I imagined." She replied, a smile desperate to show on her hurting face. 

"Good." He replied, continuing to massage her aching scalp with his massive fingers. I knew they'd be good for something, he mused. 

He heard her sigh before helping her turn around to rinse the shampoo from her hair. He didn't let go of her hand as she leaned her head back to rinse her hair, ready to catch her if she fell off balance. To anyone else, any man would've taken the opportunity to glance over her body to "see what they were working with," but Simon didn't. He knew she was insecure about her body, and he wasn't about to take advantage of it by looking. Instead, he kept his gaze on her head, ensuring that she was taking her time and advantage of the hot water. 

Once she was done, she was terrified for Simon to see her face, but she knew there was no going back now. She desperately tried to open both eyes, but it was painful, so she kept her right eye closed and looked at him through her battered left. She looked ahead at his torso, his dog tags dripping with water as she tilted her head in curiosity at the deep scar on his left pectoral. "What happened?" She whispered, bringing her hand up to trace along its jagged edges. 

His hand covered hers, "Knife fight." 

"What about here?" She asked, using her other hand to trace along the less-aggressive scar on his right shoulder. 

"Gunshot." 

She frowned, bringing both arms above her shoulders and wrapping them around his neck, the water showering the both of them as he held her, careful with his hand placement as he didn't want to cause more pressure against her aching skin. She ignored how he smelled of lead, sweat, and nylon from his gear. He was real. She felt his thumbs trace against the thin column of her back, feeling no restrictions there as it was another area that wasn't battered and cut. 

He hid his face in the crook of her neck, placing delicate and needy kisses there, afraid that she would be taken from him again, enjoying the feeling of her fingers running through his hair. "You don't have to do that, love - taking care of me when it's you that needs it." 

"I need to," She replied, the vibration from her bare chest on his enough to send a chill up his spine, the feeling of someone caring as much about him being foreign to his being. "Reminds me that I'm not in the pit of hell anymore." She said, referring to the prison. 

"I love you." He blurted, his lips connecting with her shoulder as he was still too afraid to tell it to her face, ignoring the gnawing denial at the back of his mind. He knew she wanted him to say it when it saved her, but he didn't care anymore. He wanted her to know now - to know how much she meant to him before anything worse could happen, and he didn't care if it was too early in their relationship, but he knew that she was who he wanted to be with. 

He felt her pull back to look him in the face, her hand coming up to cradle his cheek, her aching thumb swiping at the growing stubble. She's going to tell you to fuck off, Simon, he thought. "I love you, too." She whispered, desperate to smile, but it was just too painful. 

He smiled, easing his forehead to press against hers, letting her close the distance. 

They held the position for a few seconds before his lips kissed her forehead where it met her hairline, "Let me take care of you." She whispered, looking at the bottle of shampoo that he sat on the side of the tub. 

He chuckled, "I'm too tall for you to reach, sweetheart. Wouldn't want you to strain yourself." 

She scoffed, "Just because I look like this doesn't mean I can't take care of you. Guess you'll just have to bend down, huh?" 

"I'll be fine, love. What you need is to lay down," He replied, kissing her forehead again, desperately wanting to kiss her lips, but he knew he'd cause an unnecessary sting to the split on her bottom lip. "I'll be in there in a second." 

"Really?" She replied, her eyes softening at the thought. 

"Only if you want me to." 

"I mean, you're risking yourself, Simon..." 

"Loving you is a risk I'm willing to take," he said, helping her rid her hair of excess water before letting her cling to his arm as he stabilized her to step out of the tub. "It also proves I'm not afraid of anything." 

She couldn't help but smile at his words, "You got that right." She poked. 

»»-------¤-------««

After his shower, he changed into a clean set of clothing from his bag that was along with Kiera's, thankful that they were still able to re-steal the same Jeep from that night during the prison raid. He knew he had to return to where the other men were to avoid suspicion, but he was to the point that he didn't care. He knew nobody would say anything to him about it if he woke up before the others. He slipped on one of his long-sleeved shirts before easily lowering himself down onto the bed, watching how her body stayed still as she moved to lay on her aching side. 

"Goodnight, sweetheart." He whispered, assuming she was asleep and bringing the thin sheet to cover her chilled shoulder. 

"Simon?" She whispered. 

"Hm?" 

"Lay with me." 

"I am, love. I'm not going anywhere." He whispered. 

She motioned for him to spoon her, craving his warmth. He slowly slid his arm to where it was between her head and the pillow, cradling her against his chest as his hand gripped her upper arm, rubbing smooth circles on her skin as his left leg was between hers, holding in a wince as her cold feet came in contact with his leg as the pantleg rode up with his movement. "I wish we could stay like this forever." She whispered, toying with his fingers. 

"Me too, but not here," He replied, his fingers toying back with hers, rubbing the pad of his thumb along the top of her pinky and ring finger. One day, he thought as he rubbed the ring finger, mentally picturing that finger with a diamond ring on it. "Get some sleep, sweetheart." 

[compressedrage]

just watched the Sonic X Shadow Generations: Dark Beginnings Episode 1 (the longest title I've ever heard) and boy do I have THOUGHTS

The title is "Shadow and Maria". You know I'm going to be in shambles by the end of this mini series

The beginning paralleling how Shadow ran with Maria right before her death but their roles are reversed, and nothing's actually wrong someone hold me–

Just Shadow asking what's wrong. Just him being prepared to catch Maria when she collapses. Just how frustrated he is at how they haven't been able to cure her yet. Just... yes.

Maria is excited to see the aurora, both in the Ark and on Earth– stab me in the chest

I am in awe of that fight scene. The effects are so good and it's so fast! I can't wait to go back and appreciate the choreography better.

THE NIGHTMARE SEQUENCE HAS MY ENTIRE SOUL.

Ahem, sorry, I love dream scenes and nightmares and all that fun stuff, and this is done SO WELL. Everything is so eerie and wrong but Shadow can't do anything other than just barely grasp what's happening because he's being thrown from one traumatizing event to another.

He has a Chaos Emerald on his person. I'm not surprised.

HE UPROOTED. A TREE. FROM A STATE OF SLEEP.

And he's off to get answers, oh boy!! I can't wait to see these answers.

And now I get to talk about the animation because oh my gosh. It's so good. Shadow's Chaos powers look insanely good, especially when they're illuminating the darkness around the characters.

The Aurora borealis is absolutely gorgeous, as well as the ensuing explosions. which sounds a little funny but sue me, animated explosions are beautiful.

Again, the speed and artistry of the fight scene is a marvel to see. The colors and lighting are incredible.

