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itneverendshere · 26 days ago

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LOVED YOU AT YOUR WORST - r.c series - FIFTEEN

pairings: ex!sweethearts; rafe x thornton!reader; rafe x sofia. chapter warnings: angst; mentions of abortion, grief & health issues;

Rafe was a hundred percent sure the lack of oxygen made him delirious.

His palms were still clammy from the panic attack earlier—vision spotty, heart galloping so hard it scared even him. Sarah had stared at him like he was a mangled dog limping on the freeway and for once, she hadn’t said anything smart or mean, just driven him home without a word. No fight with her that night, he hadn’t screamed at her, hadn’t said something he’d regret—he kept his shit together for once. He said thank you, but his sister didn’t need it when she’d grown up watching him break down and build back up a thousand times, never quite whole.

Therapy hadn’t miracled him into some new person or whatever. He wasn’t going to start quoting mantras and hugging strangers in the street. He was trying, alright? Not to ruin everything he touched, not to say shit that hurt people only because he was hurting. It wasn’t gonna happen overnight—he knew that, it might not even occur in a year. But cleaning the water with you, of all people, that was something, a start and he had to start somewhere, or he’d drown.

That’s why he was parked outside your place, headlights off, keys still in the ignition, trying to talk himself out of going in. His fingers hovered over his screen guessing you’d follow up your text with a quick “nvm” or “that was a mistake.” But nothing came, just that green bubble, staring back at him, fucking terryfing.

This had to be some kind of trap, you hadn’t said two nice things to him in the past four months, except tonight, but his brain was foggy.

Rafe rubbed his face, still buzzing with adrenaline, a headache forming low behind his eyes, he should just go home, stop chasing something that always seemed to blow up in his face. But his hand was already on the door handle, legs half-numb as he stepped out into the night air. His heart started doing that thing again—erratic—and he wondered if he was about to pass out on your front steps.

That’d be poetic.

He was idling outside your gate, the one that used to open the second his Range Rover pulled up, he knew the code, now he had to buzz, like a stranger.

Rafe hated that.

He pressed the button, swallowing hard, already regretting it. He half-expected silence, or your voice telling him to go to hell. Instead, there was a click, then the slow swing of iron, groaning open like it, too, couldn’t believe you’d let him in. By the time he reached your front door, his hands were damp again, chest aching with everything he wasn’t saying.

Then—door swings open.

You didn’t make him knock, there you were barefoot, dressed in some enormous hoodie he hadn’t seen in months. Hair twisted up, eyes dark from either crying or just not sleeping. You weren’t supposed to look like that.

“Hi.”

“Hi?” he echoed, like a fucking idiot. It came out raspy, his throat wasn’t working right, still scratched up from earlier. His lungs hadn’t fully clocked back in from that panic attack and now this. “…You let me in.”

“You rang the gate.”

You seemed tired, not just physically, and he did that thing again, almost stopped breathing because air wasn’t a thing he deserved around you.

You stepped aside, sighing. “Come in. Before I change my mind.”

He did, swallowed hard, and crossed that threshold like he was sixteen again, sneaking in past curfew, scared your dad would catch him, but now it was just the two of you. You sat curled into the corner of the couch across from him, arms wrapped around your knees while Rafe sat stiff on the edge of the opposite one, elbows on his thighs, hands clasped like he was praying.

(He was.)

He dragged a hand down his face, his lungs were feeling funny again, but it wasn’t a panic attack this time, it was you, sitting right there, after all this time. He wanted to say something, but everything in his brain came out wrong before it even hit his mouth.

So he sat and you stared. This is probably where she slaps me, or tells me to get the fuck out. Or worse, says nothing, he thought.

He wanted to tell you that he hadn’t slept right in weeks, sometimes he thought he saw you out of the corner of his eye, and his body would react like you were real—as if he could still fix it. He wanted to admit he’d been spiraling, white-knuckling his days just to get through without texting you, begging or showing up like this.

"You're not gonna say anything?"

You looked like you’d bolt if he breathed wrong.

Rafe blinked, looking away. "I don’t know where to start."

That made your mouth drop, not quite a frown but close, he tracked it, all the little changes in your expression like they were landmarks in a city he used to live in. He didn’t know if that map still existed for him anymore.

“Start somewhere.”

Where the fuck was “somewhere”? Before the fight? Before he said all that shit he didn’t mean because it was easier to make you hate him than admit he couldn’t live without you?

“I didn’t think I’d be let in.”

“I didn’t think you’d show up.”

Everything felt surreal, as if he’d left his body behind in the car and now he was just watching this shit play out on a TV screen. You across from him, this house, this conversation—civilized, if you could even call it that. He didn’t know how to be calm around you, maybe this was hell, he died somewhere between the panic attack and your driveway and this was just the afterlife: stuck in a loop with the one person he couldn’t stop loving but always hurt.

“I don’t know how to talk to you anymore,” He confessed, his leg bouncing, nervous energy bleeding out of him. None of you were yelling, crying, rolling your eyes like usual, that scared him.

He kept seeing it in his head, how things used to be—even after a screaming match, you’d curl into him like nothing ever broke. you'd text him "come over" at 2 a.m. and he’d be there in ten, because it was understood. It was always understood.

Even when the world felt like it was falling apart, when his dad was on his ass, when he was fucking up every other part of his life—you were the one place he didn’t have to explain himself. This didn’t feel like the two of you, more like strangers in borrowed skin.

Rafe hated that he kept looking for you—the old you, who would tilt her head and laugh through her nose and throw a pillow at him when he said something stupid. The girl who could read him in a second and didn’t need him to find the right words. You didn’t look like her anymore, that was a good thing.

What the fuck happened to us.

He was what happened, if he hadn’t shut down, pushed back, said the worst thing at the worst time—he dropped his gaze to the floor, hands flexing again against his thighs. There was so much he wanted to say, but none of it would change what he’d already done.

You still weren’t uttering a single word, and he was starting to feel like he couldn’t sit here another second without doing something—saying something, but then, as if you'd taken a peek inside his excuse of a brain—

“I think we should get our excuses out of the way.”

He looked up.

Your hands were fidgeting—thumb picking at your sleeve, eyes not quite on him. God, he remembered those hands, you used to touch his face like he was something soft, you hadn’t touched him at all in months.

“I mean it. No more bullshit.”

“What are you talking about?”

You met his eyes.

“I mean, I’ve got my own shit to say,” you said. “So if you’ve got something to say, I want to hear it now.”

He suddenly felt sick, his ears were ringing again, the way they had earlier when Sarah pulled the car over and told him to “breathe, Rafe, it’s anxiety, not a heart attack”.

“…I don’t know how to say it right,” he muttered almost swallowed by the quiet. “Every time I try, it comes out fucked.”

“Give it a try.”

You didn’t say anything else, the you go first was visible in your eyes.

That was the least he could give you, right? He’d been taking and taking, his soul already hurt from just the thought. But you were offering him honesty, one chance, without the screaming, the throwing things.

Rafe cleared his throat, eyes glassy and wild and stupidly, desperately hopeful. Alright, somewhere. Fuck it.

“I regretted it the second you left.” It it hurt to say it, “I didn’t say it then. I was too—” He laughed once, humorless. “—too proud. Too fucked up, drunk.”

He rubbed his palms against his jeans, focusing on everything he hadn’t said properly for months. It haunted him, how your face had crumpled but you still didn’t cry in front of him—too proud or too hurt or both. The sound of the door slamming after you was louder in his head than the gunshots from his worst nights.

“The shit you said that night… messed me up. I know I messed you up too, but—” He stopped, jaw flexing. “I didn’t think it would come from you.”

That was the part no one ever understood.

He could take the hits, the rumours, Ward yelling in his face, his so-called friends talking behind his back. Even Sarah calling him an asshole—he could take all of that. But you? He’d spent so long thinking you saw him, even when he didn’t deserve it, especially then.

When you threw his pain back at him that night, when you looked at him like he was just another spoiled rich boy crying over his daddy—fuck, he’d felt something in him break in half.

“I thought you’d get it,” he admitted, swallowing hard. “That’s the part I couldn’t stop thinking about. You—of all people. You lost your whole family. You know what that’s like. You were there when my mom died. We were kids, but you were the only one who talked to me about it. I thought—” He shook his head. “I thought it would be like that again. That when my dad—when he was gone… I thought if anyone would understand what that felt like, it’d be you.” His mouth twisted. “But you didn’t.”

He blinked, and his vision went fuzzy again—not from panic this time, just pain, remembering too vividly.

“I deserved it, I really did. But that night?” he said, “I couldn’t forgive you. You weren’t wrong—" He bit his cheek, hard, until the taste of blood hit his tongue. “—but it was you. And I didn’t want to stop loving you. That’s why I didn’t chase you, just drank, a lot, figured I’d black out enough nights and eventually stop thinkin' about it.”

Another dry laugh.

“Didn’t work, if that wasn’t obvious.” He leaned forward again, elbows on his knees, “I kept waiting for you to come back, thinking any day now, you’d text me. Say you were sorry too. But you didn’t and I didn’t know how to fix somethin' you were the one who broke last.”

His pride had cost him everything, but it was never stronger than his hurt. And even now, with your hand resting on your stomach and his gut screaming, he was still reaching for the version of you who used to understand him without either of you saying a word.

Rafe swore that was it—you were gonna walk out, leave him sitting there like some pathetic, washed-up version of the guy you used to love.

“Is that why you started seeing Sofia?”

"I didn’t…" He paused, shaking his head, dragging a hand down his face. “I didn’t see her like that.”

You didn’t say anything, just nodded, slow and silent: go on.

“She was the bartender at the club. I’d see her when I went in—most of the time I was drunk off my ass anyway. Half the time I didn’t even remember what I said to her. I didn’t know her name for a while.” He hated himself for saying it out loud. “She was just there.”

His leg started bouncing again, and he didn’t even notice.

��She asked if I was okay once. That’s all it took, one person acting like they gave a shit. And I was pissed at you, I was pissed at everything, but mostly I was pissed at myself for not being okay and for needing you anyway.”

His hands came up, gesturing vaguely between you.

“I kept thinking—you left me. You left. When I needed you the most, and I knew I’d done so much wrong, pushed you so far that you didn’t have anything left to give me, but… I still thought you'd understand. I thought if anyone was gonna sit with me in grief, it’d be you. But you didn’t, you treated me like I was a fucking monster, it didn’t matter that I’d just buried my dad. All I was, was Ward’s son, and not just some kid trying to make sense of losing the only parent he had left.”

You looked like you wanted to interrupt. You didn’t.

“And I know he was a bad man. I know that, ’m not fucking delusional,” Rafe snapped, voice rising for a second, frustrated with himself, before softening again. “But he was still my dad. The guy who used to drive me out on the boat at sunrise and teach me how to cast without tangling the line. He was still the man who told me I could be something. Even when he lied through his teeth—he still said it.”

He dropped his eyes to floor again, voice going nearly hoarse.

“And I missed him. I still do, even when I hate him, I miss him. You made me feel like that was something to be ashamed of.” When he spoke again, it was almost a whisper. “That’s when it clicked. You were gone, you weren’t coming back. And I wanted to hurt you like you hurt me. I didn’t even realize you were already hurting, mourning me while I was still sittin' right fuckin' next to you.”

His eyes lifted slowly to meet yours again.

“That’s why I didn’t stop her,” he said, quietly, defeated. “When she kissed me the first time… I didn’t stop her. Because I wanted you to know what it felt like, to feel what I’d been feeling every second since the door slammed behind you. I wanted it to hurt when you found out.”

Rafe saw your jaw twitch, you were trying not to cry or scream or both while he admitted what you’d already known in the deepest part of your chest. He hated that you were sitting so far away, arms wrapped around yourself when all he wanted was to cross the space and warm you up with everything he hadn’t known how to say until now.

He hated that he’d ever wanted to hurt you.

“You didn’t have to make it worse.”

His head dropped, ashamed, nodding. He knew, fuck, did he know.

“You could’ve called. Texted. Showed up like this—months ago.”

“I didn’t know how.”

“You did. You just didn’t want to.”

You were right, he had let pride drag him deeper into the hole, let the silence rot what was left between you because at least in the silence, he didn’t have to see your eyes look at him like that.

That night—shit, that night—he’d said things he didn’t even remember, the kind of bullshit you don’t come back from. It scared him sometimes, what he’d become. He’d wanted to win the fight more than he wanted to keep you, twisting his grief into something cruel the following weeks, just to make you bleed a little too.

Rafe swallowed hard, voice low now, ashamed. He rubbed the back of his neck.

“I didn’t even like her,” he admitted, a little more broken. “Not like that. She was just… there, a good friend. She wasn’t you, didn’t ask questions, didn’t expect anything from me. And I hated myself more every time I saw her because I knew what I was doing. I was punishing you, for something I couldn’t admit was my fault too. I didn’t think there was anything left to fight for.”

His voice cracked for real this time.

“That’s the difference between us,” You muttered. “You give up when it’s hard. You made it look easy.”

“I needed you to hate me enough to stop trying.”

You let out the breath you’d been carefully holding.

“Congrats. It worked.”

“I didn’t want it to. I was a mess. Still am. I never stopped—”

“I thought I was going to die when I saw you together, Rafe.”

Your eyes weren’t angry or accusing, just….sad.

“I—I saw you in the bathroom,” you continued, “Thought I was going to throw up right there in the hallway.”

Rafe’s heart stopped.

“The door was open just a crack, enough to see her.” You swallowed hard, and he could see how your hands were shaking now. “She had her arms around your neck. You were smiling, laughing even. You kissed her neck, she was touching. You fucking let her.”

His soul caved in.

“I stood there for maybe ten seconds. Long enough to see you tie the strings of her bikini behind her back like you’d done it a hundred times already.” You let out a little laugh, but it sounded so wrong. “It used to take you five tries to tie mine without getting flustered.”

He felt sick to his stomach.

You shook your head slowly, eyes closing.

“It felt like someone had just reached into my chest and ripped my heart out. I couldn’t breathe, my face went cold, and all I kept thinking was you didn’t even flinch.”

Rafe opened his mouth, but nothing came out. His heart was fucking breaking.

You tilted your head, blinking up at the ceiling, trying to keep it together. “I slept on the bathroom floor that night, in your hoodie, because it smelled like you. Didn’t eat for two days.”

A pause.

“And I still would’ve taken you back if you’d just shown up. Said you were sorry.”

Rafe couldn’t take it anymore. “I was sorry,” he said, hoarse. “Every second. I swear to God, I just didn’t think I—”

“—deserved it?” you finished for him, not unkindly. “You didn’t.”

He flinched.

“But I would’ve still tried,” you whispered. “Because I loved you that much.”

No vindication or closure. Rafe pressed his fingers to his temples, exhaling hard, his whole body burning with guilt.

“I didn’t like her,” he repeated, knowing it couldn’t erase what he’d done.

"You liked her enough to keep her around."

“She was there. That’s all it was, she wasn’t you. I couldn’t even look at her without thinkin' about you.”

You shook your head, eyes gleaming. “Then why didn’t you leave?”

He looked at you, words choking in his throat. “Because I was scared you’d already moved on. You were gone for two months, I felt like a stranger."

You let out a bitter breath, “You were a stranger. The moment you let her touch you like that… you stopped being mine.”

The silence that followed was suffocating, a punishment, he deserved worse.

“I didn’t know how to come back from it,” he said, barely above a whisper.

“You don’t come back from something like that."

He nodded, devastated. “I never stopped loving you, that never changed.”

You looked at him for a long time, it almost hurt worse than all the yelling in the world — because you weren’t angry anymore. You nodded once, slowly. “I know. But that doesn’t make it hurt less.”

Your eyes were still fixed on him, lips parted like you wanted to say something else but weren’t sure where to start.

“I shouldn’t have said what I said that night.”

That pulled his eyes back to yours.

You nodded to yourself, needing to work up to it.

“I was angry. I was—I was tired.” You sat back, and pulled your knees tighter into your chest. “From watching you ruin yourself over and over again for someone who didn’t give a single fuck. You were breaking your own heart every day, and I couldn’t do anything but watch.”

He didn’t say anything, just watched you like he was trying to breathe you in all over again.

“I knew he was your dad, what that meant. But watching you keep chasing something you were never gonna get from him—his love, his pride, a real apology—it made me so fucking angry, it was killing you and I couldn’t save you from it. Every time I tried, we fought, when I tried to be patient, you snapped. Even when the good moments were good, they started to feel like pit stops before the next fight."

You bit your lip, eyes glossy.

“So yeah, I said shit I shouldn’t have said. I threw your grief back in your face, it wasn’t right. It was fucked up. And I hate that I did it, because I do get it—I do know what that kind of loss feels like and I still made it about me in the moment. That’s not fair, you didn’t deserve that, especially not from me. I'm sorry."

You weren’t done.

“But you’re not the only one hurting” you continued, “You weren’t the only one grieving. I lost you, little by little, every time you pushed me out and let Ward pull you in. It felt like I was loving someone who didn’t want to be loved anymore and I broke, too.”

Rafe blinked fast, chest rising with shallow breaths while you were still picking at your sleeve, eyes down.

“And you were right, back then. When we were younger, you were always the one to fix it. Every time we’d break up, even if it was just for a week or two, you came crawling back. Even when I was the one who started the fight, even if I flirted with someone else afterward to piss you off.” Your voice wobbled, but you didn’t stop. “You were always the one who showed up.”

His head dropped for a second, eyes squeezed shut.

“I told myself that made me better than you somehow,” you murmured. “I had the upper hand because I could make you come back, but that was just me being a bitch, you weren’t the only one who needed to grow up. You weren’t coming back and I didn’t want you to.”

That was the part no one ever understood.

Not the Cut High Society who asked what kind of psycho gave up a Cameron. Or your old friends from college who wondered why you weren’t mourning louder. None of them got it, you didn’t stop loving Rafe, you’d just spent so long dragging his broken pieces out of the fire that eventually, you forgot you were burning too.

You both looked at each other, older than you used to be, still cracked in all the same places, bleeding a little. “I had to be better on my own and I have been.”

You didn’t say it with pride, but you had learned how to exist without him, even when it broke you. Rafe’s eyes flicked to your stomach.

You rubbed your hand over it, “I didn’t tell you before because I wasn’t keeping it.”

You weren’t keeping it.

He couldn’t blame you, not when he’d made it feel that way. His gaze dropped to your hand resting gently over the swell that wasn’t there yet, still small, but he saw it now. He wasn’t supposed to know. that’s what killed him most still, you hadn’t even told him because he’d already proven he wasn’t worth telling.

“You weren’t gonna keep it,” he repeated, like saying it might help it sink in.

You gazed up at him again, eyes wet, but no tears spilling. “No.”

“Because of me?”

You didn’t need to answer. He already knew.

His heart was splitting open, right there on the floor between you both, and he still couldn’t move or close the gap. Couldn’t hold you the way he wanted to because you’d already had to learn how to live without him.

“It wasn’t fair,” you tried not to twist the knife even as you twisted it. “To bring a baby into that… into what we were.”

Rafe nodded once, a jagged little motion because it hurt to agree, so fucking bad. You weren’t wrong, but that didn’t make it easier.

“I would’ve been better,” he sounded completely desperate now, his voice breaking. “If I’d known, if I’d—fuck, if you’d just told me, I swear to God, I would’ve been—”

“You don’t get to promise that now,” you said, but there was no venom in it, only resignation. “That’s why I was so upset when Topper found out, called the clinic.”

“Have you talked to Topper?” Rafe asked, he already knew the answer but needed to hear it from you.

You shook your head. “Not yet. I will.”

He nodded once, “He meant well.”

“I know,” you said quietly. “He’s not a bad person. Just… socially dumb.”

That almost made Rafe huff out a laugh, but it didn’t quite land.

“I think he was trying to protect you.”

“And I didn’t need protecting,” you snapped, “I needed someone who wasn’t gonna treat me like a bomb about to go off.”

That shut him up, because it was true. You’d needed stability, and all they ever gave you was a headache. He knew better than to push you when it came to family matters, so he changed the subject again.

“You didn’t go through with the abortion."

“I was past the legal limit in North Carolina. The place he called was in New Mexico.”

“New Mexico?”

“I had to fly there.”

“But you didn’t.”

“There were… complications.” You didn’t elaborate, your voice was already trembling, “They said it might mean I can’t… that I might not be able to…It wasn’t my choice anymore.”

Your voice died, you didn’t say it, but Rafe heard it.

He felt like he’d been shot.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” His voice pitched up, breath hitching, "Why didn’t you tell me you were hurting?”

“Because you weren’t mine anymore, Rafe.”

He blinked, and it hit him all at once. The beach clean-up, you fainted, he manhandled you into the car, yelled at you in the parking lot. Told you to stop being dramatic. Dragged you to the hospital because he thought you were being reckless.

He forced you there when you were already in pain.

“I didn’t know I was sick then. I thought I was just tired, it wasn’t until the bloodwork came back that they realized something was wrong. Dr. Harris said it was severe anemia, that if I had gone through with it… I might not have made it through the bleeding.”

Rafe’s breath left his lungs like he’d been punched. “Jesus.”

Your lip trembled even though you were trying so hard to stay composed. “They said even keeping the baby might… it might not save me either. Giving birth could be just as dangerous. And the baby might not make it.”

Rafe wanted to crawl away.

“And you’ve been going through this alone?”

“I’ve had Sarah. She’s the only one that knows.”

His eyes flicked to the side like maybe if he didn’t look at you, it would hurt less to absorb all of it, the guilt drowning him.

“She should’ve told me,” he muttered, but even that felt weak, it wasn’t Sarah’s burden to carry.

“I told her not to,” you said softly. “I begged her.”

That part gutted him all over again, you were in pain—but you didn’t trust him with it, you’d believed so deeply that he wouldn’t show up, that you chose to suffer in silence.

“I don’t know how I let it get this bad,” he whispered.

“I do,” you said, without accusation. “You stopped seeing me. I was standing in front of you, hurting, and you were too busy trying to be someone else’s son.”

Rafe pressed a hand to his face, red-rimmed eyes that happened when he was trying not to cry. “I see you now.”

A weak apology wrapped in a confession he should’ve made months ago. It was a small thing, such a simple sentence, but it cracked something in you, too.

You swallowed hard, “It doesn’t change everything.”

“I know.”

You both sat there in that painful stillness. So much unsaid even after everything, the past had finally caught up to both of you and didn’t know where to go from here.

“Were you scared?”

“Terrified.” You didn’t let him look away. “I was scared every second. Of what was happening, of what it meant, of what I was gonna do. And I was more scared of telling you than I was of bleeding out.”

He winced but you didn’t stop.

“If I told you, and you didn’t show up, it’d break me in a way I wouldn’t come back from. And if you did show up just to make it about you, to throw it back in my face like you did everything else that scared you—” You shook your head, blinking hard. “I couldn’t survive that version of you.”

“I wouldn’t have—” he started, then stopped. “I don’t know what I would’ve done.”

He rubbed both hands over his face, then through his hair like he was trying to physically pull the memory of who he’d been out of his skin.

“I’m not letting anything happen to you.”

It was the first time in a long time you felt like you weren’t bleeding out alone.

You watched him, and for the first time in months, he didn’t look like the boy who broke your heart. He was a man trying to find a way to put it back together—piece by piece, even if it was too late.

You took a shaky breath, “I don’t want to get back together.”

Rafe didn’t flinch outwardly, but inside, there was a bomb. It was fair, and he knew that, he expected it. The words ricocheted in his head, over and over. It made sense. Fuck, it made perfect sense. He’d been a ghost of himself, lost in Ward’s shadow, drowning in every toxic version of what he thought strength was supposed to be. He’d made you feel alone when you were most vulnerable, hadn’t seen you when you were falling apart.

“I didn’t say all this so you’d take me back. I just…” He exhaled shakily, head in his hands. “I need you to know I’m sorry. And that I—I’m still here. I can’t change how bad I fucked up, but I can show up now. However, you’ll let me.”

He observed you again, eyes rimmed with guilt and love that had aged in the dark, misshapen but still there.

“I’ll drive you to the appointments. Sit in the parking lot if you don’t want me in the room, do the night runs for ginger ale or whatever the fuck else you need. You don’t owe me anything back.”

He wasn’t offering to fix it so he could be your boyfriend again, he was offering because he could finally see past himself.

“I don’t want you to go through any more of this alone.”

He was a boy you'd loved so hard you forgot how to live without him once. And now here he was, offering to stand beside you, to hold space, to carry what you couldn’t anymore.

“You say that now, but you have no idea how bad this could get. I might not make it,” you reminded him. “There’s a real chance this ends with me gone, and if it doesn’t, it could still mean I’m sick."

You weren’t trying to be cruel, he understood that, you were being honest.

“I know it’s serious, but—”

“No,” you cut in, “You don’t know. This doesn’t end with you waiting outside the delivery room and me holding the baby with a tear-streaked smile.” Your voice failed you. “This could end with a funeral, mine, the baby’s, or both. And if that doesn’t happen, if I survive, it still might not feel like a win. I might never stop resenting that I didn’t get to choose.”

He hadn’t just failed you, he’d failed everything he ever said he’d protect. He could taste the bitterness in his mouth, that acrid sting of regret, it made his bones ache. Of course you had a right to be angry.

Rafe’s fingers twitched in his lap, itching to reach out. To touch your knee, your hand, your shoulder, anything, but he didn’t dare.

“They took that from me, my body did,” you admitted, “I don’t know who I’ll be when this is over. I don’t know what will be left of me, if I’ll still be someone who can look at you without seeing every moment I didn’t get to make for myself.”

He didn’t know who he’d be either. What if you died? He couldn’t unsee it now—your body going limp, blood-soaking sheets, hospital lights, helpless. What if you lived and he lost you anyway? Could he watch you walk away—alive, whole—but still broken in all the places he helped crack? He loved you so fucking much it made him hate himself.

And that love—it didn’t ask for pretty endings or promise healing, it watched you, knowing the most honest thing he could do was not fix it, but feel it with you.

“We can be friends, maybe.”

Friends.

It wasn’t a bad word, but for him, it wasn’t neutral when it came to you. He’d tasted your breath and held your dreams and mapped the small places only lovers know, he’d once believed you were it for him.

But that’s what you needed and that’s what you could give, this time—this fucking time—he wasn’t going to take what wasn’t his.

“I’ll be your friend.”

The words nearly choked him. It was how it started, wasn’t it? All those years ago—mud-streaked knees and popsicles melting down your wrists, sunburns and scraped palms, long summer days, nights spent hiding from the storm under porch roofs, hearts still too young to know what they'd grow into.

He stared at you, the girl he’d known since she wore glitter nail polish and refused to eat the crust on her sandwiches. The woman you were now, trembling and brave and a thousand kinds of soft steel.

“I’ll be whatever you need.”

So what if he only ever got to be the one who drove you to your appointments and waited in parking lots and left ginger ale on your porch when you were too sick to eat? That was love too. Rafe let out a breath like he’d been holding it since he was seventeen.

He could do that, he would do that. It wasn’t closure, it was a better version of grace from two people who’d seen the worst of each other.

“Sarah told me you’re in therapy.”

Rafe blinked, like you’d spoken in a language he hadn’t heard in years, the conversation rerouted so quickly it gave him whiplash.

“…How does she know I’m in therapy?”

You gave a half-hearted shrug, “Wheezie.”

A dry chuckle escaped him—one of those stunned, of course kind of laughs. He shook his head slowly, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Should’ve known,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. “Girl has ears like a bat. Probably listened through the vents.”

That tugged a smile out of you.

“It’s not…a big deal,” he added, “I mean, I guess it is, but it doesn’t feel like it yet. It’s just me sittin' there trying not to lie to someone who’s already read through all my bullshit before I’ve even said it.”

“It is a big deal, Rafe.”

He peered down at his hands, they were shaking. He tucked them under his legs. “I only started recently. Didn’t think I’d make it past the first session, almost didn’t go in.”

“But you did.”

“I kept hearing your voice—old stuff. Before I started proving you wrong.”

It stung because you remembered those days too, when you believed in Rafe so fiercely it made you blind.

“I wanted to be that guy again,” He confessed, and the guilt in his voice was so sharp it could’ve cut glass. “Not for you. Well—yeah, okay, maybe a little for you. But mostly for me. I didn’t like what I saw in the mirror anymore.”

You reached over then—hesitating for only a second—and placed your hand over his.

His breath hitched, the tears coming suddenly, stinging the backs of his eyes before he could shut them down. He stared down at your hand resting on his, a goddamn miracle he didn’t deserve.

Jesus Christ, he thought, I forgot what this felt like. It was pathetic, really. He’d gone so long without this kind of softness form you, he didn’t know how to take it. You were still offering him pieces of something when you had every right to keep it to yourself.

Rafe was so touch-starved for you, from how you used to bump into him in the hallway, or grab his wrist mid-argument to make your point, or how your leg would press up against his under the table and you didn’t move away. He missed all of it.

He turned his hand slowly, almost scared you’d pull away. When you didn’t, he slid his fingers through yours like muscle memory.

“I’m glad you went.”

He sniffed hard, wiped his face with the sleeve of his sweatshirt, “Yeah, turns out I really am fucked in the head.”

“Don’t say that. I’m serious,” you said, squeezing his hand once more, then pulling away before it became too much. “You’re not fucked in the head. You’re hurting, that’s not the same thing.”

Rafe almost whimpered. He swallowed it down fast—the sound sat heavy in his chest. Your hand left his like it had never been there, and he ached in the space it used to be. His fingers twitched, they hadn’t gotten the message you were gone.

He wanted to grab your wrist and put your hand back.

He didn’t. He sat there, palms burning with the echo of your touch, trying not to look as desperate as he felt. Get a grip, he told himself. He wondered if you felt it—how much it had cost him not to lean in when you pulled away.

His throat burned. “Feels the same. Still got a million things wrong with me, still get mad too fast, still got shit I haven’t unpacked.”

“I know. But it’s not the same, is it?”

Rafe gave a small nod, that wry little smile faltering as fast as it had come, it didn’t reach his eyes. “Nah, it’s not.”

He knew you two were broken people, bruised by what they’d done and what they’d lost, sitting in the ashes of something that might’ve once been beautiful, trying to decide if they could still survive what was left.

Rafe wanted to try, more than anything.

It was the closest thing to forgiveness you could offer and it would have to be enough. Healing wasn’t going to come as an apology or a promise. It was going to be long, ugly, forged in therapy sessions where he had to say things out loud that he’d spent years trying to ignore beneath anger and loyalty and all the wrong kinds of pride.

“Why tonight?” He gripped his own thigh like if he let go, he’d lose the nerve. His voice scratchy, “Why’d you answer my text tonight of all nights?”

You spine straightened like it was a question you hadn’t wanted to ask yourself, either.

“Was it ‘cause you felt bad for me? A-after the gala?”

“Rafe—”

He exhaled, eyes wet again. “W-Was it pity?”

“I missed you.”

You missed him.

It was enough for the part of him that still woke up reaching for a body that hadn’t shared his bed in months, that still kept your contact saved with a heart next to it, even after you’d blocked him.

He recognized that tilt of your chin when you were holding in too much. He used to kiss that jaw. Bite it, even, when you were play-fighting on sun-drenched bedsheets. Now all he could do was watch.

Rafe’s shoulders hunched, chewing on the inside of his cheek, “I missed you more.”

“I’m scared. That even this—whatever this is—"

“I’m scared too,” he cut you off, with that same wreckage in his voice.

It nearly destroyed him, the way you were looking at him—memorizing him. You used to kiss like that. It felt almost wrong, like opening a box you’d locked for good.

It wasn’t reunion or redemption or the kind of love that got wrapped in ribbons and returned in the third act. It was grief, stretched between two people who used to finish each other’s sentences and now could hardly finish a conversation without bleeding all over it.

Then, almost like it wasn’t real, you asked, “Do you ever wish we’d never met?”

Rafe looked at you like you’d just shot him with a rifle, his breath hitched, his lips parted— “No. Fuck, no.”

You nodded slowly, maybe you did, he wouldn’t blame you if you had wished that, no matter how good it started, it left bruises when it ended.

“I think about that sometimes. Not because I didn’t love you. But because I did and lost myself in you. And then I lost my body and the baby. And now… I don’t know who I am without all that loss.”

He was shaking his head. “You didn’t lose the baby.”

“Not yet.”

Rafe had no words that wouldn’t sound like hope, and that felt cruel now. You’ll be okay, or the baby’s strong, or we’ll get through this, those were promises made in ignorance. And his therapist had told him just three days ago, “ignorance isn’t innocence. It’s just fear in nicer clothes”, and while he hadn’t understood it at the time, he understood it now.

“Do you h-hate me?”

“No.” It hurt more than a yes would’ve. “I don’t hate you, Rafe. I just… don’t trust you.”

“Do you think—” he started, stopped, tried again. “Do you think I could ever be the kind of person you’d let in again?”

You looked at him, long and sad.

“I think you could be, I just don’t know if I’ll be around to see it.”

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romancherry · 11 days ago

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wet & willing

pairings ➝ joel miller x f!reader

summary ➝ a "stranger" uses you in the shower and makes sure to record it as a memory.

warnings ➝ dark!fic, explicit smut, cnc, home invasion in the shower, recording kink, fear play, rape fantasy, unprotected vaginal sex, doggy style, a bit of nipple play, rough sex, dominant!joel, submissive!reader, degradation, no outbreak, modern AU, overstimulation, creampie, pet names, aftercare, dirty talk, swearing and explicit language, 18+, MINORS: DO NOT INTERACT.

word count ➝ 740

author's note ➝ hello guys! 💙 i'm back with another dark fic since it seems my imagination runs wild with this stuff lol. this trio of "cnc + shower home invasion + recording kink" has been sitting in my drafts for weeks and i'm happy that i finally got the time to dive into it. i hope this fic is enough to fulfill you while i'm working on ch 5 of caged in silk. enjoy ☺️

do NOT repost, reupload, translate or plagiarize my work.

the sound of the shower running is loud while you gently rub at your scalp with shampoo, enjoying the hot thick steam that fills the bathroom and clouds your vision.

you don't hear the soft click of a tripod leg locking in place behind you. you definitely don't see the red light blinking from the vanity counter.

but he does.

joel's behind the camera first. watching through the screen, cock already straining in his jeans as he sees you: naked, slick, vulnerable. he adjusts the frame, zooms in on your back just a little to accentuate the curve of your hips and the way the water clings to your wet skin.

he moves.

fast.

a hand over your mouth. a hard body pinning you to the glass.

"you like showerin' with the door open, baby?" his voice rasps in your ear. "you wanted someone to come in and take what's theirs?"

you scream. muffled. thrashing.

he makes sure to angle your body towards the lens.

"smile for the camera," he growls. "wanna make sure you remember this."

he bends you over, water still raining down on you both. you catch a glimpse of the blinking red light on the counter and you fucking moan. eyes wide, heart pounding.

"yeah, you see it now," he chuckles, lining up behind you. "gonna play this back and watch you get ruined all over again. like the good fucking slut you are."

he enters your tight hole in one brutal thrust, giving you no time to adjust to his enormous, overwhelming girth. he is so thick you're worried he may split you apart.

but he feels so good. stretching you so painfully addicting, you can't help but replace the screams with pornographic moans and yelps entirely. eyes rolling in the back of your skull as your mind goes blank and all you can do is feel how he is impaling you on his cock from behind.

he fucks you like an animal. each thrust, each slap of skin, each broken sob into the tile meant for the camera. he drags his fingers down your spine.

"look at that arch. all for me. goddamn."

your body's twitching from overstimulation, close to collapse. and he knows it. one hand grabs your boob roughly, pinching the sensitive nipple. the other hand grabs your face and forces you to look toward the lens.

"wanna see what you look like when you come for your attacker, slut? huh? you wanna watch yourself beg? 'cause i wanna hear that pretty throat scream until the neighbours wake up n' call the police on us, sweetheart. so why don't you go ahead and fuckin' beg?"

"please, pretty please, sir, wanna cum so hard! wanna cum on your big fuckin' cock, sir. please let me cum… so good… yes, yes, yes!"

he pounds impossibly harder and faster into you and he is so big you swear you can feel him in your throat as he holds a tight grip over your body while he ocasionally spanks your asscheeks roughly until you come. hard. screaming. legs giving out — and he holds you there, pumping you deep and full of his cum, never once blocking the view of the camera.

when it's over, he kills the scene. pulls out gently, turns off the camera.

and suddenly - it's just joel. your joel. your thoughtful, caring husband wrapping a towel around you and kissing your temple.

"you did so good, baby. 'm so proud of you. you hurt anywhere?" he cooes while cradling your face in his hands.

"i'm good, darling. you were perfect," you say with a smile on your face as you wrap your hands around the back of his neck and place a gentle, loving kiss on his lips.

he carries you to the bed after the dries the both of you up with towels.

but the camera comes too.

he props it on the nightstand while he lays you on the bed. dazed and glowing.

"let's watch," he murmurs, crawling over you. already hard again.

"wanna see how gorgerous you look when you're scared for me."

you whimper as the screen lights up. "joel…"

"shh. round two, baby," he says, dragging your thighs apart. "eyes on her."

he runs two fingers through your puffy folds, a smug smile appearing on his face at your tortured whines filling his ears.

"this time, i want your face in the shot when i cum inside you."

#romancherry's blog #joel miller #joel miller smut #joel miller tlou #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #pedro pascal #joel tlou #pedro pascal smut #dark!joel miller #tlou smut #the last of us smut

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wombpala · 22 days ago

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extracurriculars I think Sam did ranked by how much turmoil they caused in family

- track. considered silly but ultimately harmless bc hey, at least he's getting exercise. dean goes to his meets and heckles the other team and is generally extremely annoying and sam rolls his eyes but also maybe secretly smiles abt it when nobody's looking

- mathletes. Also pretty harmless bc dean and john both think it's hilarious and kind of adorable but dean literally can't stop giving him shit for it and eventually sam is like sorry I'm not a dumbass who flunked 11th grade and they hurt each other's feelings a little

- model un ('yeah Sam wants to go on a field trip. '(It's a conference!)' 'oh I'm sorry apparently it's a conference. yeah he's gonna pretend to be France. yeah the country.') John thinks this is really bizarre and he hates how much time it takes and he's like Sam this is nonsense and Sam's like omigod dad u r LITERALLY ruining my life 😤!! My team NEEDS me.

- debate team. Sam is absolutely the type of kid to learn all the logical fallacies and start bringing them up in arguments and it makes Dean want to STRANGLE him. 'That's post-hoc rationalization.' 'Gesundheit.' they have a massive scream fight about this.

- our town. Dean is like Sam you might not realize this but if u do theater. Ppl might think you're. And Sam is like think I'm what 🤨 and Dean is like oh never mind. but frets and squirms abt it so bad he almost gives himself a hernia and starts campaigning to get Sam a girlfriend. when Sam tries to beg out of a hunt so he can do tech week he and John have this enormous blowout fight where John calls Sam selfish and Sam is like mom would want me to have a NORMAL LIFE and nothing is ever quite the same again

#spn #sam winchester #just musing

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batsovergotham · 19 days ago

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the unmasking pt1

"You've got the costume. You've got the power. You're Spider-Woman. Act like it."🕷🕸️

Main!Mark Grayson x Spider-Woman! Reader

warnings: angst, hurt some comfort, murder, cecil is his own warning, mark is such a caring ex bf

w/c: 7.5k

a/n: next chapter is gonna be so fluffy and smutty since its a flashback chapter. yall deserve a break!!

The camera feed shakes before it stabilizes. In the backdrop, studio lights hum softly; the distant noise of disorder from the city outside these walls seeps in like a ghost. Before the picture even comes into focus, you are familiar with the voice, booming, self-important, and clearly gravelly.