I don't think I can name all of the things I love about this animation, but I had an enormous amount of fun watching it. I can't wait to see the next episode! :D

[helloheyhihowdyheya]

Rose Thorn Blues | p. 1

Peter Parker x fem!reader

Masterlist

Summary: The other Daily Bugle intern has been a thorn in your side all summer. But if you wanted the job, you'd have to work with him. And you'd do anything to get it.

Word count: ~7k

Warnings: Enemies to lovers!! Banter. Criminal activity. Swearing. A bit of angst but not really. J. Jonah Jameson lol.

A/n: I think this'll end up being around 3 parts, but we'll see. This has been tumblin' through my mind since last year, so I'm glad to finally let it out lol. Let me know your thoughts! Thanks for reading <3

You used to enjoy the clear sky on a sunny day, the vibrating blue that stretched until it curved around the horizon. Used to love the way the lapping waves of the Atlantic shimmered for miles, its ripples echoing the sky’s image. The blue of the world before the sun came up, or the indigo quiet of a rainy day.

You even used to love how red the rusted bricks outlining your apartment building looked, tracing the tips of your fingers along them as you walked by, scarlet pebbles breaking off into your palm. The cherry glow of a late-night diner’s “Open” sign made the beats of your heart stutter, its lights reflecting off the glass and illuminating puddles littering the sidewalk. Even with the occasional rose you passed on your way to work, the red petals surrounded by thorns and overgrown weeds, you still leaned your nose in to smell its sweet crimson scent. 

But that was before your internship at The Daily Bugle, before you had to write countless stories on Spider-Man all the time, and before you knew Peter, the other intern. Now, every cloudless day or trip to the ocean, hell, even the plump blueberries in the grocery store or a swirling glass of Merlot, an obnoxious red stoplight, or the tiniest cut exposing a drop of blood turned your stomach. You knew people could change you, but you’d never expected to hate the shades of red and blue — until you stared at it every day while standing in Parker’s shadow.

You’d shake your head, shove your fingernails into your palm, blink so hard your vision turned bright just to erase those colors from your mind and him from your thoughts. But you would have no such luck as you weaved your way through New York’s sidewalks under the summer sun, a barely-there breeze passing alongside the traffic. Your hand clutched your phone tight in its grasp.

On it held a photo of Spider-Man you’d just taken earlier that morning. He stopped a robbery, and you captured the moment he’d ripped off a car door to use as cover — a story that J. Jonah Jameson would love to spin into something ridiculous. You had nothing against the superhero, but it was what your boss wanted. The boss that would decide which intern would receive a full-time position at the end of the summer, and you wouldn’t go down without a fight against Parker.

He always had clearer photos and more information on Spider-Man — always seemed to get on the scene before you. You wouldn’t have been that upset if Parker actually was a better reporter than you, but that smug, chronically late asshole certainly wasn’t better than you. Not when you worked twice as hard just to watch him successfully stumble his way through this internship. 

And that stupid shrug he gave you when Jameson chose his story over yours! He’d mutter, “Better luck next time,” as if you weren’t covering for his ass half the time. You weren’t sure why you did it anymore. Maybe you didn’t want to watch him get fired since this wasn’t an easy opportunity to get, but you definitely wouldn’t mind sitting back and enjoying him get chewed out by Jameson.

But that was unimportant now as you made your way into The Daily Bugle’s building, savoring the air conditioning as your breath tumbled from your mouth. This picture and the eyewitness statements you took would create a story Jameson wouldn’t think twice about choosing, especially when Parker always came in late in the mornings.

Walking through your floor’s doors, photo pulled up on your phone, you quickly dropped your bag at your desk before making your way to pitch the idea to Jameson. You’d mentally written the first half of it on your walk here already.

Your steps faltered though as you neared the office, hearing your boss’s voice echoing through the office.

“Good work, Parker. Finish it by noon, and we’ll publish it today.”

He was already here? Silently, you gritted your teeth, peering into the room. And of course, out walked Parker, one hand holding papers and the other shoved in his pocket.

“The one day you’re on time… I can’t believe this,” you quietly muttered, feeling a weight sink into your stomach. His shoulders hung casually while yours raised up and down with your breaths. His half-smile made you stare daggers into him.

He just raised an eyebrow at you. “Good morning to you too, sunshine. Most people happen to love my presence.”

You silently ignored his nickname for you as you said, “Then most people must be lying to you. What story did you give him?” You pointed your head toward the office, chewing on the inside of your cheek.

“So you can go in and try to one-up me?” He scoffed, his eyes annoyingly bright and warm. “No thanks.”

As he made to walk away, you grabbed his arm despite your aversion to being near him. Even the heat of his skin made you too warm, just another reason to stay away from Parker. “I lied to Jameson last week while you were off doing who-knows-what when you should’ve been working. Now what was the goddamn story?”

The sound of other employees talking and making coffee filled the background. If you could just beat him, you’d be part of them one day. So you didn’t let up, waiting for him to answer as he looked between your hand and your eyes. He shook off your touch after a moment.

You watched his jaw tick, his eyes roll to the back of his empty head. “Fine. And because I don’t think I could handle the second-hand embarrassment. I’ll tell you that if your story’s about whatever Spider-Man was up to this morning, you might want to skip telling Jameson.”

The grip on your phone loosened a bit, along with the hope you’d put into this — into trying to prove that you were a good reporter too. But, of course, you were always stuck finding stories on Spider-Man, and too late with them anyway. Anything else wasn’t important news, not at this company.

You tried, and failed, to keep your frustration from your voice as you asked, “And how did you get here before me with that story? You’re literally never here on time and just always have some bullshit idea that’s barely a story.”

Parker just gave a short laugh, smirking at you. “And yet… I still beat you. Kinda stings, huh?”

You gave a grumbled “Piss off” before letting him walk past you this time. You filled up your water bottle, headed to the bathroom, made small talk with some woman you’d immediately forgotten the name of — all distractions so you didn’t have to go back to the desk that sat much too close to Parker, especially while he worked on the story that should’ve been yours.

When you finally returned, you refused to look at a particular person across from you — the two intern desks only separated by a half wall. You just fished out your headphones at the cheap desk with no air conditioning under the city’s hot summer.  

A much-needed break from Spider-Man you gave to yourself, you continued working on a story you started researching last week. You’d gathered some statements and data about new unsafe water conditions in certain parts of the city. The story wouldn’t star on the front page of the website, or even the second. Third, if you were lucky.

The morning passed with minimal shouting coming from Jameson’s office and just a few “friendly” follow-up emails with sources you hadn’t heard back from. In the brief moments of silence between the end of one song and the beginning of another, you listened to traffic flowing through the streets below and the droning sounds of keyboards and the printer.

Only once you finished up the first draft of your article and turned to grab your notebook from a drawer did you notice a sticky note plastered on the edge of your desk. In messy handwriting, it said, “You type like a child bangs their fists on a piano” followed by a doodle of the sun, with sunglasses.