Already mid-rant, J. Jonah Jameson, mustache bristling and suit wrinkled in a manner that shouts "I didn't sleep last night and I like it that way,"

"This city is rotting," he shouts, waving angrily to some off-screen picture that, minutes later, shows in the upper-right corner: a murky snapshot of an alley roped off by NYPD tape. The corner's timestamp says 5:02 a.m., yesterday morning. “And while our so-called heroes prance around in spandex like it’s Comic-Con every damn day of the week, innocent people are dying in the streets.”

He pounds the desk with his palm. Papers shake. Somewhere, a struggling intern winces.

“Three corpses. Three. Mutilated. Torn apart. Half-eaten.” He leans in like he’s daring you, daring the city, to look away. “These weren’t gang hits. These weren’t carjackings gone bad. We’re discussing something different. Something inhuman.”

He shifts now, snatching a remote and pressing a button like he’s intending to put a hole in it. The screen behind him flashes again, a shadowy form from a shaky mobile phone recording. A gigantic, enormous figure bulging amid buildings. Its body gleams moist and inky black under faint streetlights, and for a brief instant, white eyes sparkle in the gloom. The vision is grainy, the audio worse, panicked yells, distant sirens but it's enough.

“There!” Jameson stabs a finger at the screen. “That thing. That’s not a man. That’s not a mutant. That’s not some ‘enhanced vigilante’ playing hero.”

He pulls a breath. “That, ladies and gentlemen, is Venom. And it’s real.”

His voice lowers low, heavy with dramatics. “For weeks, I’ve been warning you. And for weeks, you’ve dubbed me a conspiracy nut. A crackpot. Said I needed to ‘chill out’ and ‘touch grass.’ Well, you can keep your grass, since the truth is right in front of you.”

A pause. Just long enough to let everything sink in.

“And don’t even try to tell me it’s a coincidence this monster shows up right when our dear Spider-Woman goes radio silent. Disappears for days, then reappears, violent. Unhinged. More aggressive than ever before.”

He smacks another button. Footage plays on the side screen now. Not shaky mobile phone footage, this is security cam. Spider-Woman lunging down from a fire escape, a guy screaming underneath her. She doesn’t murder him, no. But she doesn’t exactly hold back either. The screen hides the worst of it, but you can still see the blood spattering on the sidewalk. Her outfit is odd, too. Darker. Shinier. As if something’s covering it, something living.

Jameson doesn’t even blink. “Tell me that’s the same girl who used to pull kids from burning buildings. Who waved at news helicopters. Who posed for photographs with kids. That thing isn’t Spider-Woman. That monster is a threat.”

Another slam. Another graphic. This time, side-by-side images. One of Spider-Woman from a few weeks ago, bright and clean-cut, mask curved in a loving smile as she presented an autographed poster to a Make-A-Wish kid. And beside it, the vision from yesterday’s chaos, sharp fangs bared, a tongue snaking out of the shadows, claws curled and slick with someone’s blood.

“She’s changed,” he growls. “Or maybe, this is who she’s been all along.”

He leans forward, palms splayed over the tabletop, gaze keen as broken glass.

“Think about it. Who else might be lurking behind that mask? Someone the public trusts. Someone who knows how to influence the press. Someone who’s had you all eating out of the palm of her hand since the day she showed up. Always smiling. Always rescue cats from trees. Well guess what?”

He jabs a finger toward the screen again. “Kittens don’t leave half a corpse in an alleyway.”

A moment, then he sneers.

“I warned you about Iron-Man, and look how that turned out. And now we’ve got his warped little female protégé wandering about like she’s auditioning for a horror flick. Let’s call it what it is, folks. Venom is Spider-Woman. Or worse, Venom is within her.”

The studio gets colder with his stillness. He lets the sentence hang there like a guillotine ready to descend.

“She’s hiding something. And I guarantee, when we get the truth, when the mask eventually comes off, it’s going to be worse than anything we’ve seen before.”

He takes up a sheet of paper, hardly glancing at it before slapping it back down. “Sources close to the NYPD are already saying the alley killings show signs of predation. Bite marks. Human tissue missing.” His lip curls. “We’re not talking about a mugging. We’re talking about feeding.”

The studio displays another image, a crime scene shot blurred to hell and back. Just enough to make it safe for television. But even blurred, it’s apparent. The contour of a jawbone stripped clean. Fingers severed off the hand. Clothes torn like tissue paper. There’s a blood trail that goes for a whole city block.

Jameson leans back, voice now low and iron-hot. “And still, no one’s talking. No statement from the mayor. No news announcement from the GDA. And don’t even get me started on Cecil Stedman. You believe he’s not connected somehow? Every time something incomprehensible happens, there he is, smiling behind the curtain.”

He moves again, gaze cutting straight through the camera like he’s gazing directly at you.

“You want to know what’s worse than monsters in the shadows? The individuals who guard them. Who enable them. Who call them heroes.”

A lengthy beat. One more image flashes behind him, this one isn’t from the alley. This one is just… a frame. Mid-leap. Spider-Woman silhouetted against the moon, web trailing behind her. For a minute, it’s gorgeous. Then the eyeballs flare white again.

“I see what’s coming,” he adds. “And it’s not salvation.”

Jameson straightens his tie. Brushes a hand down his lapel. The fire in his chest doesn’t dim, it never dims, but for now, he coaches his face into something frigid. Certain.

“I don’t care how many kids she’s saved. I don’t care how many photogenic moments she’s had with the press. If she’s part of this, if she is this thing, then she doesn’t deserve our quiet. She doesn’t deserve our faith. She doesn’t deserve our forgiveness.”

He punches the air once more, his voice booming:

“She deserves to be unmasked. And held accountable.”

The screen rushes back from commercial with no dramatic music, no anchor-friendly grins or warm welcomes, just frigid haste and Jonah’s silhouette already mid-turn in his seat, mouth tense. There’s something unsettling about seeing a man like him calm. Not because it’s pleasant, but because when J. Jonah Jameson is quiet, it implies the storm has already passed furious and settled into something far more dangerous. Conviction.

“Let’s talk about patterns,” he begins, voice like gravel scraped against metal. “Because Spider-Woman didn’t just change. This didn’t come out of nowhere. The signs were there. The escalation was right in front of us, and we looked the other way.”

Behind him, new footage plays. A montage. Grainy security recordings. Blurry street cam pictures. Cell phone captures, most ending suddenly in screaming. The camera portrays you like a shadow dashing through alleys, plummeting from roofs. Some clips conclude with a haze. Others stop exactly as you knock someone into concrete, shoulders, necks, ribs splitting like twigs.

“People said she was getting more efficient.” Jameson doesn’t look at the screen, he stares right into the camera, into you. “More ruthless. Less chatter, more takedown. And certainly, the city adored it at first. Crime reduced in such communities. Until the bodies started piling up.”

A fresh headline appears across the screen in blood-red font:

SPIDER-WOMAN “CROSSING THE LINE”? LOCAL MAN IN COMA AFTER ALTERCATION WITH VIGILANTE.

“Twenty-three-year-old Jamal Reynolds,” Jameson reads, his voice harsh. “Minor drug possession. Not trafficking. Not armed robbery. Just a kid with a couple priors and a rough night. What does Spider-Woman do? She tosses him through a windshield. He's currently in a coma with severe brain damage. Doctors claim the swelling on his brain didn’t originate from the impact, it came from many fractures.”

Another image. A hospital bed, a young man’s face bloated beyond recognition. His mother crying at his side.

“No charges filed,” Jameson replies, teeth clinched. “No accountability. Because once upon a time, she smiled at a fireman’s fundraiser and kissed a baby for a photo op.”

The screen switches again. Another name. Another face.

"SHE NEARLY KILLED ME." — FORMER GANG MEMBER DESCRIBES TERRIFYING RUN-IN WITH SPIDER-WOMAN.

“She doesn't talk anymore,” the man adds in a weak interview, his voice barely audible. “Doesn't say anything. Just… hisses. You don’t even notice her approaching. There’s a sound, like something wet dragging across metal, and suddenly she’s on you. You blink, and she’s in your face. She bit my shoulder. Bit it. Through the jacket.”

A still shot reveals the wound. It's ragged, tattered. Not a clean strike, like an animal had gnawed at him, mouth unhinged.

Jameson doesn’t blink.

“And we’re supposed to believe this is the same girl who handed out teddy bears and webbed up purse snatchers like some neighborhood mascot?”

He leans forward, fixing his tie like the activity is keeping him linked to something other than primal wrath.

“They’re calling it ‘lethal restraint,’” he scoffs. “The NYPD has at least seven ongoing investigations into incidents where her methods were described as ‘borderline fatal.’ At least three others are under review by the GDA itself, and you know how infrequently they even admit anything’s under review.”

Footage plays of a warehouse bust. Flames lick at the edge of the screen, and through the smoke, she flows like liquid shadow, silent, scary, unstoppable. You watch the silhouette of her arm jerk as she smacks someone against a steel beam. The scream breaks off midway.

“She isn’t arresting these people,” Jameson continues. “She isn’t dropping them off in front of police stations, gift-wrapped and webbed. She leaves them broken. Bruised. One of them has spinal injury. The other suffers lung trauma. One of them, God help us, was missing a bit of his thigh.”

And yet, every time they bring this up, someone’s always ready to leap to her defense. The same justifications, again and over again.

“But they were criminals.”

“She saved a bus full of kids last week.”

“She’s just going through something.”

“She’s a hero.”

Jameson laughs, harsh, humorless.

“I don’t care if she cured cancer and kissed Mother Teresa on the mouth. If she’s stalking people, if she’s feeding on people, if she’s hurting more than she’s helping, then she’s not a hero. She’s a threat.”

The screen flickers to one last picture. A hazy close-up from a drone, captured the night of the alley killings. A streak of white, fanged and grinning, splattered with blood. Your eyes are pitch dark, your stance hunched and horrible. Your mouth is wide open and her tongue is exposed, unusually long. You can’t even tell where her flesh finishes and the suit begins.

It’s not Spider-Woman.

It’s something donning your face.

“Ask yourself,” Jameson adds, gently now. The words felt weighty. Almost like a plea. “How long until she stops pretending to protect us at all? How long till she turns that hunger on the people who used to root for her?”

He sighs. Tired. Angry. Certain.

“They used to say power corrupts. That total authority corrupts absolutely.” His eyes narrow. “But no one ever tells you what happens when the corruption feeds back. When it becomes something else. Something alive.”

His last remarks seem like a final verdict.

“She’s not the hero anymore.”

The camera cuts to black.

But you can still hear it.

That thin, moist, slithering sound.

Something slithering beneath the quiet.

Something waiting.

The fluorescent lights in the GDA war room buzz above like they’re anxious too. The air within the steel cylinder is tight with tension, filtered and recycled and antiseptic in a way that makes you feel more like a weapon than a human. On the main display, a blown-up still frame of Spider-Woman looms above them all, fangs bared, mouth split too wide, eyes like polished obsidian. It seems more like a mugshot of a monster than a hero.

Cecil Stedman stands at the head of the table, hands planted on a holographic display throbbing with red-lit data. For once, he isn’t grinning beneath his constant five o’clock shadow. He looks… weary. Even behind the tiredness of his eyes, there’s something empty about his countenance. Like he’s staring at someone already gone.

"She’s crossed the line."

His voice isn’t elevated, but it doesn’t need to be.

All around the table, the Guardians of the Globe sit stiff. Or restless. Or both.

Bulletproof’s jaw is tense, a vein flickering in his temple. Dupli-Kate stares down at her own hands like she’s trying to press away the shame that’s started to fester beneath her skin. Black Samson is inscrutable, arms crossed over his chest like a wall, yet even he’s breathing deeper than normal. Shrinking Rae, poised on the edge of a chair far too big for her, mutters something that’s cut short by a quick flick of Cecil’s hand.

Robot talks first.

"Has she communicated at all since the incident in Queens?"

Cecil’s cybernetic lens flickers. “No. We’ve had no contact. No sightings in twenty-four hours. Which is… even more frightening, given what she did the last time she was seen.”

Another display lights up with blurry imagery. The alley. The three victims.

There’s quiet.

Eve glances aside, jaw gritted. “This can’t be her. Not the girl who dragged a kid out of a burning apartment with a smile on her face. Not the girl who-”

“is now tearing men in half like wrapping paper,” Cecil cuts in, forceful. “We don’t have the luxury of sentimental denial right now. This isn’t a PR disaster. This is an increasing bio-threat with extraterrestrial origins and unexpected neurological influence.”

“She’s not an alien,” Mark adds from where he’s standing at the back. He’s not sitting. He can’t. His hands are clinched at his sides and his voice is gruff, laced with something just shy of rage. “She’s not one of them. It’s… something else. Something that got into her.”

Cecil turns to him, slow. “And how do you know that, Grayson?”

Mark doesn’t answer.

He doesn’t need to.

The way he’s holding himself, shoulders pulled in like something is clawing at his ribs, it’s enough. It’s written all over him. There’s history here. Personal. Messy.

The type of stuff that gets people killed if it’s let to cloud judgment.

Robot’s mechanical voice crackles again. “The symbiote shows signs of parasitic bonding. If the host’s intellect is weakened, it’s not an issue of identification anymore. It’s an issue of containment.”

"And if containment fails?" Bulletproof asks bluntly, arms crossed, muscles tight and stiff.

That’s the question that’s been sitting in the center of the room like a ticking bomb.

Cecil breaths out, then hits a switch on the display. New slides replace the footage. Strategic layouts. Names. Resources. Weapon kinds. Containment levels.

And finally, at the bottom of the file. TERMINATION PROTOCOL. SUBJECT VENOM: STAGE 5 INFILTRATION

“She's not just killing,” Cecil explains. “She’s feeding. We found tissue samples from the alley. Not just blood, saliva. Digestion enzymes. She’s metabolizing human materials. That’s hardly a tactical error. That’s not adrenaline. That’s predatory adaptation.”

"She's not that far gone," Mark snaps. “I know her. This isn’t her. We can fix it.”

“She bit someone’s face off, Mark,” Samson grinds out. “At what point do we stop calling it a misunderstanding?”

“Is there a way to extract the symbiote?” Eve asks, turning to Robot, her voice tinged with the same frantic note Mark had, but better concealed behind the trained calm she’s learned over years of losing people.

Robot pauses. “Not without risking the host’s life. The link appears to be neurological, not just physical. Attempting forceful separation would certainly result in significant brain harm. Possibly death.”

“Then don’t force it,” Mark replies, coming forward. “Let me talk to her.”

“No,” Cecil replies, and this time his voice slashes the air like a knife.

Mark rounds on him. “You don’t even know what you’re dealing with-”

“I know exactly what I’m dealing with. I’m dealing with a ticking bomb in a skin-tight outfit that’s already blown up three bystanders and is revving up for more.”

Cecil moves closer, his tone low and lethal.

“You think this is about trust? About friendship? You think if you talk to her, she’ll suddenly snap out of it? This isn’t an teenage drama, Mark. This is war. And if she’s already attached to that thing, if she’s already begun changing, then she’s not your friend anymore.”

Mark flinches. Eve stares between them, like she’s ready to jump in, to stop anything before it breaks wide open. But she doesn’t. No one does. Because the truth is festering in all their stomaches. They don’t know what you are anymore.

Kate eventually speaks, her voice quiet. “So… what’s the plan?”

Cecil glances back at the files. Two folders are lying on the screen. One green. One red.

“Plan A. Containment,” he says. “We isolate the subject. Use sonic weapons and electromagnetic pulses. Designed by Robot, derived from Kree tech intercepted last year. We subjugate the symbiote. Secure the host.”

“And Plan B?” Bulletproof asks, already knowing.

“Plan B,” Cecil replies coldly, “is we take her out. Clean. Fast. Before she can spread it. Before the creature inside her finds a new host.”

Silence deepens again.

Robot’s optics flash. “I recommend both contingencies be prepared simultaneously. Deployment time may be the determining element in casualty prevention.”

And Mark? Mark merely stares at the picture still shining behind the display. Not the monster. Not the swirl of black and fangs. But the one before that. The woman who laughed with him under a streetlight. Who joked with him like he was the only thing preventing her from plummeting over the edge of the planet.

“Don’t do this,” he says. It’s scarcely more than a whisper. “She’s still in there. I know it.”

Cecil doesn’t answer.

The red folder remains on the screen.

Unopened.

For now.

ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙

The sofa lowers slightly beneath your weight as you move, drawing one leg up and resting your elbow on your knee. One of Harry’s hoodies drapes off your frame, sleeves bunched over your wrists. There’s dried blood on the hem. You haven’t attempted to disguise it. You haven’t even glanced in a mirror.

The place smells like that expensive fragrance he wears, warm and clean and chemical. The sort that clings to a person like they’re attempting to keep a mask on even while they sleep. You wonder if it’s soothing to him. If it helps him imagine he’s still a normal guy.

He hasn’t talked anything since you got here. He didn’t inquire why you showed up without notice, or why you looked like you crawled out of a murder scene. He simply opened the door. Let you in.

Now he’s standing at the window, arms crossed, gaze on the skyline like it’s got the answers he doesn’t know how to ask for.

“You gonna say something?” you mutter.

Harry turns slightly, his features crisp in the faint light. “I’m trying to figure out what the hell I’m supposed to say.”

You extend your leg out, kicking off your boots. “ Try opening with, ‘Damn, you look good. Did you lose weight?’”

Harry’s jaw tenses. “You look like you killed someone.”

You gaze up at him. Smirk. “Three someones, actually.”

His eyes narrow. “Jesus.”

“Relax,” you murmur, reclining back. “They were assholes. Caught them trying to pull a girl into a car. No masks, no weapons. Just normal, scum-of-the-earth trash. I handled it.”

“You didn’t just ‘handle it,’” he snaps. “You ripped them apart.”

You gaze at him. Then shrug.

“They got off easy.”

There’s a long quiet.

Harry runs a hand through his hair and mutters, “You don’t even sound like yourself.”

“Maybe this is me.”

“No.” He approaches over, laying his hands on the back of the recliner across from you. “This is you with a parasite talking in your head twenty-four-seven. Don’t pretend like that doesn’t matter.”

You snort. “Does it? I feel clearer now. Stronger. All the noise, the second guessing, the self-hate, it’s just gone.”

Harry observes you for a beat. “So you’re fine with it? The voice? The black goo taking over your body? You’re just alright with it now?”

You smile. “Well, it is flattering.”

‘We are flattered,’ the voice hums, warm and smug in your mind.

You roll your eyes. “See? He appreciates me.”

Harry blinks. “He?”

‘We like this one,’ the voice purrs. ‘He smells… expensive.’

You moan beneath your breath. “Don’t be weird.”

‘We’re not being strange. He’s lovely. He doesn’t yell. He has hair like a golden retriever.’

Harry’s eyebrows raise gently. “It’s… talking to me now, isn’t it?”

You groan and climb to your feet. “Yeah. You’re its new favorite person. Try not to let it get to your head.”

Harry doesn’t flinch as you stroll past him, barefoot, hoodie hanging just slightly off your shoulder. He watches you pace, silent.

“How long’s it been like this?”

You shrug. “Since the alley. Since before that, maybe. It’s hard to tell. Some nights I feel like I’m still dreaming. Other nights I’m fully awake and just… watching myself from across the room.”

He steps forward. “That’s not nothing. You’re still in there. That part of you, the one watching, it means you haven’t lost yourself.”

You give him a peek over your shoulder. “Don’t give me a pep talk, Harry. I didn’t come here to be saved.”

“You came here because you don’t want to be alone.”

You blink.

You turn, gently.

And instead of rejecting it, you remark, “It’s quiet here.”

Harry walks over. Not fast. Just enough to be near. “You’re safe here.”

You chuckle, low and bitter. “I’m not.”

“You are to me.”

‘We should say something,’ the voice pushes. ‘He needs to see us. The real us.’

You tilt your head, contemplating.

Then you announce, without warning. “It wants to meet you.”

Harry hesitates. “I… what?”

And then, the darkness spreads.

Not brutally. Not in an eruption of fangs and tentacles. But like a darkness pouring from your flesh. It crawls across your shoulders, up your neck, out from your jaw. The room goes still. The symbiote rips away just enough to develop its own shape, attached to you, but clearly its own. Heavy. Massive. Towering.