It wasn’t difficult to tell whose horrible scribbling this was. So after writing “Eat shit <3” on the back, you crumpled it up. You tossed it right at Parker’s face as you stood up, going to a meeting with one of the full-time writers here. Instead of knowing he caught it like always, you pretended it hit him right in the eye and gave him a papercut.

You didn’t look back as you approached Alice’s desk, the lead writer of the office. Her black curls bounced as she lifted her head, smiling at you. “Ready?”

“Yes, and thank you again for meeting with me,” you said, nodding with your notebook under your arm. She stood up, motioning you toward an empty office for the informational interview — mostly just asking her about her career in hopes it could help yours.

Sitting across from one another, you took notes as she spoke about herself and answered your many questions. Your writing filled one page after another, your wrist becoming sore but ignored under the weight of knowing this information could be important. When you asked what advice she would give to someone just starting out as a reporter, the silence that followed made you finally lift your head.

Alice looked at you with a soft smile while your pen stalled. “I would tell them that it’s not an easy career. And that it’s not for those without passion. You have to want this — and show it. The stories out there you want to tell… you can’t be afraid to search out the truth. ‘Leaving well enough alone’ has never been in my vocabulary.”

Your unfocused stare stayed on her while you processed those words… and the worry that you weren’t cut out for this work. There were stories you wanted to tell, but you couldn’t find the place to tell them. A cynical part of your mind shouted that maybe Parker did deserve the job at the end of this internship more than you.

The thoughts must have been evident on your face because Alice spoke again, her voice calm but stern. “Don’t worry. I see the passion in you. The best advice is to not let Jameson or anyone else stop you. ‘Kay?”

You nodded, unable to stop the smile on your face. So caught up in her words, you wrote down a condensed version of her answer: Follow your heart. Your thumb rubbed over the dried ink of the page, feeling the ridges of each letter. “Thank you, Alice. I’ll keep trying,” you said, and meant it. 

She let out a light laugh, the sound loosening the tight muscles in your shoulders. “You better. I’ve been rooting for you to get the job,” she whispered, giving a wink that had you laughing too.

“Well I can’t let you down then, can I?” Letting your smile fall just a little, the curve of it no longer touching your eyes, you silently hoped that you wouldn’t disappoint her. Thanking Alice again, you made your way back to your desk with too many thoughts running through your head.

Slow moments passed as you returned to your chair, the cheap thing squeaking underneath you with each movement. Still, you closed your eyes for a second, just feeling the cushion beneath you, the armrests under your hands, the backrest keeping you from collapsing. A breath filled your lungs, chest rising inch by inch. You would not wait for anyone’s permission to change the world — even if that just meant ignoring your lying thoughts to change your own little world.

Slowly, you went back through your notes, adding bits here and there that you missed while Alice had spoken. At the bottom, you just underlined her final advice… letting the words bleed into your body as you promised to keep them at the center of your stories.

It kept you focused on your article surrounding unsafe water quality in the city. Thankfully, the hours passed quickly, and you got the article up on the site by the end of the day. All with minimal interruptions from Parker — despite another sticky note that said “Thanks for the granola bar ;)” on it. And sure enough, the granola bar you had on your desk was no longer there, but you silently tossed the note in the garbage without letting him know he got to you.

Though, with no snack, your stomach was definitely grumbling as you packed up. So you made the trek to a cafe with your backpack on, one headphone in, and a middle finger aimed toward Parker when he tried talking to you, a smirk plastered on his face that told you he had nothing important or nice to say.

The summer heat hit you as you exited the building, making you strip off your office-appropriate blazer. Still, you didn’t mind the sunlight after spending all day inside. Your music drifted into your ear, the beat of it matching your steps. You turned the volume down once making it into the bakery with the best after-work treat, the pink sign outside painted with cursive words: “Pat’s Pastries.”

Baked bread and sweet chocolate filled your nose, the smell helping you forget about work for a minute. You ordered your favorite cookie, pointing to the biggest one behind the glass. Silently, you ignored the whole tray of Spider-Man themed cookies they’d begun selling after the superhero saved the store from a robbery.

Instead, you just left the shop with a bite of the cookie already in your mouth. It practically melted on your tongue, tasting better than any granola bar Parker could steal from you. The cookie lasted you all the way home, filling you with a pleasant warmth.

In your apartment, you stood in the entryway for a moment. With slow movements, you removed your shoes, setting down all of your things. You’d only been collapsed on your couch for a few minutes before your phone vibrated. Part of you thought to ignore it and let the weight of your heavy eyelids drag you into a nap, but you knew it could be work. A groan came from your throat as you saw that it was work — a comment left on your article already.

People that commented on these pieces often had few nice things to say, so you braced yourself upon opening the site. Your thumb slid across the screen until you reached the bottom. Left by some guest user, the comment simply read: “What’s new? Beaumont fumbles again…”

Beaumont. Ellis Beaumont, the current city manager. He’d certainly faced as much backlash as any other official since he’d taken over five years ago, but you hadn’t considered him all that much when researching for this article. Did he have to do with poor water conditions in the city?

Before you could stop yourself, your hands went to your laptop. Your fingers typed across the keyboard, searching for relations between him and other issues the city faced recently. What came up most often was Beaumont’s press releases after most of them. His salt and pepper hair sat tightly cut to his head, no specks of dust visible on his expensive-looking suits. In each one, he stated how he and his team would work on fixing the problem — from unaffordable housing to upgrading technology throughout the city.

It wasn’t new to see a leader promise to do something and not follow through, but something kept sticking with you while you researched. At some point, between the sun falling behind the city skyline and ordering takeout to be delivered, you found yourself with dozens of open tabs and tired eyes.

Raking a hand down your face, you let out a long sigh. You finished reading another speech where he promised to fix something, crumbling infrastructure this time — “if only we had the funds!” And cue the part where he asked for donations to his nonprofit organization or proposed a government plan that would cost the citizens in tax money. Yet… hadn’t he raised the money? The last you’d checked, the street he’d mentioned repairing still had its potholes and unusable sidewalks.

A knocking on your door brought you to it, your eyes never leaving your computer screen. You just grabbed your food and paid the deliverer with a mumbled “thanks” before walking back to the laptop.

As quickly as you could, you yanked out your notebook from your bag and wrote down everything about Ellis Beaumont — before your food got cold. Your wrist ached again as you flipped the page, continuing to fill the lines with his career, his promises, and his letdowns.

Each of his projects toward bettering the city came with asking for money — money that didn’t show back up in the work. He’d made no updates as to how much he had raised or how he was going to use it. At the end of your notes, you wrote down in heavy ink: “Where is Ellis Beaumont’s money going??”

And even as you ate, trying to watch the comfort show you’d put on, your mind kept working in the background. Had others not also wondered this? Or if they had, did he have them in his pocket already? Sleep fought you that night, making you toss and turn in bed. But you had a story.