Harry doesn’t run. He doesn’t yell. He just watches. The monster standing in front of him opens its eyes, unimaginably wide. Then smiles.

“HELLO, HARRY.”

Harry stares. “Right. Yeah. Definitely not weird.”

“WE HAVE BEEN WATCHING YOU.”

“Uh-huh.”

“YOU ARE VERY… LOYAL.”

Venom leans in. You remain still behind it, expression unreadable.

“WE LIKE YOU.”

Harry blinks. “I don’t know whether to say thank you or start praying.”

Venom laughs. A deep, moist, rumbling thing that resonates in your chest.

“WE DON’T WANT TO HURT YOU. YOU ARE IMPORTANT TO HER.”

You speak out again, voice still part-morphed. “It means you’re off the menu.”

“That’s… reassuring.”

Venom’s grin doesn’t fade.

“YOU MAKE HER FEEL SAFE. SHE WON’T SAY IT. BUT WE KNOW.”

You close your eyes. Just for a second.

Because it’s true.

Because it’s always been true.

Harry watches you as the blackness begins to creep back into your flesh, like smoke reversing course.

And when you’re standing there again, fully yourself, at least on the outside, he advances closer.

“You could’ve gone anywhere tonight,” he says. “But you came here.”

You cross your arms. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

“I won’t,” he says. “But I’m not going anywhere, either.”

You gaze at him. ��Even if I screw this up?”

“Especially then.”

You pause. Then mumble, “You’re loyal to a fault, y’know that?”

Harry grins. “Yeah. But I make great eggs.”

You grin, tiny yet sincere. And when the calm comes back, it seems a bit less weighty. Because you’re not alone. And neither is it.

The eggs are cold by now.

Your fork hangs loosely in your palm, forgotten. Across from you, Harry’s abandoned his plate altogether. You’re both leaning on the kitchen island now, hoodie sleeves bunched over your wrists, a dull ache growing at the base of your brain. Venom is silent. Watching.

You haven’t talked for a few minutes. And that’s when Harry breaks it.

“So…”

You don’t look up. He clears his throat. “Are we gonna talk about it, or do I have to say his name first?”

You blink carefully, then raise your eyes to meet his. “Depends. Which name are we talking about?”

“Mark.”

You squeeze your lips together. A beat.

And then you respond, “Of course we are.”

Harry rests on his elbows, expression inscrutable. “He hasn’t called, has he?”

You shrug, nonchalant. “Haven’t exactly been glued to my phone.”

“He used to call every night.”

You gaze at him. “That was before I got a little murdery.”

Harry doesn’t flinch. He only tilts his head slightly. “You think that’s why he hasn’t checked in?”

You chuckle, bitter. “No. I guess he hasn’t checked in because something’s wrong with him.”

Harry’s stare sharpens. “You noticed that too?”

You nod slowly, eyes distracted. “It’s subtle. But… yeah. He’s different. The way he looks at people now. Like he’s trying to measure them. Or categorize them. Like he’s always one step out of the room, even when he’s standing right in front of you.”

Harry frowns. “He used to be so-”

“Present.” You complete it for him. “Yeah.”

‘He is not like us,’ the voice says. ‘But he is not human either. We do not trust him.’

You brush your thumb across your temple. “The suit doesn’t like him.”

Harry blinks. “Seriously?”

You nod. “Every time I see him, it tenses. Like it’s on alert. And it never does that around you. Even when you were poking at me like I was a science fair project.”

“I was gentle.”

You grin faintly. “Barely.”

Then your grin fades.

You gaze into your water glass for a time. “There’s something he’s not telling me.”

Harry’s voice is soft. “You think it’s about you?”

“No,” you answer, shaking your head. “It’s not about me. It’s in him. Something deeper. Something he’s burying. But the craziest part? I think he’s scared.”

“Of what?”

You glance up. “Of what happens if I find out.”

Harry exhales. “That’s… a hell of a thing to feel coming from your boyfriend.”

You snort. “Was.”

“You’re still calling it quits?”

You shrug again, like you don’t care. “We haven’t even said it out loud. Just stopped talking. Like the universe hit pause.”

Harry studies you. “So what happened? Really?”

You push your nails into your hand. “I think he knows who I am.”

Harry leans forward, frowning. “You mean-?”

“I think he knows I’m Spider-Woman.”

The words weigh thick in the air. You wait for Harry to speak, but he doesn’t. So you keep going.

“The last time I saw him, I said something…something I said once, back when I was on patrol. When I fought the Flaxans.” Your voice lowers. “Mark’s face changed. Just for a second. Like he connected it. Like it all clicked.”

Harry breathes out slowly. “And he didn’t say anything.”

“Nope. He just… looked at me. And I felt like I was being studied.”

‘He hides too much,’ the voice hisses. ‘We should break him open. Find the truth in his bones.’

You shake your head.

“It’s not that he doesn’t trust me,” you remark. “It’s that he thinks he does. But he’s lying to himself.”

Harry sits back. “You think he’s dangerous?”

You pause. Then.

“…I think he’s trying really hard not to be.”

And somehow, that’s worse.

Harry’s eyes flick to yours. “Do you still love him?”

The question hits you harder than you anticipate. You swallow. Look away.

“…I think I miss what I thought we were.”

Harry doesn’t push. Just sits there. Steady. Like he usually does.

You look at the window, eyes unfocused. “You ever get that feeling that someone’s not who they say they are, but the second you ask, you know it’s all gonna fall apart?”

“All the time,” he says. “I lived with Norman Osborn, remember?”

You puff out a faint chuckle.

He nudges your elbow. “If you want my advice, which I know you don’t, you should talk to him.”

“Why?”

“Because maybe he needs you too. Not Spider-Woman. You.”

You go silent. Venom stirs beneath your ribs.

‘We do not trust him. But if you must communicate with him… we will observe. Closely.’

You sigh. “Maybe.”

Harry leans back in his chair. “Whatever happens, just don’t let him convince you that you’re the problem.”

You gaze at him.

“Because you’re not,” he adds. “You’re… surviving.”

You grin faintly. “You’re too nice.”

“No,” he says. “I just remember who you were before the black goo. You were strong. Scared out of your mind, yet powerful. And I think that girl’s still in there. I guess she’s got teeth now.”

You laugh. Not bitter. Real. For once. And when the calm falls again, it’s not heavy. It just feels like breathing.

The closet light hums above you, dull and warm. It casts a faint golden glow across the scattered mess of your gear, gloves slung over a dresser handle, boots half-zipped, the half-shredded sleeve of your old Spider-Woman suit still hanging like a ghost from a chair you haven’t sat in all week.

You move like muscle memory’s all you’ve got left. Black leggings. Reinforced boots. Sleeveless compression shirt pulled over your ribs like armor. And the hoodie, Harry’s, still smelling like him, gets tossed to the bed in a heap.

There’s a mirror near the corner, but you avoid it. You always do lately. You know what’s in it. The way your reflection twitches sometimes, even when you’re standing still. The way your eyes flash black when your thoughts stray toward hunger. Toward rage. Toward him.

Mark.

God. Just thinking his name makes your jaw tighten.

You reach for your gloves and tug them on, flexing your fingers. The material’s reinforced now. Not like before. Before, you still cared if people saw bruises on your knuckles.

Not anymore. Not when the people who used to hold your hands don’t call anymore.

‘You think of him too much,’ Venom murmurs. ‘He hides things. He lies. We could take the truth from him.’

You sigh through your nose. “Yeah. That’d go over real well.”

‘You protect people. He watches you. Pretends not to see.’

You walk to the window and crack it open. The city roars beneath you, traffic, sirens, a thousand lights flickering in a thousand different apartments. All of it humming, alive, dirty. Just like you.

Harry’s voice floats in from the hallway. “You sure you want to go out tonight?”

You glance over your shoulder as he steps into the room. He’s barefoot, wearing a threadbare shirt that clings to his ribs. The kind he used to wear to crash on your couch when life got too loud. You don’t answer right away.

Then. “Yeah.”

Harry leans against the doorway, watching you grab your mask off the dresser.

“It’s just…you’ve barely slept. You haven’t even let the bruises on your back heal.”

You smirk. “And here I thought you liked seeing me like this. All battered and emotionally unavailable.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “Don’t deflect.”

You pause mid-motion. Lower the mask.

“…I have to go.”

“Why?”

You swallow. Because you don’t have an answer that makes sense. Not out loud. Because you don’t want to sit here waiting for Mark to show up. Or call. Or say something that makes it all make sense again. Because the voice in your head only grows louder when you’re still. Because some part of you still believes that saving strangers is the closest you’ll ever get to saving yourself.

“…Because someone out there might need me.”

Harry’s face softens.

“You ever think maybe you’re the one who needs something?”

You walk toward him, slow, the mask dangling from your fingertips.

“I need to feel useful,” you say. “I need to hit something that deserves it. I need to stop thinking about him. And you—you need to stop looking at me like you’re afraid I’m not coming back.”

Harry doesn’t flinch. “I’m not afraid of you not coming back. I’m afraid of who’s gonna walk in if it’s not you anymore.”

That hits harder than you expect. You look down. Then back up.

“…I’m still me.”

“You say that like you’re trying to convince yourself.”

You step closer. So close you can smell the coffee on his breath. “If I wasn’t me, I wouldn’t still be here.”

Harry’s jaw works, but he doesn’t speak. He just… nods. Like he’s not sure if he believes you, but he’s willing to pretend for your sake. You pull the mask on. The fabric’s softer now. Adjusted. Redesigned to flex when the symbiote moves beneath it.

It covers your face, but not your eyes. You can still look him in the eye. And you do.

“You see something weird on the news,” you murmur, “call me.”

He nods again. “I always do.”

You turn to the window. Venom shifts under your skin, stretching like a cat preparing to pounce. Eager. Restless. Almost… happy to be moving again.

‘Finally. We hunt.’

You step onto the ledge. The air bites your skin. The wind claws at your arms. The city opens up below. And somewhere out there, Mark is still lying to you. Or hiding. Or watching. You don’t know which one hurts more. You take a deep breath. And jump.

The wind snaps at you as you swing across rooftops, momentum carrying you forward in long, soundless arcs. The suit crawls over your clothes, to you, alive and fluid, catching you when you falter. Enhancing your reach. Strengthening your muscles.

Every shadow feels like a warning. Every heartbeat feels like a countdown. You hit a rooftop and stop, crouching low, eyes scanning the streets. You can feel it, even before you see anything. Trouble.

A robbery two blocks over. Two masked men dragging a shop owner by the collar. One of them shoves a pistol into his chest. You grin beneath the mask.

‘Let’s play.’

You launch forward again, silent and smooth. And as you descend on them, you stop thinking about Mark. Just for a moment. You stop feeling anything at all. Except power.

Blood on pavement. Not yours. The two muggers are down, breathing, twitching, but barely. One has a fractured wrist and a web cocoon attaching him to a trash. The other is suffering from a dislocated shoulder and what could be two fractured ribs. You’re standing over them, gathering your breath, chest heaving. The mask’s mouth pulled apart just enough for you to breathe through your teeth. Venom is calm, contented, vibrating through your limbs like an engine still idling.

‘They will not try it again,’ the voice replies, amused. ‘We taught them a lesson. We are teachers now. Educators of pain.’

“Could’ve left a little less blood,” you whisper.

‘We could have eaten them.’

You roll your eyes. “We’re not eating anyone.”

‘Just a bite?’

“No.”

You turn away from the alley, vault up a fire escape in two leaps, and land on the rooftop like you were born with talons. The moon casts silver lines over the buildings, making the shadows long and sharp. You squat low on the edge, looking for more action, more crimes, more reasons to keep going.

But your neck itches. You feel it before you see it, like a gut-deep tug behind your ribs. A presence. No, not one. Several. You twist just in time to hear the quiet whirr of hovercraft turbines.

Shit.

A spotlight flashes on overhead, nearly blinding you. You slip backward, shroud of darkness fading under white-hot artificial light. Reflexively, the symbiote surges up your spine, curving over your neck and mouth like a shield. A voice resonates from above.

“Spider-Woman. Stand down.”

You don’t recognize it. But you don’t need to.

GDA.

You’re already moving.

A shock round smacks into the rooftop behind you. The concrete splinters. You leap from the ledge, web-line grabbing a rusting balcony across the alley. You swing hard, make it halfway before a second shot blasts past your ear.

‘They are not here to talk.’

“Yeah, I noticed.”

You land on a rooftop two buildings over, roll to your feet, speed for the next ledge, and run right into a containment net that wasn’t there a second ago. It bursts open around you, sticky with electromagnetic pulses that flare and hiss the instant the symbiote touches it. You scream through clamped teeth as anguish floods your nerves.

‘GET US OUT!’

You press your claws into the roofing and rip through the mesh with a blast of venom-black muscle. The net shreds like wet paper. You stumble, panting, and spin. Three GDA officers are waiting at the far edge of the roof. Full tactical gear. Visors down. Sonic weapons aiming at your head.

The one in front advances forward, voice calm through his helmet. “You need to come with us.”

Your eyes narrow under the mask.

“I don’t take orders from guys who sneak up on me like cowards.”

“Directive came from high command. You’re a threat. We’ve been given two options, confinement, or neutralization.”

You tilt your head. “You really gonna try both in the same sentence?”

“We’re not here to kill you.”

You smile behind the mask. “Sure sounds like you’re not not here to kill me.”

Venom snarls in your throat. Black mass flows across your arms, your fists, your shoulders.

‘We kill them now. Rip and scatter. They will learn.’

You grit your teeth.

“You’re not gonna take me in. You know that, right?”

“Then you leave us no choice.”

The first one shoots. You move. Too quick. The shot grazes your shoulder but the suit absorbs most of it, crackling. You leap, flip, drive your heel into the nearest one’s jaw before he can react. His visor cracks. He stumbles backward.

The second one swings his weapon like a club. You dive under it, throw your elbow into his belly, turn him around and web his feet to the ground. The third attempts to backpedal. You’re already there. A black tendril comes out from your side, snatches his weapon, smashes it in your palm. Then you take him by the vest, shove him into a vent.

Hard. Not enough to kill. Just enough to hurt. He moans and crumples. You step back, breathing hard, heart banging into your ribs.

‘You should’ve let us finish it.’

You bend over the unconscious officer, checking his pulse.

He’s alive. Barely. But that’s enough.

“I didn’t kill anyone.”

‘Next time, they won’t offer us an option.’

You lurch backward, eyes leaping to the roofs above. More drones. Two, maybe three. Watching. Recording.

You curse under your breath. You know you’ve been tagged now. This wasn’t a warning. It was a test.

The new wave had no idea what hit them.

They came fast, black vans, VTOLs, ropes dropped from rooftops like spider silk, armed to the teeth but empty of insight. You were already moving by the time the first one fired. Reflex. Rage. Instinct. Now, ten minutes later, the rooftop is a graveyard of broken armor and half-conscious groans.

You walk through the smoke.

Boots crunch over shattered visors, bent batons, and puddles of someone else’s blood. You don’t speak. You don’t need to. The symbiote vibrates across your back, alert, humming like it’s waiting for the next hit of violence.

‘They didn’t bring fire. Didn’t bring sound. Just bodies to throw. Like kindling.’

“They thought they were hunters.”

‘They are meat.’

You crouch beside the last one twitching, helmet cracked, armor splintered across his ribs. You tap his chest once with your finger. Hard enough to sting. Not hard enough to kill. Yet.

He flinches anyway.

“They send you out here without knowing what I am?”

No answer. Just a groan. You lean in closer, voice low.

“They want to box me up. Cage me. Figure out what makes me tick.” You pause. “Tell Cecil something for me-”

‘Tell him we’re awake now.’

You web him to the floor with a flick of your wrist and turn away. The suit ripples, climbing up your arms, muscles tightening under your skin like drawn cables. You stretch your fingers, black claws emerging at your knuckles.

‘More coming.’

You stop. Beneath the rhythm of your own pulse, you hear it.

‘Boots. Fast. Heavy.’

A new wave.

You smile.

‘Round two.’

They hit harder this time.

Rappel lines cut into the wind. A fresh drop team lands across the opposite rooftop, spreading out in a practiced formation, twenty, maybe thirty. Snipers take up perches above, laser sights combing the smoke.

And for a heartbeat, everything holds.

Then you run straight at them. A flash of black. They shout orders, rifles up. But they’re slow. You’re already inside their ranks, slamming one into the rooftop hard enough to crack the concrete. Another swings his baton, you duck under it, uppercut with a tendril-wrapped fist that sends him flying into a wall.

Three more surround you. You twist, grabbing the first by the collar, lifting him over your head and hurling him into his teammates like a wrecking ball of bone and armor.

Someone yells, “Pull back—SHE’S IN THE AIR-”

You launch yourself upward, tendrils bursting from your back mid-jump, slamming into a sniper tower and ripping the guard rail free. One sniper fires as he falls. The shot grazes your shoulder. Pain slices through you. And it feels good.

‘Let us show them real pain.’

You drop down in a full-body slam that cracks the rooftop beneath your feet. Debris flies outward. The nearest six agents are thrown back instantly. You grab one as he tries to crawl away, web him to the ground, then rip his rifle in half and hurl it off the roof.

Another squad closes in. They never touch you. You shift mid-run, Venom spiking into armored plating across your forearms, your fists becoming clubs. You hit two with a wide sweep, helmets crunch, visors explode. The third grabs your arm. You let him. Tendrils spiral up your elbow and snap his wrist backward, then toss him like trash.

‘Twenty-five. Twenty-six. Getting bored.’

You spin midair, webs catching the edge of a billboard, swing, twist, land hard on another rooftop where reinforcements are already waiting.

This time, you don’t pause. You leap into them like a warhead. Someone screams as a tendril wraps around his neck, yanking him into the air.

“Wait—WAIT—she’s not supposed to be this-”

You silence him with a palm to the face, slamming him into the concrete with a wet crack. Someone else runs. You web his legs, yank him backward, drag him screaming through broken glass.

‘No more games.’

You stand there, heart pounding, surrounded by the fallen. Fifty, at least. They came with gear. With numbers. With orders. But they didn’t come ready. You’re not breathing heavy. Not anymore. The suit is still pulsing. But slower now. Resting.

‘They’ll send more.’

You whisper, “Let them.” Then something changes. A low hum fills the air, not mechanical. Turbines. Big ones. You look up. And there, cutting through the dark, a ship.

Not a van. Not a drone. Not GDA. You know the silhouette. Your body shifts without thinking, mask sealing fully, tendrils rising. Another shadow passes overhead. You feel it. A presence. Weight. Power.

‘Guardians.’

You take a slow step back.

A shadow descends through the clouds, broad-shouldered. Gleaming. Bulletproof. And where he goes, the others follow. Dupli-Kate. Black Samson. Shrinking Rae. Shapes slicing through the fog like knives.

Your jaw tightens.

‘They sent heroes.’

“They’re late.”

‘They’ll learn.’

ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙

“Fifty confirmed incapacitated,” a tech reports. “Eighteen with critical injuries. Some are missing.”

Cecil doesn’t blink. He watches the feed from a drone barely clinging to the skyline. The image is shaky, but it’s clear enough. You. Standing over the wreckage. A god in black. Breathing. Waiting.

“She escalated.”

“No,” Cecil murmurs. “We did.”

He reaches for the comm.

“Status on the Guardians?”

“They’re en route now. Two minutes out.”

“Tell them…” He hesitates.

Then. “Tell them this isn’t a takedown. This is a test.”

The tech blinks. “Sir?”

“Find out if she can be stopped,” Cecil says quietly.

“And if she can’t?”

Cecil watches you leap off the rooftop like gravity means nothing. Then he turns.

“…Then we pray she doesn’t decide to burn the rest of the city down.”

ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙

current taglist: @adeptusxia0 / @moonjellyfishie / @ladynoirx321 / @moraxussy / @saturnalya / @the-good-kooshe / @atomspidyr / @iansimpsforeveryone / @luvvcharxo / @jiyeons-closet / @weponxwrites / @xzmickeyzx / @heiankyonoeiyuukun / @edgycatx / @oxymorondemon / @bluerrie / @swtheartz / @maxi-ride / @nightmarewasteland / @hot15936 / @rotinginmybed / @deleted-1-800 / @thehumanradio17 / @mhrasm / @yzzaqczec / @pickledsoda / @qxuanii / @tr3nzit444s / @ketsuekiakane / @jiminie-08 / @thatwaspossesion / @xoyumiqls / @liliesclouds / @maki-ki / @wifeofmarkgrayson / @pixviee / @sugawoonie / @uselesstutor09 / @marinefreaakk / @monaekelis / @woodle-isbae / @simping4l1fe / @wasitforrevenge

#invincible #invincible x reader #invincible fanfic #invincible season 3 #mark grayson x reader #invincible angst #invincible x you #invincible smut #reader insert #mark grayson smut #mark grayson x you #mark grayson x y/n #invincible x y/n

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wildehacked · 2 months ago

Note

im in the mood for hugs apparently. so "just really needed a hug sort of hug" for buddie :)

This is both true to the spirit of the prompt and a little dark, sorry. CW for grief, canon-typical death and violence. Classic h/c shit. * It’s Buck’s Kelly day, so Eddie’s partnered with Ravi when they get called out to the goriest scene they’ve been to in a while. Overworked Amazon driver fell asleep at the wheel; the van crashed through the front window of a Starbucks during the eight am before work rush. It’s awful, grinding, bloody work; Eddie digs the driver out of the wreck, and she has a concussion but she’s otherwise fine. He has to hold her back when she realizes what she’s done and starts screaming. He sends her to the hospital where the cops will be waiting for her, even though her shift manager’s the one they should arrest, and then he helps Chim bag a woman who went under the wheels, DOA. She’s white, brunette with bangs, and for a second Eddie’s heart seizes. He blinks again and his heart resumes its regular rhythm.

Cap takes them offline so they can decontaminate—they all got coated in various bodily fluids on that one—and of course after Eddie’s showered and changed and filled out paperwork, he gets a call from his mom.

Less said about that, the better. He has a pulsing headache for most of the afternoon. They go on two false alarm medical calls, transport a man with a broken ankle to the ER, and Eddie gets an email from Chris’s school letting him know that Chris got a D- on his big English paper, and that he’ll need to revise if he wants to pass the class. That’s gonna be a fun conversation. Eddie swallows three ibuprofen with a cup of cold coffee, ignoring Hen’s wince. So what if he’s giving himself an ulcer.

Bobby makes comfort food for dinner, because they all need it after the awful morning—spaghetti and meatballs, garlic bread, iceberg lettuce salad. Eddie eats, but his head’s still going, so the comfort’s a little sparse.

He tries to call Chris after dinner, but Chris doesn’t pick up. Eddie gets a text a few minutes later that reads hey were in a movie rn, and Eddie writes back okay mijo just checking in. love you, which Chris thumbs up. They get called out to the beach for a dog bite; Eddie chases after the dog in question, but can’t catch him. He does almost wipe out on the boardwalk, though. The night is just on the edge of too cool, not quite summer-perfect, but the moon is full and yellow over the ocean. Chim makes a crack about the full moon crazies, and Eddie rolls his eyes and twists to give Buck shit about it too, but of course Buck’s still not there.

You been in a mood all day, Hen says, nudging Eddie’s boot with her boot when they’re back in the rig. You good?

I’m good, Eddie says, just thinking about this morning, and everyone’s faces go somber as they agree. And it was a rough morning. But Eddie’s going to hell, because that’s not what he’s thinking about, not really.

It’s March 23rd. He could say that out loud, could remind everyone of the date, and no one would know why it matters. Because it doesn’t, to anyone else on the planet. They go check out an apartment building where someone burnt falafel. The problem apartment’s on the fifth floor with no elevator. Eddie’s phone pings as he’s putting the industrial fans back in the rig; it’s a text from Buck, a picture of him and Chris and Chris’s friend Dylan in front of three enormous burgers, looks like Islands. There isn’t really any reason for that to make Eddie’s chest go tight and aching, but there you go. He taps a heart onto it.

Saved you some fries, Buck sends, like it’s possible to save fries from Islands and have them still be edible the next day. Guess you didn’t see the email from the school, Eddie sends back, because seriously, Islands and a movie after a D-? 🍔💪📝🚨is what Buck writes back, which Eddie basically takes to mean: I have a strategy in place. He catches a few hours of sleep. The alarm wakes him from a dream about Shannon and Buck. The two of them were the leads in the school play, because Eddie was back in high school, and he was supposed to be in the play too, but he forgot his lines. Eddie, relax, Shannon said, smiling at Buck, who had his hand wrapped around her waist like he was her husband, not Eddie. We got this.

It’s a late night medical call at a memory care home; not much for him and Ravi to do, just playing support to Hen and Chim. He checks his phone, and there’s another text from Buck that came in while he slept: Chris and Dylan studying at the kitchen table, English books cracked open, Chris laughing at something Dylan said. It’s a live photo, so there’s even a couple seconds of Chris laughing in there, high pitched and silly. Eddie hearts it.

When they get back to the firehouse, the sun is rising, and it’s no longer Shannon’s birthday. Eddie should be relieved, but he just feels drained. She’d be thirty-four. No one warned him about this part—how every year you look back at the pictures and she just looks like more of a baby.

Cap claps him on the shoulder when he’s heading out to his truck, like he knows, even though there’s no way he could possibly know.

Eddie gets through morning traffic okay. He parks the truck, lets himself in. The house is pretty quiet, which means Chris is still asleep (typical teen.) Buck’s in the kitchen, doing last night’s dishes. He’s got rubber dish gloves on, and he gives Eddie a distracted smile over his shoulder as he comes in. Hey, he says.

Hey, Eddie says, and instead of any of the sane things he could say after that, like—how was your day yesterday, or is there coffee yet, or I think I’m gonna pass out for a few hours, he just steps in close, wraps his arms around Buck’s waist, and buries his face in Buck’s shoulder. Safe, familiar Buck smell in his nostrils. Solid Buck body in his arms, warm and pulsing with breath and heartbeat. Eddie exhales.

Buck turns off the faucet. He pulls off one rubber glove, then gives up on the other one and twists around in Eddie’s arms—Eddie participates reluctantly—until they’re front to front, and he can hug Eddie back. That is better, Buck fitting perfectly into him, holding him the same way Eddie is holding him. Eddie tilts his face into Buck’s neck, and Buck uses the hand that isn’t wearing a soapy dish glove to stroke over his hair. It feels good.

Bad shift? Buck murmurs, and Eddie doesn’t answer, frowning into Buck’s skin. Buck hums against his temple. That’s okay, he says anyway, soft and mindless. I got you, Eddie, I got you.

Eddie keeps breathing Buck in, keeps hanging on. Buck forgets about the rubber glove, and a wet soapy hand comes to rest over Eddie’s right scapula. A burst of fondness punctures the wall of relief.

Thanks, Eddie says finally, not letting him go yet, but trying to persuade himself that he’s going to.

Buck kisses his forehead. Anytime, he says, then uses his one normal hand and his other soapy hand to tilt Eddie up into a real kiss.

Eddie lets it happen, closing his eyes. He’s thirty-four. He was married for eight years; Shannon’s been gone for almost eight again. He has the best kid in the world; he has Buck, he has a meaningful job he’s grateful to still love. His best friend is dead, and he misses her. His best friend is kissing him right now, his heart beating fast and steady right against Eddie’s, and Eddie doesn’t have to miss him yet.

You taste like spaghetti, Buck murmurs dreamily into his mouth, and Eddie bursts out laughing, finally relaxes his death grip on Buck’s ribs. Guess I forgot to brush my teeth last night, sorry. Bobby made spaghetti? Buck says indignantly, like he was deliberately left out, and tries to lick the taste back out of Eddie’s mouth, which doesn’t work perfectly, because Eddie’s still laughing.

#eddie diaz #buddie #evan buck buckley #911 #grief #death cw #car crashes #to be safe

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darling2411 · 3 months ago

Text

Let me show you

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

pairing:Charles x reader

summary:Charles teaches you some driving stuff

word count: 1.1K

warnings: none

“Ugh I don’t know Charles.” A frown is adoring your face, but considering the circumstances you are pretty calm.

Charles,your lovely boyfriend, wants to teach you or rather show you how to drive a car. A racing car. He was so excited when he asked you that you couldn’t help but agree.

Unfortunately now you are having second thoughts and regret ever giving your consent in the first place.

But are you really going to deny him this and take the excited look from his beautiful face?

Well you could die of a heart attack due to the insane amount of dread flooding your veins at this moment.

Yeah alright, maybe you are exaggerating a little bit. But occasions like this require some extreme exaggerations.

“Come on, this will be so much fun. I promise nothing will happen.” This man really has the audacity to give you pleading puppy dog eyes in a situation like this!

“You’re not playing fair! I can’t say no to that face.” You groan in frustration. .

He sends you a smug look and comes walking toward you, safety helmet in his hand.

“Let’s get you ready then mon chérie.” Charles takes the helmet and puts it on you. His fingers had swept your hair out of your face lovingly and he had kissed your nose before he pulled the helmet over your face and closed the latch.

“Parfait, shall we go?”

You nod feeling the heaviness of the safety helmet.

You are still scared and your heart is pumping faster than you consider healthy but beside that you are also kinda excited.

Excited to learn how Charles feels every time when he gets into his racecar.

Excited to make a new memory with Challenges and of course also thrilled to learn how to drive a racecar.

“As I told you before I can’t really show you everything, but I want to teach you as much as I can and when we swap places for a bit you can try out some stuff. But only under the condition that you’re not driving too fast. Don’t want anything happening to you, mon ange. “ Charles says while pressing some buttons in the car that you have absolutely no idea what they are good for.

“Okay”, you take a deep breath,” let’s do this.”

Those are the words Charles wants to hear.

Pressing the throttle the car shoots forward going at an enormous pace.

“Oh god I’m gonna dieeeee!” You scream grasping the handle for dear life.

The engine is roaring therefore you and Charles have microphones in your helmets to hear each other. And currently Charles is laughing, straight out laughing at you.

“You fucker! Don’t you laugh at me!”

“Oh mon amour, why haven’t I thought about this before? This is terrific.” He laughs again.

“Terrific?! It’s horrifying.” Your shouting gets interrupted by a scream leaving your throat when Charles steers the car in a sharp left turn. “ Oh dear lord. I hate you so much Charles.I’m never agreeing to anything ever again!”

“You love me.” Is his only response.

Suddenly he hits the brakes and you’re thrown forward, the seatbelt stopping your body from colliding with the car dashboard.

“What the fuck Charles?!”

“Sorry baby, but I thought you wanted to stop.” You can hear the cheeky grin he is hiding behind his helmet.

“Yeah but…” You are panting heavily. Head resting against the panel now.

“I’m sorry love, I won’t do it again.” He says, still laughing slightly ,” Can I show you how to drive this car now, slowly?“

“Alright, but please. No surprises”, you emphasize the word surprises with gestures,” like this anymore.”

“I promise.”

You get out of the car and swap seats with your boyfriend. Adrenaline is already pumping through your veins and you haven’t even started the motor yet.

“Okay. First step, press the button here.” You do as he says,” good, now change the handle into the first gear and then press the throttle gently. Just like you do when you start a normal car” you nodded and followed his instructions. The car slowly comes to life, the sound of the motor faint due to you driving so slowly.

“Perfect, you're doing so good mon amour. Now try driving a little bit faster. I'll handle the rest if that’s alright with you.”

“Yep,you can do that. Thank you”

Pressing a little harder down onto the throttle the car makes a jump and now you're suddenly driving 150 kilometers per hour.

You thought it would be scary but it’s just like driving your normal car.

You’re feeling really brave and hit the gas some more.

Driving faster and faster.

180,200, 240,260 km/h.

The feeling is amazing, addicting.

You know now why Charles loves this so much.

You want to tell him and start turning your head so you can look at him but he cuts you off with a shout. “Keep your eyes on the road mon couer, i don't want to die just yet. “

You quickly glance over at him and notice how he is clutching onto the handle for dear life. Charles Leclerc the formula one driver is scared form driving fast when he is not the one in control. You can't help but laugh. You're so going to get back at him for what he did when he was the one behind the wheel.

You slow down a little to give him a false sense of hope before you accelerate again, pressing the throttle all the way down.

“Mamma mia someone help me you “, hear him say through the microphone.

And just because you can, you slow a little and start driving zick zack lines.

“Okay mon age, you have had your fun! You can stop now with this madness.”He almost pleads.

“What is it not as funny as before ? “, you ask innocently.

“Not for me it isn't, I promise I will never do something like that again!”, he swears admitting that he hates giving up control like that.

“Good because as much fun as this was I rather have you drivin the car anyway , even though you park way worse than me. “you say laughing.

He just rolls his eyes and bangs his helmet against yours.

ⓘ Obviously they are not driving in Charles formula one car but in a motorsports car used for racing ( like in the porsche cup, but it's not a GT3RS) where two people can be seated.

Taglist

@ellabellabus07

@motylekrozi

@maiaxisxtexbest

@meaganjm

#my writing ᗢ #formula 1 #f1 fanfic #charles leclerc x you #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc imagine #charles leclerc fanfiction #charles leclerc

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ponyosmom35 · 6 months ago

Text

be a solider

simon ghost riley x reader

synopsis: simon loses it after reader is kidnapped.

Link to master list:https://www.tumblr.com/ponyosmom35/733401347573088256/simon-ghost-riley?source=share

The truck's tires screamed as Simon floored the gas pedal, but despite the speed, the black car they'd been chasing continued to weave through the city streets, expertly pulling ahead at every turn. Simon's fists clenched against the wheel, his knuckles white as the anxiety and rage bubbled within him. He tried to focus, to think logically, but every time the car in front of them seemed to pull further away, his heart clenched tighter.

"Come on, come on, come on," Simon muttered under his breath, his voice strained with frustration. The adrenaline coursed through him, but it felt like his body was failing him.

"Goddamit!" he growled, his eyes locked on the vehicle ahead. His voice was a low, threatening hiss, barely audible over the engine's roar.

Price didn't respond, his attention focused entirely on the road, but Price could see the same anxiety on Simon's face. They couldn't lose her—not after everything.

But it wasn't long before the car in front of them made a sharp turn, disappearing into an alleyway. The sound of screeching tires was deafening, the harsh turns rattling their bones, but Simon's gaze never left the road.

Then, without warning, the car they were chasing took a sharp turn and disappeared from view, vanishing down a narrow street. When they finally reached the spot, it was empty.

"Fuck!" Simon muttered, his voice low and hollow. He slammed his fist into the wheel, making the truck shudder under the impact. His breathing grew ragged as the anger swelled within him, his thoughts spiraling.

"We lost them. We fucking lost them," he hissed.

His fingers were still gripping the steering wheel, his pulse racing in his ears as he tried to steady himself. Soap and Gaz were silent in the back, knowing that Simon wasn't just angry—he was losing control.

"They're gonna torture her, Soap," Simon said, his voice sharp with dread, and the words landed heavy in the truck. "They're gonna make her talk. They'll get everything—every goddamn detail on the team. They'll break her for info on us."

The others remained silent. They knew Simon was right. He wasn't wrong—if they had her, she'd be a prime target for interrogation. They had no way of knowing how long she could hold out.

Simon's face twisted with the enormity of the thought. The crushing, horrible thought of her—his girl—being tortured, having everything taken from her, and there was nothing he could do. His entire world was crashing down around him, and the fear consumed him.

Price watched Simon in the rearview mirror for a long moment, his jaw clenched tight. The old soldier inside him wanted to bark orders, to snap Simon out of it. But Price had seen this before, had been in those moments when the weight of failure was too much to bear.

The truck came to a screeching halt, and before Simon could do anything else, he shoved open the door and stumbled out into the street, barely able to keep his legs steady. His stomach twisted painfully, the bile rising in his throat, and he ran to the side of the truck, leaning over and retching into the gutter. The world spun around him, the panic rising until it felt like the walls were closing in.

He sank to his knees, his hands gripping the sides of his head, trying to pull himself together, but it felt impossible. Every breath felt like it was suffocating him, and the sound of her cries, her scream, kept replaying in his mind like a broken record.

Price was beside him before Simon even knew it, his large hand on his shoulder, grounding him. "Simon," he said firmly, his voice unwavering. "You're a soldier. And right now, you need to bring Ghost back. You need to be a soldier and get her back. Suck it the fuck up and let's go save your woman!"

Simon's breathing was shallow as he looked up at Price, his chest heaving with the weight of everything he couldn't control. But the words, they settled into his mind, pushing through the panic. Soldier. He was a soldier. He couldn't let himself crumble now—not when she needed him the most.

He gripped the side of the truck, pushing himself up slowly, forcing himself to stand. His whole body felt weak, his legs shaky, but his resolve was hardening, piece by piece. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his face pale but determined.

"We've got the Avery warehouse," Price continued, his voice steady. "We know it's theirs, and it's the closest to the city, no question that's where they're headed. We go in—Soap and Gaz through the back, and you and I in the front. We find her and bring her home."

Simon's eyes flickered toward Price, and without another word, he nodded. His body was still trembling, but the focus was coming back. The mission.

Price clapped him on the back, hard enough to rattle his bones. Without a word more, Simon climbed into the truck. Price took the wheel, and without hesitation, slammed his foot down on the pedal. The truck roared to life, speeding down the streets with renewed urgency.

Simon leaned back in the seat, trying to steady his breathing, his mind already racing toward the next step. They had a location. They had a chance.

And this time, he wasn't going to let anything slip through his fingers. He wouldn't fail her again.

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fairlyang · 1 year ago

Text

Appreciate 🕷️

caught masturbating while babysitting

w/c: 5.1K

pairing: dilfneighbor!miguel x latinababysitter!reader

tags: 18+ smut. slow burn oops, age gap (not specified but reader is early 20's, mig early 30's, dirty thoughts ensue, caught masturbating, he helps you out, fingering, staying quiet

notes: the getting caught fucking KILLED me rn while editing I cannot😭

Miguel O'Hara was one of your neighbors and your parents quickly got a liking to the single father across the street. He was very laidback and kind, accommodating with all the neighbors for literally anything.

So considering that when Miguel would say he never had time for himself due to always taking care of his daughter, Gabriella, your dad told him you'd be happy to babysit for him while he took him out to get a couple drinks with a few of the other dads in the neighborhood.

But of course you had no fucking clue this conversation was even had until the day your dad promised him some drinks.

"Oye mija le prometí a Miguel que ibas a quedar a su hija para sacarlo a tomarnos unos tragos." He tells you standing by your doorway while you sat on your bed and then just walks away. (Hey honey I promised Miguel that you were going to take care of his daughter so we could take him out to have a couple drinks)

"Porque hiciste eso?!!?!" You yelled and quickly hopped out of bed and ran after him beyond pissed. (Why did you do that?!!?!)

"Si apenas me estaba alistando para salir con mis amigas no chingues!!!!" You screamed following down the stairs in your heels that clicked on every step. (I was just getting ready to go hang out with my friends. it's a phrase that can be used for shock or when shit goes wrong)

"Pues dile a Miguel que se canceló el plan entonces." He says so confident you wouldn't do it until you walk past him and heading straight to the front door. (Then go tell Miguel that the plans are canceled)

"AY OKAY! Que quieres?" He says and rolls his eyes as you turn around to face him. (What do you want?)

"Me debes un enorme favor. Lo que sea cuando te lo pida." You say and point a finger at him, just to show you really mean it. (You owe me enormous favor. Whatever it is, whenever I ask you of it)

"Ya que-" (ugh whatever- or like 'since I have no other choice')

"Tu mismo te hiciste esto." You quickly cut him off and he only groans. (You only did this to yourself)

"Pues deja me pongo cómoda. Ya que no tengo otra opción." You say and glare at him to which he only gives you a goofy smile. (Let me get comfortable. Now that I don't have another option)

You reluctantly went upstairs, annoyed that this was how your Friday night was gonna go over going clubbing with your friends.

But shit happens, what can you really do?