–

Walking into The Daily Bugle, you ‘clocked in’ (let Jameson see you in the office) and dropped off your bag. With just your notes, a pen, and a granola bar so no one would steal it, you made your way back out of the building.

Right before you made it from the office, though, a mop of dark hair appeared at the door. A small part of you wanted to somehow hide, the other part unable to resist the draw of him for whatever reason. But Parker chose for you, his eyes lighting up when they caught on your form. Your following scowl was enough to make him laugh.

“There she is, our lovely sunshine,” he said, leaning against the door frame. You ignored the sarcasm dripping through his words.

Instead, you raised your eyebrows and told him, “If Jameson asks, I’m out researching a story. Got it?” 

“Woah, woah, woah.” Parker pushed off the frame. His smirk was enough to set you off, but then he held out a hand to block you from passing. Behind your unyielding glare, you secretly hoped he tripped over his untied shoelaces or smashed his hand in the office printer. As he came closer to you, he asked, “Where are you off to? I haven’t seen any sightings of Spider-Man.”

“That’s a shame,” you said, uninterested. Grabbing his forearm, accidentally feeling the hard muscle underneath, you moved it out of your way. “Have fun getting him coffee!” You shouted it over your shoulder, leaving him standing there while you ignored the heat on your palm from touching his skin. 

You shook your hand out, waving away the memory as you took the subway over to City Hall. It had to be as good as any place to start researching where the city’s money went after Ellis Beaumont flashed a white smile and pocketed it. He probably wouldn’t talk with you, but anything to get you closer would be worth it.

Emerging from the subway station, your eyes squinted against the brightness. Still morning, the heat hadn’t settled in yet — just leaving you with a sunny walk and a nice breeze.

The building’s intimidating size rose high toward the sky. A statue of justice, a woman holding scales and a sword, stood atop City Hall — staring down at each person as you entered the front doors. The ornate architecture and grand staircase inside didn’t help settle the daunting feeling crawling in your stomach.

Still, you walked up to the man sitting behind the front desk there, trying to look as friendly as possible. Smoothing out your outfit and putting a smile on, you said, “Hi.”

He looked up with a classic customer service grin to greet you. “Hello, how can I help you?” he asked, leaning toward you slightly.

You kept your shoulders back, mustering some sort of confidence in your investigation. How would Alice do this?

With a clear voice, you directly asked, “If I was looking for records of donations for a government-related nonprofit, would they be here? I couldn’t seem to find them online.” You gave him an unassuming look.

“Typically, but what nonprofit were you looking at?” he asked, typing something into his computer. You took out your notebook low enough that he couldn’t see past the desk.

Pretending to rack your brain for the name, you said, “I think it’s called Stronger Together. I love being able to see where my donation goes — it helps make me feel closer to the community, you know?”

Your hand ready to write fell limp when his mouth pressed tight, his eyes leaving the screen to meet yours. “Ah,” he said, “Well Mr. Beaumont is not always able to update that information, as he has many responsibilities to maintain.”

“Of course, I understand. Though, I also noticed that the recent infrastructure project has yet to be enacted. Is there an update on that?” You willed your voice to stay steady, to be unwavering under the impatient gaze of this man.

A muscle seemed to twitch in his jaw. “I don’t believe the organization has given one, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t been working on it. He is a very busy man.”

“Busy enough that I wouldn’t be able to speak with him directly?”

“I’m afraid not,” he said, shaking his head, but he didn’t seem too sorry at all. “We could take your number for him to call you when he’s available, but…”

“He’s very busy,” you finished, giving a smile as you bit back a pained sigh. “That’ll be okay, I’m happy to have helped the cause.”

“Yes, and we’re very thankful for your donation.” The tight grin he gave looked like it hurt his cheeks to make.

“Well, thank you for the information,” you said. Just as you were about to leave, beginning to leave with nothing to show for the story, you turned back. “I know this is quite specific, but would you know what Mr. Beaumont’s next project is?”

Another flicker of impatience flashed across the man’s face, his hands clasping together. “No, I wouldn’t, but I’m sure it will be a great help to the city whatever it is. I think there may be a nonprofit fundraiser this weekend… but those are typically closed events — for investors and friends,” he said, his smile turning less warm by the minute. “You can donate online anytime.”

“Great, thank you,” you muttered before turning around, frantically jotting the little information you received down in your notes while walking away. You swore you could feel the man’s eyes on you until you slipped out the doors. 

The entire ride back to the office, this story ate away at you. Everyone seemed to be keeping information on Beaumont’s money close to their chests, even about what his supposed nonprofit was really doing.

‘Stronger Together.’ You rolled your eyes, beginning to feel like he was the only one getting stronger. And he was having another fundraiser so soon? Probably for something like conservation this time — his team would likely make a whole show of planting a couple trees and get praised for it. 

As soon as you got back to The Daily Bugle, you ignored everything as you dropped into your chair and opened your computer. Your fingers flew over the keyboard to type up the notes, both for decoding your scribbled words and ensuring you kept the information in multiple places. You tried tuning out the background chatter and the gnawing worry that this whole story would lead to a dead end, but you couldn’t ignore everything…

“Whatcha typin’ there?” Parker said as he swiveled his chair around the desks to look at you. Glancing for a moment at him, you saw the shit-eating smile pointed your way.

Your face flashed a fake grin. “Your resignation letter, Parker.” You continued typing, not responding to his quiet scoff. But then he stood up, his steps gentle against the floor. He towered over you as he came around to look at your screen.

Before he could even reach your desk, you switched tabs to a blank page. Without glancing up at him, you silently waited for him to stop watching you. It worked well enough at first, your mind happily turning blank instead of entertaining him. 

But he put his hand on the edge of your desk, his body now much too close to yours. The warm scent of him washing over you had your skin prickling, your fingernails pressing into your palm.

Barely heard above the blood rushing past your ears, his voice came out quieter than you’d expected. “So secretive. You won’t even share with me?”

Ignoring the glint of smugness on his face, you turned to look up at him. “So you can try to one-up me? No thanks,” you repeated, using his words from yesterday. 

“But given my track record for front-page stories, I’m sure you could definitely use my help.” Parker shoved a hand in his pocket, winking at you with those stupid dark eyes. In that moment, you wondered whether you could somehow frame him for helping Spider-Man and get Jameson to tackle him. 

So caught up in that happy fantasy, you didn’t catch Parker’s other hand creeping across the desk until he’d already snatched your notebook. And before you could even stand to grab it back, his leg came up and pushed on one of your desk chair’s armrests, sending it spinning.

While your legs tried stopping the chair, you heard him say, “How are you even able to read this? Okay, I won’t tell Jameson, but you’ve gotta be honest with me: do you know how to write? Or read, for that matter.”