You go back to your room and take off your perfectly chosen red mini dress and put the sweats you were wearing earlier back on. You then grab a tee shirt that had hello kitty on it with some sunglasses, hoping to get some brownie points by the little girl at least.

You then slip on a pair of purple crocs and you're done. Until you realized you had already put your makeup on so now you have to take it off.

What a waste.

You grab a makeup wipe that you had on your desk and wipe off your eye makeup, then everything else only leaving your lips alone.

Then grabbing your phone off your bed, sending a quick text to your friends that you can't make it and you head back downstairs. "Vámonos." Your dad says and snaps his finger as if he has any room to complain. (Let's go.)

He opened the front door and you walked out right behind him as you mumble how annoying he was to which he told you to just calm down and it wouldn't be that bad.

You walked across the street and stepped up to his front door, your dad ringing the doorbell to which you then hear loud footsteps coming from inside.

Then the door opens by none other than the very energetic 8 year old. This was going to be a long night...

You smile down at her and give her a wave which she returns and gives you a toothy grin of her own. "Gabi donde está tu papá?" You asked and she just pointed up. (where's your dad?)

"Se está poniendo sus tenis! Dijo voy a jugar con alguien nueva." She says and goes back inside letting out giggles as she walks to the living room. (He's putting on his shoes! He said I get to play with someone new)

You follow her in and see coloring books, crayons, colored pencils and markers all over the coffee table in front of the tv. "Te gusta colorear?" She asked as she takes a seat behind the table as you make your way around the couch to sit on the floor with her. (Do you like to color?)

"Si me encanta!" You say and her eyes lit up. (Yes I love it!)

Suddenly you hear footsteps coming down the stairs and straighten up as Miguel comes down giving you a bright smile.

And lord did he clean up nice.

He was wearing a black button up with some jeans and black boots, and his hair slicked back. You gave him a smile as he walked over to you and Gabi, who was also shining her big smile. "Papi también le gusta colorear!!" She says jumping up onto the couch and grinning ear to ear. (she also likes to color!!)

He gasps and tickles her sides making her erupt into fits of giggles, "de verdad?" He says and turns to you, to which you give a small shrug and just smile. (really?)

He stops tickling her and she hops off the couch just to sit back down on the floor. You turn to him and he walks around the couch leaning down, and gives you a quick kiss on your cheek to which you return at the same time.

"Thank you so much for this, I really appreciate it." He says and you pull back, waving him off before he continues, "Gabi's on a little sugar rush right now but she'll be calm within the next hour and will want to go to bed right after. She's a very deep sleeper so feel free to use the tv and help yourself to any of the food."

You nod and watch as he bends over and whispers something to her ear to which Gabi nods and gives him a thumbs up. He gets up and mouthed another thank you then walks out the front door.

Maybe this won't be too bad.

And it wasn't.

You ended up coloring two pages of a finding nemo coloring book while she was coloring on a spongebob coloring book. And surprisingly stayed in the lines.

After that she wanted you to play with her dolls to which you felt happy to, it was like reliving your childhood and she was such a sweet kid.

You noticed it was 8pm and helped Gabi put away all her coloring things and let her lead you to her bedroom.

She runs in as you carry her art supplies and she points to a desk for you to leave them on.

You walk over to her dresser where Miguel left a pair of pjs for her to put on and help her take off shoes as well as her glittery shirt and pants.

She then puts on her pjs and goes off to brush her teeth all by herself. Made your job even easier.

She runs back in after a few minutes and plops down onto her bed, "can you tuck me in? Porfis?" She asks and give little puppy dog eyes. (Please)

"Of course." You nod and walk over to her princess bed.

"Como un burrito!" She giggles making you laugh. (Like a burrito!)

So you pull her blanket over her body and let her lift her arms before tucking her in tightly which just made the little girl giggle. You go down and tuck her nicely tight before coming up and passing her the stuffed animal she was reaching for.

A spider.

Weird option but it had cute eyes.

"Goodnight Gabi, sueña de cosas bonitas." You whisper and smile at her as she gives you one back. (dream of pretty things)

You turn off her lamp from her bedside table, then walk towards her door, turning the light switch off before finally closing the door.

You head downstairs, turning off all the lights, and plop down on one of the couches in the living room. You scroll on your phone but then quickly grow bored so you reach over the coffee table and grab the remote control.

You turn the tv on and go through the apps they had and decide to watch 'A Nightmare on Elm Street'. You kick your crocs off then make yourself comfortable before turning to watch the tv.

You got to watch the first scene before your eyes started fluttering and you pass out.

You don't wake up until you hear the jingle of the door and you jump up, wiping your eyes and sitting up to watch Miguel come through the door, surprisingly not shit faced.

You stood up and greeted him with a hug, then a kiss on the cheek as he gives you one back. "Como les fue?" You ask and he shrugs. (How'd it go?)

You then pull away and take quick notice of the lipstick stains along his neck. You look back up at him and he smiles, "estuvo bien." (It was good)

Sure looks like it.

You shrug and smile, "que bien! If you need me to babysit just let my parents know and hopefully I'll be available." You offer and he sighs. (That's good!)

"I really appreciate it," he starts and takes his wallet out which you look at with a confused look, "me vale que era un favor, no me siento bien en no pagarte un poco." (I don't care that it was a favor, I feel bad in not paying you a little bit)

"Y más porque tu papá me dijo que tu ya tenías planes y ni sabías de esto." He says with a sympathetic smile while handing you a $50 bill. (And more because your dad told me that you had plans and didn't even know about this)

You widen your eyes and shake your head, "no te preocupes! Está bien y Gabi se porto bien! No me tienes que pagar Miguel." You say and wave him off. (Don't worry about it! It's okay and Gabi behaved well! You don't have to pay me.)

"Por favor tómalo, me siento mal. Agarra el dinero para que tomes con tus amigas, yo picho." He says, letting out a chuckle at the last two words and you sigh. (Please take it, I feel bad. Grab the money so you can drink with your friends, I'll pay."

His eyes were pleading and it looked like he felt bad but it wasn't even his fault. If anything your dad should be the one paying.

"Si no para la próxima le digo a Gabi que lo esconda en tu ropa." He threatens making you burst out laughing. (If not for the next time I'll tell Gabi to hide it in your clothes)

"Creo que quiero ver eso..." you joke and he laughs. (I think I wanna see that)

"Mis papas me matarán si lo tomo Miguel. De verdad estás bien!" You reassure him and he sighs. (My parents will kill me if I take it Miguel. Seriously you're fine!)

"Eres bien terca." He mutters and you scoff. (You're very stubborn)

A smirk tugs on his lips and you had to fight the thoughts entering your mind. Sure he was fine as hell, you already knew that but you shouldn't be thinking this mid conversation.

"Maybe next time I'll accept it!" You say and shrug as he slides the bill back in his wallet.

"Fine." He sighs in defeat and tilts his head to the side, "but I'll still make Gabi hide it in your clothes just for good measure." He jokes making you smile.

"Yeah yeah." You wave him off and walk past him to the front door.

"Thank you again, I appreciate it." He says turning to face you and opens the door for you.

"Course! Anytime, and now I'll actually know about it." You joke making him roll his eyes.

"Tu papá es algo más." He says and you nod. (Your dad is something else)

"Lo se." You mutter and finally walk out before you waste anymore of his time. (I know)

"Cuidate!" He shouts as you walk out of his porch and onto the sidewalk. (Stay safe!)

You turn back to him and wave before turning back and crossing the street back to your house. You open the door assuming your dad didn't lock it and sure enough it was open.

As you stepped in and closed the door you noticed Miguel was still outside his door, making sure you did stay safe.

So sweet.

You give him one last wave before closing the door and immediately head to your room.

You open the door and quickly close it before taking off your crocs once again and plopping down onto your bed.

And now finally your thoughts could roam free.

His hair was slicked back before he left the house, right now that shit was all over the place.

And the lipstick stains on his neck??

He definitely got his own fun tonight but you couldn't help but feel so jealous.

It's not your fault if you occasionally had a wandering eye whenever Miguel was around.

Or peeking out through your bedroom window to watch him when he mowed the lawn. Shirtless.

Or stare at him longer than you should at random carne asadas the neighbors would host.

It was natural for a young woman to feel attraction towards an older man like him.

Especially with daddy issues but that's besides the point-

He stood out from the other dads in the neighborhood, he was younger. Respectful, kind, helpful.

Everything a woman could ever ask for.

So you couldn't help but instantly felt a twinge of jealousy when you saw the lipstick stains on his neck.

Why couldn't that be you that left them?

At least now you know he looked really good in red..

But at what cost? Feeling your entire being now getting taken over by jealousy of a man you have no right to and probably stand no chance in ever having?

Or touching...

And there came the horny thoughts that always seemed to appear in the back of your mind. He always just did something to you. Your body couldn't help but want him, crave him, his touch.

So you repeated the endless cycle of anytime you see him just having to masturbate. It was becoming a bad habit, but not hurting anyone.

——————

Alas you had to use your own fingers to make you cum and not Miguel's. Again.

But you moved on and let the next day pass. Nothing eventful happened, and there were no Miguel sightings to be found.

That was until you got a text from an unknown number and low and behold it was the man you were daydreaming about all day.

Unknown number

Hey it's Miguel! I asked your dad for your number, hope that's fine but was wondering if you could babysit for me tmrw?

Got scheduled for a late shift at the lab and don't want Gabi home alone🥲

It was embarrassing how quickly you started typing your response but how could you say no?

You're good!! And I'd love to! What time?

No way he could sense your desperation to see him again through text. Right?

You added him to your contacts before he finally texts back.

Miguel💞

Around 6, getting out at midnight so please let me pay you this time

You sigh and quickly type back.

Alrightttt

And sounds good I'll be seeing you guys tmrw:)

And with that no more messages from him came in but he left a like to your second message.

And the rest of your night was uneventful besides the occasional wet dream filling your mind and distracting you.

——————

It was the next day and you were practically counting down the hours until you had to go babysit.

Given you wouldn't even see Miguel for too long before or after but still. You'd have to make do with the amount of time you will see him.

But because you knew you'd just be playing or coloring with Gabi again, you decided to just dress comfortably over trying to impress Miguel for less than five minutes.

So sweats and a tee shirt again but no bra because who the fuck wants to willingly wear a bra for six hours?

Yeah right.

Now all dressed you grabbed your airpods and phone, slipped your crocs on and went downstairs. Saying a quick goodbye to your parents before exiting your house and trying not to skip on over to Miguel's house.

It was 5:45 but you figured you'd get there early just cause, definitely not to possibly spend a little more time with him.

Definitely not.

You walked up to the front door and rang the doorbell. Instantly the door flew open and Gabi opened the door wide so you could come in.

You ruffle her hair as she grins up at you, "cómo estás Gabi?" (How are you?)

"Bien! Apenas comí pozole!" She says as you walk in and she happily closes the door behind you. (Good! I just ate pozole!)

You gasp and were about to respond when Miguel came down. "The pot is still warm si te quieres servir un plato." He says giving you a quick hug and kiss on your cheek. (if you want a plate)

"Might just have to." You reply giving him a smile once he pulled away.

He was wearing a white lab coat, maybe a white button up and you didn't want to look down to see the rest.

His hair was slicked back again but the best part was that he was wearing thick black glasses. It made him look 100x more attractive but you remained calm.

No way to act like a barbarian right now.

Maybe later.

"Okay have her in bed by seven because she's got school tomorrow and no sweets besides pan dulce with a glass of milk." He says and you chuckle as Gabi storms up to him with a pout on her face.

But he didn't budge.

"Tv and fridge are all yours. Make yourself at home and I'll be back by midnight." He tells you then looks down at Gabi.

"Pórtate bien." He says, leaning down and giving her a kiss on her forehead and a hug. (Behave)

"Ya se papi, ya se." She says and playfully rolls her eyes. (I know dad, I know)

He gives her a warning look before blowing her a kiss as he walks to the front door. He gives her one last look and she just waves him goodbye. He chuckles and opens the door then shuts it behind him.

"Can we watch Bluey?" She looks up at you with pleading little eyes and you nod as she sprints to the living room without another word.

So you end up watching Bluey with Gabi for a good nine episodes before you were slowly losing yourself into this little kids show. The little accents and cute storylines just got to your heartstrings.

And with fifteen minutes left to spare, you wait until the episode Gabi was watching was over before hitting the back button leading you back to the disney+ home screen.

Gabi whined and you shook your head, "no more, you've gotta get ready for bed!"

She groans but nonetheless heads upstairs with you trailing behind her. She gets dressed into her pjs then heads straight to the bathroom to brush her teeth.

She's literally an angel.

No way Miguel would have a hard time finding a sitter for her. She's every babysitter's dream. Besides the occasional sarcasm she got from her dad.

But nonetheless still an angel.

Finally she's in bed and you're tucking her in, once again passing her the stuffed spider, who you learned she named Gabri, after her favorite uncle.

You then shut off the lights and walk out of her room, closing the door gently.

You walk back downstairs turning off the lights before heading to the living room. You plop down on the couch and get comfortable, this time putting on a blanket that was on the armrest because it was getting cold.

You play a random movie, snuggling the blanket to your face to warm yourself up when you realize it smells like Miguel.

Maybe he was sitting there earlier?

You breathed in and breathed out, feeling so relaxed. Your eyes start fluttering and it's the second time you pass out at Miguel's place.

You get woken up by screams coming from the tv, probably wasn't the best to play a scary movie but oh well.

You stretched and let out a yawn before switching positions and laying down so your legs were stretched out over the whole couch. You laid your head on the arm rest and wiped your eyes before taking your phone and airpods from your pocket.

You put them both in your ears before just scrolling through your phone. You move the blanket so it was mostly by your chest and stomach, exposing your legs because you weren't cold but still wanted it on you.

Just then you inhale his scent again and he must've been wearing something expensive because it smelled so good.

You then got the absolute best idea imaginable. And with Miguel being away for another two hours along with Gabi sleeping and probably snoring heavily in her room, you would be good.

So you put some music on, a mix of The Weeknd and Lana Del Rey to get you in the perfect mood. But as you closed your eyes your imagination immediately ran wild and there was no stopping you.

You spread your legs and slowly ran a hand over your body, playing with your tits then softly pinching your hardened nipples. Then trailing it up and down your stomach before it lands on the waistband of your sweats.

You slipped your hand in and began by just tracing along your inner thigh, then went deeper. You led two fingers down to rub your clit, only a couple circles before going down and rubbing your slit over your panties.

Your arousal was already building up, and this blanket was helping a ton. You just imagined Miguel on top of you, not caring if he crushed you, just craving him above you. The way he'd be looking down at your eyes while he toyed with you. Had his way with you.

You needed him so desperately, his touch, his mouth, his fingers. Absolutely everything and anything he'd give you.

Your fingers made their way back up to your clit and you started rubbing faster circles against it while bucking your hips up, imagining it's Miguel's fingers.

A moan slipped past your lips and you tried your best to keep quiet as your fingers worked fairly against your bundle of nerves.

"Miguel-" you whispered before letting out a shaky breath as you held onto the blanket tightly with your left arm.

Just the thought of this big, smoking hot dilf climbing on top of you was almost enough to make you explode.

Fortunately your thoughts went broader than that.

Not only is he tall, and big but his cock would most definitely be the best thing you'd ever lay your eyes on. He'd be really thick and you'd probably struggle keeping him inside you.

He'd stretch you out to absolute perfection and you'd tighten around him so good he's be moaning out your name from how good your pussy feels.

You felt your slick seep through your panties and it only made you more relentless. You slipped your hand under your panties, and brought your two fingers to tease your hole.

You'd need the practice.

You dipped your fingers into your folds, just letting your fingers get soaked before finally slipping them both in making you whine.

You bite your lip to shut yourself up before slipping them in harshly, imagine that's how Miguel would fuck you. You feel yourself clench against your fingers as you start to fuck yourself immediately fast, needing him so fucking badly.

His cock would fill you up so good and you wouldn't mind if he came inside. You wouldn't want him to waste any of it.

You cover your mouth with the blanket let yourself moan into it, as you breathe him in with every inhale. You let out mumbled moans of just his name, as you start to fuck yourself harder, your immersion working better than ever tonight.

And it might've manifested into itself when you felt a gently tap on your shoulder which made you open your eyes, and freeze in fear.

It was Miguel.

"W-w-what are you d-doing back so e-early?!?" You ask as you felt your heartbeat increase rapidly.

But you couldn't seem to slip your fingers out. Unable to move and staring blankly ahead and not to your right as Miguel's body loomed over you.

"Finished what we needed to do faster than expected." He says and you could feel his gaze on you. It was hard to miss.

And you were growing more and more nervous by the second. "And this is what you're doing huh?" He whispers and it doesn't help your nerves at all but does make you clench against your fingers.

"I-I- I'm sorry-" you apologize feeling your body flush with embarrassment but get interrupted.

"A good hour before I was meant to come home too. Que pensaste?" He snarls and you hold your breath. (what were you thinking?)

Shit.

"Aww and gripping this poor blanket for dear life." He says in that teasing tone but you don't have it in you to look at him.

"No me lo esperaba de ti." He whispers and you take a deep breath. (I wasn't expecting this from you)

"P-perdón-" (S-sorry)

"Shh stay quiet..." he whispers and see him going down to his knees out of your peripheral.

"Let me appreciate you in some other way for what you've done for me tonight." He murmurs softly in your ear.

He then brings a hand down between your legs, before placing his hand on top of yours, fingers still buried inside you. Your lip was quivering and you couldn't believe this was happening.

And you're not dreaming.

He then pulls it away only to slip it under your sweats then panties before sliding his fingers between your folds. You whimpered and bucked your hips up, always a needy mess.

"What did I stay? Stay quiet." He coos in your ear, bringing his other hand up to your throat, lightly squeezing.

You finally turn your head to look at him only to smile at him before he leans in to kiss you. You kissed back immediately and he lets go of your throat and instead cups your jaw as you moan into his mouth. He pulls away making you pout, "No hagas que me repita nena." He whispers and you nod. (Don't make me repeat myself baby girl)

"Take your fingers out for me." He whispers and you nod, immediately listening.

You slip your fingers out and take them out between your legs. "Good girl." He murmurs and move his fingers down, teasing your hole with the tip of his finger.

"Miguel- fuck-" you moan then cover your mouth with the blanket again.

"Need more?" He coos and you whimper, nodding.

"Tell me." He whispers and you move your hand away.

"Please- I need you so fucking badly- por favor, te necesito- mmm te necesito tanto Miguel." You plead and he slides his fingers inside you. (Please I need you, I need you so much)

"Feel good huh baby?" He asks and you nod, unable to speak as his fingers start pumping into you fast.

You clamp a hand over your already covered mouth and try your hardest to keep quiet but his fingers filled you up. Two fingers, were able to feel fulfilling inside you.

"Estas tan hermosa mami." He whispers in your ear and you let out a muffled whimper, your walls clenching against his fingers. (You're so beautiful)

He left gentle kisses along your jaw, and neck while pumping his fingers faster and harder. You rolled your eyes back as you kept quiet, or tried to.

You bucked your hips up and tilted your head to the side as Miguel began sucking on your skin, leaving marks then kissing them after. Your walls clenched against your fingers and you could feel that familiarity in your lower abdomen.

"Te vas a quedar bien calladita para mi verdad?" He whispers making you gasp and nod. (You're gonna stay real quiet for me right?)

He starts fucking into you harder and curls his fingers up, hitting that sweet spot of yours with every thrust as you feel your legs begin to shake. Your eyes began to flutter and you tried to keep your eyes open, you wanted to how he'd react to you cumming.

You then feel his thumb rubbing fast circles against your clit which only makes it harder for you to stay quiet. You bit your lips and held all your moans in as your climax hit and your entire body starts to shake. You covered your mouth and breathed heavily as he fucked you slower, moving his thumb away.

You close your eyes and let out heavy pants as he stops and lets his fingers stay inside. "You did so good baby... how's that instead of money?" He whispered and you just gave him a drunken smile unable to have any thoughts.

"Still gonna leave you with both." He coos and kisses your cheek softly.