“I was walking while taking notes– whatever, Parker. I don’t need to explain myself to your dumbass,” you whisper yelled at him, stalking over to his side of the desks. But he moved the notebook away, cocking his head to the side.

With a grin that told you just how much fun he was having, he said, “Huh, I didn’t know your pretty little head knew how to multi-task.”

You opened your mouth for a second, processing that he called you pretty, before rolling your eyes. “Must be hard to imagine anything with your smooth brain. Now give me my notebook back.” 

In the background, you heard Jameson screaming to some poor soul on the phone. You hoped it at least covered up your bickering with Parker. But it wouldn’t be able to drown out the sound of you strangling him, which you were now seriously considering as he held up a finger to you. 

In a calmer voice, he asked, “Are you really doing a piece on Ellis Beaumont?”

Scoffing, you reached over and grabbed your notebook from his grasp. He didn’t seem to put up much of a fight, hopefully mentally perceiving the threats running through your mind. As you returned to your desk, you glanced once more at him — and got caught on something in the look he gave you.

“Yes,” you told him before sitting down, leaving Parker and any distractions on that side of the half-wall. The last thing you heard was a sigh before you put your headphones in.

For the rest of the day, you finished writing up your notes and your other assigned work. In between projects, you secretly continued researching everything you could about Beaumont and where those donations went. Site after site returned empty, most of them just filled with propaganda for his non-profit.

With weary eyes and a fuzzy mind, you finally found something as everyone in the office began to finish up. You wiped a hand down your face, a weight lifting from your shoulders when you discovered an address.

Searching through countless websites, some of which you probably shouldn’t have been using your work computer for, you combed through records of donations to Stronger Together. Most listed City Hall or Beaumont’s address in their donation. But one other address continued popping up more than a few times — somewhere in upper Manhattan, far from where the organization would operate from.

If you were listening to Alice’s advice to follow your heart, you would’ve stayed home. Your pounding pulse yelled at you that going to check out this address after sunset was the worst idea you’d ever had.

On your walk home and all through dinner, you pushed back against the trickling fear down your spine — caused by the ice-cold voice in the corners of your mind filled with every worst-case scenario. It only grew louder as you neared the address. 

You hadn’t done much field work before, or any that hadn’t just involved taking blurry pictures of Spider-Man and making New Yorkers talk to you. As you walked along the sidewalk with your shoes tapping against the cracked concrete, following the directions on your phone, you wondered whether you were cut out for this. You kept your head on a swivel and senses alert, but did you have any clue what you were going to do once you reached the building? No, not really.

You had come after dark, so breaking in certainly didn’t seem out of the question. And as much as you disliked thinking about him, knowing that Parker wouldn’t back away from this if he were here kept your legs moving. 

Before long, with a warm breeze at your back, you came up to a large warehouse. It sat in a pretty empty area — one with few people around that you could see. A few street lamps illuminated the space around it, the light stretching down a small alleyway next to the building. Craning your neck, you began walking down it, seeing whether you could peer in anywhere.

Your fingers brushed along the building’s side as you passed by several dark windows. Unable to spot anything through them, you crept toward the back. No workers, or anyone really, seemed to be there. Nothing except for a metal fire escape. It seemed to lead up to a door with more windows lining either side. Fluorescent lighting shone from inside. 

Swallowing hard, you forced your body to walk toward it. Each step you took up went slowly, trying to keep your feet silent as you climbed the stairs. Under the weight of the stars and night sky, even with the sounds of traffic passing by, each breath felt too loud.

Silently wishing to anyone that’d listen, you hoped no one stood on the other side as you slowly looked in. But you only found boxes — not all that surprising, but disappointment mingled with the relief coursing through your muscles. 

Hundreds of boxes sat throughout the warehouse, lining countless shelves. You made a guess that they probably weren’t storing any tools for fixing the infrastructure like Beaumont promised. But you wouldn’t be able to find out what they held without breaking in, something you didn’t think your nerves could take.

Though… someone else could show you what’s inside. 

From the corner of your eye, you saw a brief movement along the floor of the building. Someone moved into view, dressed in a black uniform and holding a clipboard in their hands. They walked to a shelf you could just barely see and opened up one of the boxes. They set the clipboard aside to pull out something… long and metal. At the end appeared to be a claw of some sort–

Internally, you winced, instantly able to recognize it from all your articles. It was one of Doc Ock’s arms. The other side was full of fraying wires, no doubt ripped apart from a fight with Spider-Man. God, why did everything always have to come back to Spider-Man? 

And, in that moment, you must’ve pissed off some god of fate to deserve this irony. As you were about to pull out your phone to capture the evidence, your thought alone summoned the man. A web attached to the worker, the other end coming from the red and blue superhero crouched on a support beam. Within a second, he pulled them up to the ceiling and cocooned them in webbing to dangle there — the scene forcing an involuntary gasp escape your lips.

Spider-Man had jumped down with supernatural grace and looked like he was going to investigate the box further, but whipped his head toward you at your gasp. Your heart crawled into your throat, your hand snapping up to cover your mouth.

Racing down the fire escape, your scrambled thoughts tumbling around your head, you hurried back to the street away from what you’d witnessed. But before you could leave the alleyway, a flash of those dreaded shades of red and blue dropped down in front of you — your feet stumbling backward as you barely kept a startled scream from coming out.

“Hey, hey. Not here to hurt you. I do the opposite actually,” Spider-Man said, his hands up to show you he meant no harm. His voice sounded unnaturally deep, but blood rushed past your ears, clouding your senses. You shook your head slightly, trying to focus on getting out of there.

“But uh…” he continued, cautiously taking a single step closer, “I don’t think you live at this address. Is that right?”

You absentmindedly chewed on the inside of your cheek, debating on how much to tell him. He’d caught you sneaking around, but was that technically even a crime? Most likely. But clearly, you both were after some pretty similar things. So, while nodding your head toward the warehouse, you quietly asked, “What’s in there?”

His head tilted to the side as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Some no-no things. Which is probably why I should handle it, right?”

“Handle it how? By handing it over to the police?” you asked, a small jolt of panic rising in your chest. “What if it connects to something larger?” Your questions assumed that he didn’t exactly know where this warehouse came from and how it connected to Beaumont, but maybe not. Still, you couldn’t risk cutting this whole thing off early and breaking the investigation apart… and the story.

“Does it connect to something larger?” he asked, his gaze never seeming to leave you. You couldn’t tell much behind his mask, but the weight of those white eyes stayed focused on your face. They watched every microexpression crossing your face, despite the urge to hide from them.

Knowing you needed him on your side, or at least to not cover you in webs, you gave him a little more. Nodding, you said “Yeah, I think it does. I’m not sure how it all fits, but…”

“But?”