He pulls his fingers out slowly, then slips them out your juices dripping down and definitely staining your poor panties even more.

He slips his fingers out of your panties and sweats and then brings them up to your mouth which you instantly put into your mouth. You tasted yourself as your eyes fluttered and your breathing finally had calmed down.

You then let go of his fingers with a plop and he leans in, kissing you again but passionately. Tongue in your mouth, also wanting to have a taste of you. After a solid fifteen seconds he pulls away and murmurs, "Thank you for babysitting again. If you want you can stay the night, te ves muy cansada... pobrecita." (you look so tired, poor girl)

#miguel ohara #across the spiderverse #miguel ohara x reader #miguel ohara imagine #miguel o hara #miguel ohara oneshot #miguel ohara smut #miguel ohara x y/n #atsv miguel

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silverryuan · 9 months ago

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TWST with Blood Mage reader (Part 2)

I didn't know I reached a hundred followers. Thank you so much, guys!

Warning: Gore and Slight Language

• Everyone in the room waited in anticipation for the Dark Mirror's statement in hopes of finally ending the ceremony, But the mirror did not respond. The mirror's stoic face suddenly expressed fear and a judgemental expression seconds later. The mirror then replied...

Dark Mirror: "...This soul... Does not belong in any of the dorms."

• The crowd in the room gasped in shock and loud whispers filled the room. Crowley stuttered in confusion and asked the mirror for the reason.

Dark Mirror: "...They have a powerful yet fearful magic that exceeds the average young student... Their flow of magic power fluctuates in every vein, bone, flesh... Too difficult to discern the difference between physical and magical strength..."

Crowley: "I-i do not understand, I... Is what you are trying to say is that they are... Dangerous?"

Dark Mirror: "... That may be. But they are also gifted in an art form of magic that not a single student can master..."

Crowley: "I-i see. Well... BloodMage! Yuu, was it?"

BloodMage! Yuu: "Yes?"

Crowley: "What kind of mage are you?"

BloodMage: "...I don't know myself."

Dark Mirror: "There is still room for improvement... They must learn to harness that magic... To control it... Until then, they cannot be placed in any dorm."

• With that said, the mirror's face disappeared. The students in cloaks stared at you in disbelief and stepped away from you. The way they are cautious is not new to you. They are always scared...

Crowley: "Oh! Woe is me, woe is me! What do I do? In all experience of being headmaster, I have never thought I'd encounter this kind of problem... Sh-should I send them back?"

Grim, escaping: "Fnyagh! If you're not gonna take 'em, then take me instead!"

Crowley: "What the-- Stop, raccoon! You shall not escape!"

Grim: "The Great Grim's ain't a raccoon! And I got magic much more powerful than that guy! Just watch me!"

• The little monster escaped from Crowley's lash and floated in the middle of the room. He puffed up his furry chest to inhale some air and blew enormous blue flames. All the students ran to evade his attack, some ran towards safety, others pull out of their magical pens. The fighting students struggle to contain him as Grim levitated from corner to another one.

Crowley: "SOMEBODY CATCH THAT MONSTER!"

????: "Aren't you the headmage?"

?????: "...Ugh, how troublesome..."

???: "Stop with your complaining. You know you can end this yourself. Doesn't that thing look like a nice plump snack?"

?????: "Nah, too much work."

????: "Headmaster Crowley, do not worry. You can count on me to capture it. Without hurting the poor thing, of course!"

????: "That's Azul for you. Always showing off and always reaping the plus points."

• While the so-called powerful students (you assumed) bicker with each other, you see the boy with tan skin and silver hair struggling to avoid Grim's attacks and tripped. Before Grim could breathe out another barrage of flames, you quickly stood in front of the boy and shield him from the fire... Besides, you need to use your magic anyway.

BloodMage! Yuu: "...Are you alright?"

?????: *cough*, *cough* "Y-yeah, I think so..."

BloodMage! Yuu: "Good. You need to get up."

?????: "Right. Thanks a lot for...for........ W-W-W -WHAAAaa!!"

• The boy paused mid-sentence as he took your hand to get up, only to feel... Something wet and boney? He looked up in horror to see flesh clinging to whatever's left of your right arm. Blood dripping down from your upper torso, showing your now scorched left shoulder its inner muscles and veins.

• The boy screamed in terror, drawing attention from bystanders and running students. Everything seemed to freeze in motion as they witness the gore that you displayed. The monster even stopped his ruckus to look at what he's done. Some students fainted, some ran to get the infirmary ghosts, some holding their vomit in disgust at your exposed bloody burnt skin which the ceremonial robes can no longer hide.

???: "G-GREAT SEVENS!"

???: "AAAAAHHHH!!!"

???: "CALL THE INFIRMARY GHOSTS NOW!"

???: "THEY'RE DYING!"

???: "EVERYTHINGISFINEEVERYTHINGISFINEEVERYTHINGISFINE"

???: "DON'T LOOK HERE!"

???: "I WANNA GO HOME!"

???: "CAPTURE THAT MONSTER IMMEDIATELY! HE KILLED SOMEONE!"

Grim: ".....W...What have I done..... Th-this isn't supposed to happen.... No no no........."

BloodMage! Yuu: ".......Cell Siphon."

Grim: "I-i-it was an accident--... F-FNYAGH!?"

• Now that you have access to your blood magic, you use your blood cells to cast a spell, Cell Siphon, on Grim. The monster is suddenly put in a trance as the blood in his tiny body forces him to come closer to you. Finally, your puddle of blood starts to levitate around you and formed into a makeshift cage for Grim.

BloodMage! Yuu: "Huh... That was easy."

• You were expecting Grim to fight back but the fiery feline only sit there in the cage with his ears drooped down, and his eyes not meeting yours. You approach the headmage and handed him the cage. The headmage's mouth is agape and his wide eyes kept looking at you and back to the cage, trying to piece together what the fuck just happened. You assume that everyone else is also holding the same expression.

?????: "I apologize Headmaster, but I'm afraid Malleus Draconian has forgotten to-- OH MY FUCKING SEVENS."

• The short fae entered the room, not expecting to see scorched walls, everyone standing in shock, and you looking at him like you didn't mind the melted flesh and eyeball still dangling from your face.

#twisted wonderland x reader #Twisted Wonderland x GN reader #Twisted Wonderland x male reader #Twst x reader #Twst x GN reader #Twisted Wonderland x female reader #Twst x male reader #Twst x female reader #Twst x mage reader #Twisted Wonderland x mage reader #Twisted Wonderland x Mortal Kombat #Twst x MK #silverryuan works

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mischievousmoony · 10 months ago

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𝚜𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚛𝚢 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜' ⟡ 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝟹

⟢ james potter x black!reader (fem)

⟢ summary: after your parents cross the line, you and your older brother sirius find sanctuary at the potters'. your first day goes very poorly . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ 5.1k

⟢ warnings: there is talk about the reader's previous hostile home environment, although it's not pictured. walburga black is implied to be mentally unstable. a theme here is the lasting impact growing up in that environment has on a person: reader fears becoming like her parents, longs for a more loving environment, doesn't handle her emotions very well, and picks fights. both anger and sadness are dealt with unhealthily by different characters. if there is anything i should add here, please please let me know.

⟢ part 1 ⟡ part 2 ⟡ part 3 ⟡ masterlist

note: well! yikes! angst! i'm not sure i like the vision but i’m trying to remind myself this is a hobby and doesn’t have to be perfect <3

“A walk?” You questioned with a raspy voice.

“Mhm,” James nodded, “Just around the yard. Think it’ll help you feel better.”

You let James lead you to the back door, hand and hand. When he opened it, you discovered that “yard” was a bit of an understatement. The Potters’ property was larger than you knew— enormous, really. Lush garden beds thrived nearest to the house, and the grassy green beyond was surely where James practiced quidditch over the summers. The large trees scattered around the outskirts of the property made you picture a younger James climbing them.

James led you into the grassy landscape, taking notice of your awestricken expression as your eyes fall on Euphemia’s garden.

“I knew you’d like it out here.”

“It’s beautiful,” you mused, stopping to admire a bed of flowers. James dipped down and plucked one from the ground.

He fit it behind your ear and winked, “Don’t tell my mum.”

You frowned, reaching up to remove the flower from your hair. You twirled it inbetween your fingers.

“Your mum must think so poorly of me now,” you muttered, staring down at the flower.

“What? Why would you say that?”

“The first thing Sirius and I did after we were invited to stay is have a screaming match in the dining room. We sure know how to make ourselves feel at home,” you laughed bitterly. “And now she knows we’re together. Didn’t even get to properly tell her. I can’t imagine what she thinks of me.”

“Hey, look at me.” James said in a stern but gentle voice. You wonder how all the Potters can sound so kind even when they’re working up to a lecture.

You peered up through your eyelashes. James sported a pretty smile, and that alone made you feel a little better.

“It’s gonna be alright,” he said, “My mum’s not one to jump to any conclusions. She trusts me, alright? And don't worry about your fight with Sirius. No one's expecting this to be easy for you. For either of you."

James continued, “Besides, we all let our emotions get the best of us sometimes, yeah? We’re human. My parents will understand.”

James could tell you over and over again that it’s okay to be angry and it’s okay to slip up, but you didn’t think any amount of it would ever make it feel okay. You wondered how he could even believe it.

It surprised you, actually, how mature and level-headed James could be. We’re human so it’s just okay if our emotions get the best of us sometimes? Who actually thinks like that?

At your house, you had to be nothing short of perfect at all times. Now that you’ve seen Fleamont and Euphemia in parent mode, you can see where James learned it all. You never had anything like that, and it was difficult to wrap your mind around it.

Especially because it wasn’t too long ago that James was one of Hogwarts’ biggest trouble makers—his pranks were the epitome of immature. Evidently, he's grown up a lot recently.

Stupidly, you felt bitter about it. Which was completely absurd, you thought. Because surely you were not jealous of your boyfriend because he learned how to regulate his emotions better than you did. Because he was growing up, maturing? And you… well you don’t know what you’re doing. You felt stuck, like you’d always be a scared little kid who needs her older brothers’ no matter how old you got.

“Maybe you’re right,” you said, not really knowing what else to say. You were compelled to change the subject, “I’m worried about Regulus.”

“I know,” James began leading you around the garden again. You dropped the flower back where it came from, not wanting to be caught red handed with a freshly murdered flower from Effie’s garden.

“We have to get him out of there,” you sighed.

James looked at you through the corner of his eye. Apprehensively, he said, “From what Sirius told me, you guys barely got out of there.”

“Yeah, so we’ll need a really good plan so that we don’t get caught.”

James turned his head to look straight at you. He looked at you like you had two heads.

“What, you want to break him out or something? You want to go back there?”

“We have to. Regulus–“

“Regulus made his choice.” James interrupted warily.

You felt your heart sink into your stomach, “Please, not you too.”

“You heard what Sirius said. Regulus was given the option, and he chose to stay behind,” James tried to reason.

James knew how much your twin meant to you, it wasn't a surprise that you'd be worried about him. But to go back to that house? That was a step too far for his comfort. The moment that Sirius admitted exactly what his mother had done to him, James knew he'd never let either of you near her again. Something must've snapped in Walburga Black— she has been teetering on the edge for years, but she has unmistakably gone from being a cruel mother to an outright unstable woman.

The though of Regulus still being around her made him sick. Even though James didn't know him that well, he still found himself caring about him. It was likely an extension of your love for Regulus manifesting in James, who cared for you so deeply that your concerns became his. But that's just it— you're the one who he really cared for. Above all else, it's you he wanted to protect.

“He did not choose to stay behind,” you raised your voice, offended that James could ever think so.

“Love...”

James didn't mean to, but he looked at you with pity in his eyes, as if he thought you were in denial.

Anger flared up in your chest when you registered his expression, “No, don’t do that. Just because Sirius said so doesn’t mean it’s true. Regulus wouldn’t just choose them over us. Sirius– he doesn't have his facts straight.”

James didn’t say anything. What could he? It sounded like you were implying that Sirius was lying and James knew Sirius wouldn't do that.

For the record, you didn't think Sirius would lie either. But he was absolutely capable of missing something.

“You don’t believe me,” your mouth hung open after your words.

“It’s not that.” James rubbed the back of his neck uncomfortably, “I believe you, but I believe Sirius too. And Sirius said that Regulus refused to come. Whatever the reason, that's the choice he made. I’m not going to let you put yourself in danger for a– a lost cause.”

His words stopped you in your tracks.

“A lost cause?"

You had never been so affronted by James. He might not know Regulus nearly as well as he knows you or Sirius, but the fact that he could easily tag him as a lost cause was unbelievable.

"Don’t be an idiot, James. How could you say that?”

James had kept walking for a couple more paces, so he had to turn to face you. He tried to cover the way the venom in your voice made him flinch.

“You can’t force him to leave,” he said, sounding as understanding as he could muster, but he needed to get through to you.

Phantom alarm bells were ringing in his ears, his desperation for you to hear him growing. You were stubborn and you'd do anything for your brothers, James knows this all to well. But not this. He couldn't let you do this. He wouldn't let you go back there.

“Merlin, you’re siding with Sirius!” you accused, giving in to the anger burning in your chest.

James tried to remain calm as he spoke.

“I’m not siding with anyone.”

“Yes, you are! How could I be so stupid? Of course you’d choose Sirius over me!"

James features twist in anguish, "Love–"

"This is what I get for falling for my brother’s best friend. When there's a choice, it will always be him, won’t it?” You spat, glaring at James in a way that almost knocked him off his feet.

He was completely taken aback; you two had never fought like this. He tried to take some semblance of control over the situation, “Okay, you’re angry right now, and that’s okay–“

“Oh, would you stop that!” you shouted. A small part of you hoped the sound wouldn’t travel back to the house, but a bigger part of you was consumed with a growing rage. That part didn’t seem to care.

“Stop what?” James knitted his brows.

“Being some master of emotions all of a sudden! I’m accusing you of picking Sirius over me! I’m raising my voice at you! I’m calling you names! Why won’t you fight back? Yell at me, do something!”

James took a deep breath, “I’m not going to do that.”

He sounded completely calm and collected. Somehow, that pissed you off.

“Oh, you’re so perfect, aren’t you?”

“What?” James felt like he was going crazy, unable to decipher what he could possibly be doing wrong.

“Perfect James Potter, wouldn’t hurt a fly these days! You could never–! never lose your cool, could you?” you shouted.

James gaped at you. He couldn't be mad even if we wanted to; he was just confused. What the hell was he supposed to say to that? You yourself didn’t even seem to know what you were saying, your words tumbling out awkwardly as you said things even you knew weren’t true.

It’s not like James never lost the reign on his emotions. He throws his quidditch gear around when he loses a match, he can’t control his frustration when he doesn’t do well in class, he isolates himself when he’s sad instead facing it, he does a whole lot of things that he’s not proud of.

And you’ve seen it all before, but for some reason, you’ve chosen not to remember those moments. All you can think about is how you were so angry and scared, and he was so understanding and level-headed. And how you grew up with screaming matches and unfair punishments, and he probably got to grow up with calm discussions and soft spoken apologies. And it all felt so unfair.

“Are you–? Sorry, you're mad at me because I'm not getting mad at you? I’m sorry, I guess?”

“I don’t want you to be sorry I want you to yell at me! Be mad at me, fight with me!” You felt the familiar sensation of tears welling up in your eyes.

James looked shellshocked. Truthfully, he didn’t know how to deal with you like this, he’s never seen this before. Sure, sometimes you bicker— all couples do— but this was reaching an uncharted territory.

"I'm not going to yell at you for wanting to keep your brother safe–"

"Then yell at me because you think I'm naive for thinking I can get him out of there. Fight with me because I think you're an idiot for thinking Regulus is a lost cause!"

You were trying to rile him up, James knew this, and he so badly wanted to not let if affect him. Not because it was making him angry, no, it was making him sad.

But he couldn't fight it.

And James always does the same thing when he's sad.

“I think we need to take a step back from this conversation. Why don’t we go inside?” James offered.

He sounded like he stole that line from some therapist's book on navigating conflict. It made you want to scream.

“You go inside! I’m going to keep walking.” You pushed past him, deliberately letting your shoulder collide with his as you stormed away.

James let the blow knock him back a step, too thrown off to do anything else. He listened to your receding footsteps and he wanted to be the type of boyfriend who runs after you when you’re upset. Who holds you and listens to you until you can work out the problem. Instead—

“Just stay by the house, okay?” he called over his shoulder.

“Yeah, whatever.”

A few hot angry tears slid down your face. You aggressively wiped them away and willed any more tears to dry up. You were tired of crying.

You stomped around the gardens and grass, thinking of Regulus and how he deserved better than siblings who left him behind to find refuge with a boy who wouldn't think twice about rescuing him too.

Leaving that house was something you'd always dreamed of. But you had imagined both of your brothers by your side. No one was ever supposed to be abandoned.

Sirius just didn’t understand how horrible being alone in that house was. You and Regulus had already experienced a taste of it when he went off to Hogwarts a year before you two. Not to mention, Sirius was always the strongest of you, so without him, navigating that house was a whole new terrain.

Maybe that’s what Sirius senses is different about your relationship with Regulus. Those nine months were probably the worst of your life, and Reg is who you went through them with.

And maybe that's why you were so adamant that Regulus can’t be left there alone while everyone else seems ready to abandon all hope. Your parents had never been more furious than when Sirius was sorted into Gryffindor all those years ago. You suspected that they would be worse, angrier than ever after the departure Sirius orchestrated for you and him. You couldn’t let Regulus face that alone.

Somewhere along the line, worry for Regulus took precedence over the anger that held your gentle love for James hostage. By the time you came to a large trees on the outskirts of the lawn, the anger from the previous argument had simmered.

As you plopped down in the dirt and sat against its trunk, you tried not to be annoyed that taking a step away from that conversation really worked.

You took in your surroundings to distract yourself. It was to no avail, as a nearby shed caught your eye. Through its open window, you could see James’ broom and other quidditch gear.

“You idiot,” you chastised yourself aloud. You let your head fall into your hands as a million nasty thoughts about yourself raced through your mind, the most prominent being you’re just like your mother.

It was just like her to pick fights. You couldn’t breathe in that house without her telling you that you were doing it wrong. She always found something to yell at you for.

How could I act like that, you winced as you recalled the fight you just walked away from.

Poor James, who you yelled at for not being mad at you. It really was just like her to get upset over something so irrational. You felt ill over the similarity, and you were overwhelmed with a sense of impending doom.

You couldn't let yourself be doomed to your parents' fate. You wanted to be kind, reasonable, rational. So, what wouldn't they do in this situation?

A safe assumption would be that they wouldn't feel bad, so you're already on the right track it seems.

They also wouldn't apologize.

Okay, yeah. Apologize. You could apologize.

You have to apologize.

Just go apologize.

But you just couldn’t get yourself to move. You were frozen in shame for your behavior, the only movement was the rise and fall of your chest from your labored breath.

James Potter did not like feeling sad. It was unsettling, uncomfortable, so utterly unlike him.

Whenever it happened, he tried to hide from it. He'd lock himself away somewhere before he'd dare face it head on— or admit that it's there at all.

The last time he was sad, he let himself fall asleep in the common room just so he wouldn't have to face his friends back at his dorm. And when his childhood pet died, he didn't mention it for months, only alerting his friends to his cat's passing when Peter asked how old his cat was again.

It's not that James thought there was anything wrong with being sad. He definitely didn't believe in any of that nonsense that real men don't cry. In fact, he was always the first to offer his shoulder if any of his friends were upset, back pats and let-it-all-outs at the ready.

But when it was him, when he was the one with the lump in his throat and a pit in his stomach, he couldn't handle sadness anymore. It made him feel vulnerable, and he wanted to be the strong one, the brave one. The one who lights up a room with the force of the sun and brings humor and fun into everyone's days.

So, when he couldn't be that, he'd rather be alone. He'd rather sit isolated in a dimly lit room where the darkness can't touch anyone but himself.

His bed creaked under his weight as he shifted in place, the only movement he has made in several minutes.