Pursing your lips, you let a breath pass before answering him. Jameson would kill you if he knew you were having this whole conversation without taking ‘photographic evidence’ and helping out Spider-Man. But that man was a prick anyway.

Letting out a long sigh, you said, “Check out Ellis Beaumont’s non-profit. I don’t think the donations are going where he says they are.”

He just cocked his head, but you moved around him, ready to leave this place and those watchful eyes. Your gaze avoided his as he let you pass toward the street, though he yelled out, “Do you need me to walk you home?” You just waved him off, your pace picking up. Still, he shouted a “Thank you!” for the information as you made the journey back to your apartment.

Unable to calm your body back to normal just yet, you found yourself jumping at every noise around you until your apartment door locked behind you. What you’d seen ran through your head again and again. 

What did Beaumont want with Spider-Man? Or was he working with the villains to get rid of Spider-Man? His money couldn’t just be going toward costume dress-up storage, but breaking into that warehouse alone was out of the question for you. Leave it to the superhero rather than risk your neck.

Your brain racked itself for answers, working to figure out what interest Spider-Man had in showing up at that warehouse anyway. Even into the next morning, these thoughts plagued your mind. It left you in a haze as you entered The Daily Bugle — the noise of the coffee machine and Jameson’s muffled yelling more distracting than usual.

Even more offputting was that sat at your desks was Parker, the second time he’d ever beaten you into the office. Immediately, his eyes found yours, but you didn’t have the energy to give him a sneer or a smart-ass comment. You just started up your computer, planning to type up your notes again. Your hand rubbed down your face as you waited for it to turn on, already anticipating the inevitable interruption.

Sure enough, Parker stuck his head over the half-wall, leaning his forearms along the top of it. His chin rested on them as he said, “You look rough.”

Without raising your eyes to him, you let out a long sigh. “Wow… Thanks,” you said, letting an unimpressed look take over your face. You opened your notebook, turning to the pages where you wrote every piece of information you could remember after the events last night.

Parker raised his hands up in surrender, as if he hadn’t insulted your appearance. “Jus’ saying, you seem a bit stressed. Need any help, sunshine?”

At that, you finally raised your gaze to meet his — his ruffled hair dipping over his forehead while waiting for your response. 

You squinted your eyes at him, your eyebrows furrowing at his words. “...I’m not letting you take this story from me, Parker.”

“Hey, I could merely co-author this story with you,” he offered with that smirk of his. “And I’m sick of writing about Spider-Man’s favorite restaurants to order from. C’mon.” He dragged out the word, practically begging you.

Crossing your arms across your chest, you considered him for a moment and his offer. His mouth tightened, drawing your gaze down to his lips and the sharpness of his jaw. Not the time.

“You really want to help me?” When he nodded, you still didn’t believe him. With a scoff, you asked, “Are you going soft on me?”

A sharp laugh escaped his mouth. “Don’t get used to it. This would cost you a week’s worth of granola bars.”

“Aren’t you the one asking to join?” you questioned with a smile you couldn’t hide. When he didn’t budge despite his ridiculous demand, you just muttered, “I’ll think about it.”

The long groan he gave as he sat back down told you how he felt about your answer, but it was easier to ignore now that he wasn’t staring at you. Why he was so interested in this story made no sense to you — not that you thought about it long as you finally typed up your notes. 

Instead, you tried to figure out where to go next, where this warehouse might lead you. But a growing fear told you that it wouldn’t lead anywhere, your research online not giving you someone to question or even contact information for Beaumont. This politician seemed to keep things annoyingly tight under wraps. 

As minutes slipped away while you ran into dead end after dead end in your searching, you internally debated whether to accept Parker’s help. Waves crashed in your stomach, the tide receding far away as if in anticipation of a tsunami — one threatening to destroy you. Letting him in meant risking your story, and risking the chance that he could get all the credit for your work.

As much as you hated the idea of sharing this with him, part of you thought you might’ve been in over your head. Especially after the run-in last night. And Parker certainly knew his stuff… sometimes. Not that you’d tell him that.

It was only once your search about Beaumont and that warehouse frustratingly turned up blank once more that you let out a sigh. It seemed it’d be a story with him or no story at all.

“Parker?” you called across the desks. 

The sound of his chair shifting joined his raspy, “Yeah?” You bit back a grin as you realized you’d woken him up from one of his frequent work naps. When he swiveled into view, the red spot on his cheek from where he must’ve laid it on his arms confirmed your suspicions. 

Still, you had to clear your tight throat before telling him, “You can help. But only if my name goes first, got it?” Before he could respond, you followed with, “And I take the lead on things, okay?” Your stare pierced his eyes, silently begging him to not take this from you.

The small laugh he gave loosened your tense shoulders just a bit, made your fists unclench. “Whatever you say goes…” he said, nodding with the most honest look you’d seen from him. “With some exceptions though. Cause you have a lot of bad ideas I’d like to veto.”

You wondered whether asking for Peter Parker’s help was one of those terrible, idiotic ideas. You hoped not.

@reidslovely

[trekscribbles]

The Bushwhack Job: Chapter Five

Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four

(Disclaimer: This is a relatively rough draft and subject to change when I post to AO3. I'm just overly excited and want to share what I have.)

That night, Spencer dreamed of faces he didn’t know.

Golden hair and the smell of jasmine and graphite; large, warm hands gripping bottles of orange soda, stretching out to grasp his palm, pulling him close until their shoulders bumped together. A soft voice, speaking in a lilting accent that soothed his anxieties, made him smile. Sharp blue eyes watching him, seeing him, and not looking away.

It felt comfortable, at first. Familiar in a way that made him ache with loneliness, but left him feeling content. But then the dreams shifted, filled his mouth with the taste of blood and sweat and fear, and he laid still on his bed/bunk/ledge/grave—the location kept changing—and tried to breathe as silently as possible while feverish shivers wracked his body. He wanted to get up, to cry out, to go back to his undeserved home, but he couldn’t move.

And then the images pulled together, refocusing on the memory of the woman with golden hair. A photograph. She was looking over her shoulder, frozen, walking toward—toward something, toward... a plan, something he knew, something he had to stop. She was in danger. God, she was in danger, and he was just lying there—

He thrashed awake, throwing himself upright as his legs tangled in his sheets, panting, sweating, desperately trying to hold the image of her face in his mind.

But it was gone. For a long moment, he sat leaning over his bent knees, breathing through the pain in his head and his back and his hands, his eyes squeezed shut against the unfamiliar room. Training took over, and he worked his way through each part of his body, relaxing tense muscles and slowing his frantic heartbeat until he could open his eyes with the certainty that they would be dry.

Then he threw off his blankets, pulled on pair of jeans from the dresser, and eased down the stairs on silent feet. The clock on the stove read 4:12 AM, but it was better to do this early, while everyone was still asleep.

He had to go back to the building. It was his only clue, and if she was the one he’d left be hind... It didn’t matter if the men after him were still there, if they were waiting for him to return—none of it mattered. If anything happened to her, it would be his fault.

She deserved better. But if he was all she had, he had to try.

He retraced his journey from the night before with little difficulty; he’d checked their backtrail frequently, compulsively, and the route was easy to recognize. He went at a jog despite his pounding head and throbbing ankle, his senses trained on the shadow of the burned-out building ahead. Reflective police tape threw the street light back at him, winking and taunting as he drew closer. Everything was still.

He forced himself to slow then, creeping through the shadows as he circled the building, searching for any sign of the men who’d tried to kill him. The firefighters and police had already gone, leaving the block in eerie silence that did nothing to soothe the anxiety churning his stomach. It appeared to be empty. He moved toward a collapsed wall, searching out a path through the debris.

He didn’t know what he was looking for. A room, maybe, something that had survived the fire—some clue that she’d been there. Some clue that she’d made it out. He cleared the ground level and moved toward the stairs, patting the soot from his clothes. He would have to replace them, but he already planned on leaving Sunny most of his cash when this was over.

A hand touched his shoulder. Faster than he could think, Spencer grabbed it and heaved, dropping his center of gravity to lift and throw the body connected to the hand. There was a grunt as the body landed at Spencer’s feet, and he crouched to put pressure on his assailant’s shoulder to hold him down.

His grip faltered when he took in the man’s face. “J.B.?”

“You got some impressive reflexes,” J.B. coughed. He grinned, and Spencer let him up with a glare.

“You followed me?”

J.B. rubbed his wrist, wincing as he climbed to his feet. “Heard you leave, and I thought you shouldn’t be out on your own. Head injuries don’t always make for the best decisions.”

“I’m fine,” Spencer said. “You can go back.”

“This place doesn’t exactly scream fine,” J.B. said, lifting his eyebrows.

Spencer turned back to the stairs. “I just have to check something.”

“Maybe I can help,” J.B. said. “There was a report on the fire last night. I saw it on the news.”

Hope and fear clenched in Spencer’s stomach. “Were there any—was anyone—” He took a breath, swallowed hard. “Did they find anybody inside?”

J.B. hesitated, and the hope splintered into dread. “They said there were three people inside… they didn’t make it out in time.”

The floor slanted beneath his feet. He staggered, straightened, stepped toward the stairs—and then his knees were on the ground, and his breath was coming in sharp, shallow pants, and his head felt like it was splitting in two. J.B. crouched at his side, his hands on his shoulders, but his words sounded distant.

“Breathe, Spencer. We don’t know for sure—”

“I left her.” The words dragged themselves out of the hollow in his chest, up his raw throat, over and over again as the realization sank into his bones. “I left her. I ran away and left her.”

“Who?” J.B. asked.

Spencer raked his hands through his hair. “I don’t know. I can’t remember—I can’t—” He fought through the jumble of emotions battering his brain, dug for memories of her, of her name, anything—and she smiled at him, her hair tied back, and laughed when he grumbled at her—she took a bite of the donut he wanted, and he let her have it—she jumped out of a window, and he caught her—she’d trusted him to protect her and he left her to burn alone. Had she cried? Had she damned him? He wouldn’t have blamed her—he damned himself.

Her phantom screams echoed in his ears, and he folded in on himself, pressed his forehead against his knees, and wept.

***

J.B stayed with him until his body stopped shaking. He didn’t know how long it was, and he didn’t remember getting up, but when he came back to himself, J.B. had his arm draped over his shoulders and was guiding him out of the building. They managed that way, Spencer leaning more and more heavily as they walked, until they finally stumbled up the stairs to Sunny’s place. Somehow, they went further, all the way up to Spencer’s borrowed room, where J.B. laid him gently on his borrowed bed and told him to get some rest.

He didn’t.

Hours passed, and no one disturbed him. He laid where he’d been put, staring up at the ceiling and trying to hold on to the memory of her face. He couldn’t see her anymore, and that hurt, but at least her screams had faded.

The rest of the house was waking up. He heard their footsteps downstairs, the echoes of their voices, Sunny’s loud laugh. He wanted to stay where he was, but Sunny had opened her home to him, and he would earn his keep. His clothes were blackened, so he changed again and shoved his cash into his pocket. He would buy new clothes, and the rest would go to Sunny.

It was still early—before 8, some instinct told him—but he smelled coffee as he came down the stairs, and the sounds of something frying filled him with a pleasant feeling he didn’t deserve. Sunny looked up from the stove when he came into the kitchen and nodded to the counter. “Coffee’s ready. Help yourself.”

J.B. was at the tiny table with another man, who Spencer assumed to be Miguel. They both had their own mugs already, and J.B. nodded when Spencer looked their way, but Miguel scowled. “¿Este es el chico nuevo?” he said, his voice thick with disapproval. “Duerme hasta tarde.”

“Spencer, Miguel,” J.B. said, shooting a reproachful look at the other man. “Don’t mind Miguel. He takes a while to warm up to newcomers.”

Spencer took an empty cup from the counter and poured himself some coffee. “No es un problema,” he murmured. “Pero no duermo mucho. 90 minutos al día es todo.”

“There you go, Miguel,” J.B. laughed. “No more complaining that no one speaks Spanish.”

Huh. Apparently he spoke Spanish, too. He took a drink to give his hands something to do and studied Miguel over the rim of his mug. He was a small man, compact, built like a wrestler, and he glared at Spencer like he wanted to do more than talk. 

“Settle down,��� Sunny said, waving a wooden spatula at them. “Spencer, don’t get smart with him, he doesn’t know how to take it. J.B., quit stirring up trouble. And Miguel, I expect you to be civil, d’you understand? Now get your plates and get some eggs, and go eat them in the other room where you won’t be in my way. I got work to do.”

Miguel held Spencer’s gaze as far as the stove, where he turned to whisper up into Sunny’s ear. She swatted him with spatula. “You don’t make that decision, Miguel,” she snapped. “I say who stays. Now get, or I won’t feed you.”

He accepted a plate full of scrambled eggs, took some toast from a plate beside the coffee pot, and elbowed past Spencer on his way out of the room. J.B. followed, smiling an apology as he accepted his own food, but Spencer hesitated at the counter. “I’d like to help out,” he said awkwardly. “If you have anything that needs cleaning or fixing, I can—”

“Eat first,” Sunny said. She piled eggs on a plate and held it out to him, her eyes dark and sympathetic. “J.B. told me you went out this morning. Said you got some bad news.”

Spencer looked away, his gaze following Miguel out of the room. “You’ve been very kind to me. I don’t want there to be any trouble.”

“Like I told Miguel.” Sunny took his left hand and pushed the plate into it. “I make the decisions in this house.”

He took the plate, but before he could say anything else, a thump in the other room made him turn. J.B. leaned into the kitchen, a frown creasing the skin on his forehead. “Sunny,” he said, his voice grave. “They’re back.”

Sunny turned off the stove, letting out an impressive string of curses as she hurried out the door. Spencer set his plate and mug on the counter and hurried after her, adrenaline spiking through him. “Who is it?”

“Stay inside,” Sunny snapped. “Eat your breakfast. This won’t take long.”

J.B. flattened himself against the wall to let her pass and shot a concerned look at Spencer. “Do as she says,” he muttered. “Maybe get the first aid kit ready.” He ducked through the door after Sunny, trusting Spencer to do the sensible thing and stay out of trouble.

Spencer followed them out.

Miguel was on the top step outside the door, standing with his arms folded and his feet planted wide before a half dozen men in suits. They were tall, their muscles bulging inside their jackets, and they wore boots instead of dress shoes.

Enforcers, said a voice in Spencer’s head. Thugs for hire.

Sunny came up behind Miguel and glared down at the men. “I’ve told you before—I’m not selling. Now get off my property before I call the police.”

“I’m afraid we’re past the point of negotiation,” the man in the middle said. He took a step forward, cracking his knuckles. “I’m going to have to ask you to send your boys inside, ma’am. This is between us.”

Sunny lifted her spatula, but Spencer set a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t call her ‘ma’am’,” he said quietly, guiding her back a step so he could slip between her and Miguel. Miguel’s hands were clenched at his sides, and he glanced at Spencer as he moved beside him.

The man in the middle opened his mouth, and something like fear flickered across his face. 

“Janish,” the man next to him hissed. “Is that Spencer?”

They looked at him—all of them—but it was Sunny’s shocked expression that filled his vision. Spencer cleared his throat and looked back at the man in the middle. “Walk away.”

“You know I can’t do that,” the man—Janish—said.

Behind him, J.B. moved to stand at Spencer’s back. “We’re outnumbered,” he whispered.

“Not a problem,” Spencer said.

“You’re not in the best condition to make that call,” J.B. added.

Miguel shifted his weight, and Spencer glanced at him. “¿Puedes pelear?”

“Yeah,” Miguel snorted. “I can fight. Can you?”

Spencer looked at the men again, analyzing their stances, their positions, their strengths and weaknesses.

Yes. For the first time since waking up in that burning building, he knew exactly what he was capable of.

They came at once, surging forward and rushing up the stairs. Bottlenecking themselves—they were the muscle, not the brains—Spencer moved unhurriedly down a step and dodged the first flying fist. With a jerk, he grabbed the man’s arm and pulled him in, propelling him up a step and leaving him for Miguel. He met the next attack with a block and a cross, knocking his opponent backwards and off balance, pushing him back into his companions. He had the high ground, and they hesitated.

That was all he needed.

He threw one over the railing and knocked the second down with a jab to the throat, and then J.B. was flashing past him to take the third. That left only Janish, who had stayed back to watch the fight unfold.

Spencer stalked down the last few steps, circling to put the other man’s back to the house. “Do I know you?”

“Serbia, ‘06,” Janish growled. “You beat me to the Mestrovic collection and cost me my finder’s fee. I owe you for that.”

Spencer shrugged. “Guess you’re not all that memorable.”

“You’ll remember it before we’re done,” he snapped. “I promise you that.”

He lunged, but Spencer side stepped and caught him in the jaw with a right hook. When he staggered, Spencer followed up with another blow before he could recover. “Walk away,” he said again, his voice low.

Janish flew at him. A punch, a dodge, another—block—counter—Spencer moved without thinking, letting his reflexes do the work. He recognized the technique Janish was using, even if he couldn’t remember the name, and it meant something—something in the back of his mind, something he would have used if he could. If he could only—

A jab got through his guard, catching him on the right cheek and snapping his head back—

And he was in the room again. He’d gotten inside the new LanCast building, and there were three men, not one, not Janish—he’d expected Janish to be there, but he wasn’t, and he didn’t have time to worry about that because he had to find her, but there was no furniture, nothing he could use to put between him and the other men, and he didn’t have time to deal with them. He hit one, pushed him away, turned to face the second, stepped back to avoid a clawing hook that caught his chest instead. The man tried to grab his shirt but got only his necklace, and he felt the chain snap as he pulled away. He’d get it later; she was more important. He took a punch to the face—where had that come from?—and swung at the third, but he missed, so he went back to the first for another block, block, counter, another jab, a hit to the stomach—he tried to come back with a low punch, but hands grabbed his arms and held them behind his back, and then there was the sound of a rumble and a crash, and a blast of heat that knocked him into the window, through the window, and he was falling—

“Stand down,” a voice barked in his ear. “Stand down, soldier!”

Spencer’s body went rigid. His heels snapped together, his spine straight, his breath coming in ragged gasps that he fought to get under control without moving his shoulders. J.B. had both hands on his upper arms, his face so close their foreheads almost touched. His hands were wrenched behind his back, but the pressure on them eased when he stopped moving, and Miguel stepped into view with a wary frown.

“How did you know that would work?” he asked, lifting his eyebrows at J.B. “How did you know he was a soldier?”

“Maybe not a soldier,” J.B. said. He was studying Spencer’s face, his brows furrowed, his eyes sharp and clinical. “But ex-military for sure. You get a feel for that. Spencer? Are you with me?”

“What happened?” Spencer rasped.

J.B. gave a half-hearted smile. “You got into a fight with a concussion, and it didn’t go well. I tried to warn you.”

Moving hurt, but he turned his head to survey the empty yard. “Where are they?”

“They left. After seeing what you did to Janish—”

Spencer paled. “I—I killed…?”

“No.” J.B.’s grip on his arms tightened. “You scared him away. You made Ben Janish hesitate, and that was enough for the others.”

“It was enough for me,” Miguel grumbled, rubbing his jaw. “You went into a trance or something, man. You wouldn’t stop hitting Janish, and when I got close, you hit me, too.”

A wave of nausea hit him like a train, and he pulled free of J.B.’s grasp so he wouldn’t get sick on him. “Sorry,” he choked out, but his vision dimmed, and he had to reach out for J.B. again to keep upright.

“Come on,” J.B. said. “Let’s get you inside before you keel over on the lawn.”

To his surprise, Miguel moved to his other side and slipped Spencer’s arm over his shoulders, and the three of them hobbled back up to the house without speaking. Sunny was still standing on the top step, her face set in a frown, but she moved aside when they approached. 

“Get him up to bed,” Sunny said. “We’ll talk when he’s had some rest.”

Spencer passed out before he could argue.