He was trying to be still and let his mind focus on nothing but his breathing. He was especially trying not to think of your argument.

He counted out his inhales and exhales, just as he had learned years ago in divination class.

James took divination for one year only. It wasn't for him, but one thing from that class did stick with him— the lesson on mindfulness. Something about mediation and a clear head opening your mind to frequencies you may not normally be able to comprehend.

James wasn't sure about all that, but he quite liked the calmness of the exercise they did in class that day, even if he felt a bit silly doing it.

He finds himself repeating the meditation from that class when he's down. He much prefers a clear head to one with racing thoughts that give him that choked up feeling in his throat.

He was broken out of his feeble attempt at a meditative state when there was a knock at his door.

Hope swelled in his stomach. Maybe you've come to talk. Maybe he could smooth things over with you. And then he could stop feeling like this.

He tried not to look disappointed when Sirius walked through the door.

Sirius gave James a once over as the door clicked shut behind him, "What's wrong with you?"

"Me?" James forced a chuckle, "Nothing's wrong with me."

"You're sitting at the foot of your bed, starin' at the floor, shoulders slumped," Sirius' hand swept towards James' hunched form, "I know what upset looks like, Prongs."

"I'm not upset," James insisted still, "I'm just thinking. Is being lost in thought a crime these days?"

Sirius shrugged, plopping down on the bed next to James. His legs hung over the edge as he let his back hit the sheets, his arms sprawled at his sides.

James listened as Sirius puffed out a long, exhausted breath.

"You alright?" James asked, not bothering to look back, letting his sad eyes remain fixed on the floor.

"Ah, I see. Worried about me, are you?" Sirius guessed.

James seized the opportunity to excuse his demeanor. Besides, he wanted to talk about what Sirius had said earlier anyway.

"You did have a pretty nasty spat with your sister. And then you nearly collapsed."

There's a lull in the conversation for a moment as Sirius thinks.

"Your parents fixed me right up again. Gave me some nasty potion to help with the dizziness. Tasted like sewage but 'm good as new. They're off now, by the way, picking up some herbs they want to steep and feed me for these spasms I keep having in my hands."

James winced. Spasms, a potential side effect of being under the Cruciatus Curse.

"Sirius... about what you said happened. Your mother–"

"I don't want to talk about that," Sirius spoke quietly, somberly.

After a moment, Sirius added, "I don't want to think about any of them ever again."

James felt a pang in his heart, knowing Regulus was included in 'them'. You wouldn't have stood for it if you'd heard Sirius say that.

James' mind wanders back to your earlier argument, his earlier attempts to avoid these thoughts futile now. You were so adamant that you needed to go back for Regulus, ready to dive into some sort of escape plan, and that still scared the hell out of James.

He considered telling Sirius about what you wanted to do. One on hand, he knew Sirius would be on board with keeping you the hell away from there— keeping you safe. On the other hand, it felt like tattling on you to your brother.

James thought about the betrayal written across your face earlier. How hurt you were when you suspected James was choosing to believe Sirius over you. Confiding in Sirius now would surely, surely make it worse. And James didn't want to hurt you.

And yet—

"Thing is... I have to talk to you about something. About your sister... and about Regulus."

A flinch finally broke you out of your statue-like state when a sudden and distinct fluttering sounded above you. You expected to see any mundane bird when you looked up, but there was nothing there. You leaned around the tree to try to locate the source.

Instead of any random creature of flight, it was a familiar owl. And he was not in the tree, rather next to it, in a designated perch located on the other side of the thick trunk.

"Oh. Hello," you greeted the owl. He stared at you blankly, of course.

You've met this owl before. His name was Glory. You didn't know why, but James had named him, and you supposed that it was a name that James would have thought of.

You've received countless letters from James, all delivered by Glory. There were the long ones, which you mostly received during the times you were apart. Glory was good at discretely delivering them to your window. And if James also had mail for Sirius, he knew to deliver yours first.

James was always checking up on you over the holidays, making sure you were okay and telling you stories of his own time at home that would take your mind off of whatever horrible things were going on at Grimmauld Place.

When you were together, back at Hogwarts, James still sent you little notes whenever you weren't near. He knew how much you loved receiving notes from him, so he made it a habit. He would send notes about things he saw that reminded him of you, expressions of how much he missed you even if he'd seen you mere hours prior, declarations of love that he couldn't keep inside until the next time he'd be alone with you.

Oh, your sweet boy.

"I really messed up, didn't I?" You asked Glory. You chided yourself for continuing to try to talk to an owl. Not that owls weren’t smart. In fact, they were very intelligent, especially the magical sort. Glory could understand you, but it’s not like he had the ability to respond.

You imagined that Glory would tell you that you messed up big time if he did, though.

You pushed yourself up to your feet, wiping dirt and twigs off your pants when you rose. As you walked back towards the house, you wondered if your mother ever felt sorry like this, if she ever wanted to apologize sometimes. Surely, at some point she did. James' words come back to you about how we're all human, and you want to believe that maybe there was a memory lost in your mind of her apologizing to you.

You'd have been a wide-eyed little kid at the time, snot-nosed and teary-eyed after she yelled at you for spilling milk or leaving a toy in the middle of the floor. She'd wrap her arms around you and apologize for raising her voice. Then she'd shush and coo soothingly until your tears dried up and you could show her all of your baby teeth in a wide grin.

It was unnatural, the image of her in your mind like that, but your heart burned for it to be real. As sick as it was, you still yearned for your mother's love, even if it was a thing of the past.

Maybe your house really was a poison. Because if she had ever been gentle, one way or another, Walburga Black got colder and harsher over the years. She spiraled so deep into darkness that she seemed to want to be cruel. After all, to cast the Cruciatus Curse, you do have to really want it.

Each step you took was invigorated with a new sense of determination. Apologizing to James now, owning up to your mistake, it was only the first step of doing everything in your power to never be anything like that woman.

It felt like no time passed at all by the time you arrived outside of James' door. You didn't feel ready to face him, but you raised your fist anyway. Just when knuckles were about to meet wood, you heard a muffled voice from inside.

"What do you think?" James' voice asked softly. Then, after a beat of silence, "Did you hear me?"

"Yeah, James, I heard you," Sirius said. He had that far away kind of tone in his voice he gets when he's trying to distance himself from his emotions.

"And?"

"And I'm bloody tired of talking about him!" Sirius barked. Even from the safety of the other side of the door, you flinched.

"She doesn't get it. She'll never get it because it's him," your brother continued. "If she had known he wasn't coming she probably wouldn't be here either. If it's a choice, it'll be him over me in a heartbeat. He could've done the bloody spell on me himself and she'd still choose him. Merlin, she could've done the bloody spell if he asked her to."

If felt like the wind was knocked out of you. You bit your tongue until you drew blood, fighting the urge to cry out, as if Sirius' words physically wounded you.

Rationally, you knew that Sirius was just angry, that he didn't mean it. But the rational side of your brain hasn't been winning many battles today.

You vaguely heard James tell Sirius not to say things like that as you backed away from his door until you met the wall behind you with a thump.

There was silence from inside James' room for mere seconds before the door was ripped open. Sirius stood in the doorway, James behind him. You couldn't read your brother's expression, there barely was one. How typical of him to hide behind a blank stare.

You, however, were wide eyed with a hand clamped over your mouth, leaning against the wall behind you, sure you'd collapse without its support.

Sirius began to say your name and suddenly your hand was gone and the words were tumbling from your lips.

"How could you say that?" Your voice was strained, "I wouldn't ever do that– He wouldn't ever do that!"

Sirius' eyes bore into yours but he didn't say anything. You wished you could tell what he was thinking under that stupid mask of his.

"I shouldn't have to tell you over and over again that I love you both. You are both my brothers, you both mean the world to me. It's so irrational and– and foolish to worry about a choice that I'd never–"

You cut yourself off. The irony of being so hurt by Sirius' words were not lost on you. You had only just been accusing James of choosing Sirius over yourself.

"No, that's not true," Sirius bit back, "because that choice is upon you now. So, go ahead. Let's see if you can surprise me."

"What?"

"Choose me, stay here where it's safe. Choose Regulus, go right ahead and try to be his jailbreak. But when you can't convince him to leave, when he refuses, I won't be surprised when you choose to stay there too."

Your eyes flashed to James, who looks way too shameful for you to not put two and two together. You were conflicted; feelings of regret over accusing James of choosing Sirius over you were mixing with feelings of betrayal that James had ran right to Sirius with your words.

You'd let the guilt and betrayal sink in and shred you to pieces later. You had Sirius to deal with first.

"What is wrong with you?" you hissed. "How could you be so dim? Wanting our brother to be safe does not mean I'm choosing him over you."

"Color me unsurprised!" Sirius yelled, looking smug.

Your eyes began to burn, "Fuck you, Sirius!"

James tries to interrupt, "Er, hey, maybe we should–"

"Don't you dare tell me we need to take a step back from this conversation, James!"

James' mouth clamped shut.

"Don't yell at him!" Sirius squawks.

"You want to talk about choosing one person over another? Let's talk about it. Don't pretend you haven't given up on Regulus ever since you met his shiny new replacement!"

You'd feel real shitty about saying that in front of James later; the look on his face at your words was already burned into your memory.

"Don't turn this on me!" Sirius shouted.

"You're such a hypocrite. And an imbecile for thinking I care about you any less than Regulus. Of course I care about you both the same. And you may not believe it, but Regulus cares about you too!"

"That's–"

"I don't want to hear it," you interrupted, "I'm done. Say it James."

James looked like a deer in headlights, "What?"

"Say the thing!" you shouted.

"We need to take a step back from this conversation?"

Your arms flew up, gesturing towards James as you stared Sirius down with an exasperated look on your face. Your brother scoffed and stormed down the hall, disappearing to anywhere else in the Potters' home.

For a moment it was just you and James in the hall. Your eyes met and he looked anguished and far too apologetic. You knew that you were supposed to be the apologetic one, and you felt your heart begging you to let the sorrys loose.

It was too bad that the betrayal started settling in before the guilt.

"Sirius was right before. You are a snitch."

With that, you slipped back into your room and let the door slam shut behind you.

James remained in the hall for a moment longer, not knowing who to follow. He should follow one of you.

Instead, he decided to retreat back to his bedroom.

James wanted to be alone again.

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kittyball23 · 1 year ago

Note

When you have time could you do a one shot of poppy fan girling over the fact that her bf is in two famous boy bands? I wish the movie gave a little more of it focused on him because the adoration is so cute to me.

Yes, here it is! :D

Surprise (a Trolls fanfic)

“Hey, Branch? It’s almost showtime, I was just thinking that maybe we could…”

The Pop Queen cut off her own question with an enormous gasp.

“WHHHHHAAAAAAT?!?!”

It was simply impossible for her to believe the sight in front of her. Granted, she knew some of what she would find when she ventured backstage to find her boyfriend. She knew of his brothers, and of how they were the sensational boyband known as BroZone. But what she did not at all anticipate were the four other Trolls who made up the other insanely popular boyband that there had been back in the day.

And, recalling that that band had had five members - and seeing that her boyfriend was costumed to the same chic style they were wearing at that moment - it suddenly all made sense in a whirlwind of revelation.

“Kismet?” she exclaimed in a squeak, pointing a shaky hand at Branch. “You were in BroZone AND Kismet? And you… didn’t… tell me?!” She shot her gaze at the brothers. “Guys, did you know about this?”

They hurriedly denied.

“I’m just as surprised as you are, Pops,” John Dory admitted.

“Not a clue,” Bruce answered.

“Nope,” Clay said, putting his hands up and taking a couple steps back, while Floyd replied with a mystified “Uh-uh,” and a small shake of his head.

At this point, Poppy wasn’t even sure how she was still able to keep standing there - she was trembling so much from the excitement building up inside of her, she was just about ready to collapse!

Branch himself shrugged, keeping collected. “Surprise,” he chuckled.

Poppy couldn’t help herself anymore. Forgetting about everything but being filled with happiness - and not being able to coherently form any other sentences - she rushed forward and threw her arms around Branch’s neck, screaming in delight. Then, she rushed to hug each of his friends, taking Hype, Ablaze, Boom, and Trickee off guard with her uncontained enthusiasm and bone-crushing embrace. And then still, she leapt over towards JD, Bruce, Clay, and Floyd, hugging them for good measure, too!

Hype shook his blue head with a smirk. "Well, that's some girl you got there, Branch!" he exclaimed.

"And this is some sneaky secret-keeping boyband-extraordinaire boyfriend I've got!!" Poppy shouted, finding her voice again and nearly dizzying all nine men with all her jumping up-and-down on the spot. And now that she was speaking again, she couldn’t seem to stop! The words tumbled out of her a hundred miles a minute.

“This is incredible! I really really REALLY can’t believe this! I’m so excited I could SCREAM! I think I will scream! AAAIIYYIII!!! Okay, okay, I’m done now. No, just kidding, I’m actually not. AHGHGH! I’m not gonna be over this for, like, a SUPER long time! I, like, REALLY need all of your autographs, too. Ooo! And a picture! Well, more like a dozen pictures with you guys. And then I’m gonna need copies! And then copies of the copies!! And… and… would it be weird if I fainted right now? Because I totally feel like I’m gonna faint right now, hehe!”

And she did. Expended, she keeled over with that ear-to-ear smile still plastered on her face. Branch caught her right before she fell to the ground, and carried her in his arms.

“I��ll be back in a sec,” he said to his friends and brothers, smirking at the Pop Queen. “I’m gonna get her situated in the front row. Then we can get this show rolling, alright?”

And that’s just what he did, leaving Kismet and BroZone to themselves.

Both boybands looked at each other awkwardly, not sure what to say to each other. At least, until Floyd broke the ice, smiling politely.

“So… how did you guys meet Branch?”

#trolls #trolls 3 #trolls band together #broppy #branch trolls #poppy trolls #brozone #john dory #spruce trolls #clay trolls #floyd trolls #kismet #nsync #dreamworks #fanfiction #kittyball writes #thanks for the ask!#kittyball answers #100+

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casuallyobssessed · 1 month ago

Text

Hand of God - Donnie Barksdale x Fem!Fae!Reader ❥ 3.8k Words

A/N: Huge shout out to /impossibly-moths for being the catalyst for this idea and helping me with all my Fae related questions. Divider by /kodaswrld

Warnings: Fairy/Fae Reader, non-con/dub-con, major character death, alcohol consumption, no beta, no use of y/n, size kink, size difference, dead-dove content

Archive of Our Own Link

How could you have been so careless?

The sun beats down through the trees, a sliver of light transfixed directly on you has your brow sweating and your brain getting scrambled. You're stuck hanging by your wings, caught in some kind of trap mechanism inside of a metal cage. Inches away from you is a smorgasbord of deliciously irresistible berries and sweet goodies. You knew it was too good to be true, but you just couldn't resist trying to sneak in and take your fill.

Loud, crunching footsteps snap you out of your one person pity party. You know it has to be a human from the way they're walking. You kick your legs back and forth to try and dislodge yourself, but it only puts more painful stress on your wings. Afraid of tearing them, you stop and hang there silently, hoping that this human would be kinder than the rest you've come across.

The person picks up the cage and rattles it, shaking you violently in the process. You scream and hold onto your wings, hoping they wouldn't take much more damage. The cage is raised higher and you see the familiar face of a man.

“Must be my lucky day,” The human laughs, “Seems to me I done caught my very own Tinkerbell.”

Terrified, you lock eyes with him, unable to look away. This is the same monster that’s been killing all of your favorite forest creatures recently and taking them away.

“You’re kinda cute for a bug, ain't ya?,” He says, sticking his finger through the bars and poking your tummy.

“I'm not a bug!” You cry out, shoving his finger away, but he doesn't seem to understand your words.

He cocks an eyebrow at you, “Did you say somethin’?”

“Let me out of here!” You say, louder this time.

“I don't know what you're tryna say, bug,” He shrugs and you let out a frustrated huff.

And with that, he’s moving again, carrying you and the trap back to his truck. He places you on the passenger seat and slams the door with enough force to rock the vehicle and send you swaying. He gets in on the driver's side and starts the truck.

“Look here, ol’ Donnie ain't gonna hurt ya. You promise to be good if I let you outta there?” He asks, leaning down towards you. His cross necklace shifts against his shirt, catching glints of the sun that temporarily blind you with each breath he takes.

You glare at him, but cross your arms and nod. Without hesitation, the man named Donnie unlocks the cage. He fiddles with the mechanism that is holding you hostage and loosens it. Your wings slip free and you fall directly into the palm of his enormous hand. Even if you stretched all the way out with your head at the tip of his middle finger, your feet would barely reach his wrist. If he wanted to, he could crush you like an actual bug, but you don't get that vibe. At least, not yet. He set you free, that has to count for something, doesn't it?

His skin is warm and inviting after being stuck by yourself for a while, tempting you to lay down and snuggle up to him. You almost feel safe before he wraps his big fingers around you and pulls you out.

“Let go of me!” You squirm in his hand.

“Stop wigglin’, I wanna get a good look at you.”

He uses his other hand to grab you by the wings and dangle you in front of his face, squinting at you and twisting you around to get a better view. You’ve never worn clothes like the humans do, but the way his sharp brown eyes stare hungrily at you makes you want to cover up.

“Damn shame you're so tiny. You'd be a fine piece of ass otherwise.”

You scowl at him, crossing your arms over your chest.

“What? You don’t like me tellin’ you the truth?”

“You don't have to be so crass about it, Human,” You bite back, making sure your displeasure is evident on your face.

“I'll take that as a no, then,” He cocks an eyebrow at you, “Say, are there more things like you floatin’ around my property?”

You take a second to decide if you want to answer him truthfully. With his track record, he doesn't seem to be the forest conservationist type. Ultimately, you come to the conclusion that there's no need for him to find out about the others. You shake your head and shrug your shoulders in response.

“I don't believe you, but I guess you don't trust me after all the huntin’ I've been doin’ out here. That's fair,” He gives you a small smile and your heart skips a beat.

Donnie sets you on the dashboard of his truck and releases your wings. Surprisingly, your first instinct isn't to immediately fly out of the slightly cracked passenger window. You instead swing your legs over the edge of the plastic-y, vinyl surface and lightly kick your feet. You stretch out your wings and watch as he feels around beneath his seat for something, making a quiet ‘aha!’ sound when he finds it. He pulls out a large jar, partially filled with a clear fluid. Donnie unscrews the lid before bringing it to his lips and downing most of the remaining liquid in one big gulp.

“Shit!” He hisses, “Forgot how strong this rotgut was. Jar’s been sittin’ in here for a minute.”

You look at him, nose scrunched and slightly concerned at whatever ‘rotgut” is.

“There's a drop or two left, you wanna try some? Don't go down like that Wild Turkey whiskey since it's been sittin’ so long, but it'll get the job done,” Donnie holds the jar up to you expectantly.

“Okay,” You nod at him and point to the alcohol.

Understanding you clearly, he carefully holds the glass up to your lips, slowly tilting it up until you get a big mouthful. You immediately regret it as soon as you swallow. It’s harsh. It burns going down and you splutter and cough, bringing tears to your eyes.

“Strong ain't it, Darlin’?” Donnie chuckles, his eyes shine and crinkle at the corners, “That's some real honest white lightning, sugar. Drinkin’ ‘shine like that'll put hair on your chest, believe that.”

You motion for him to bring it back to your mouth, and you take another sip. It's less alarming this time, but equally as bad going down.

It doesn't take very long for the ‘shine’ to start kicking in. Heat spreads from your groin down to your toes, out to your fingers and through to the tips of your wings. You can feel that warmth creeping up your neck to your face, tipping Donnie off to how you're feeling. You lean back, resting on your hands and lazily flitting your wings.

“Feelin’ relaxed now, sweetheart?” Donnie asks you with a smirk.

You simply look at him and smile followed by a giggle. You like that he calls you different pet names, it makes your tummy do flips. It doesn't make sense to you, but you don't have the mental focus to think about it too hard right now.

“You should have some more, it'll make things real interestin’ I bet,” He tries to force another sip on you, but you shove the jar away, not wanting to deal with the consequences of drinking any more.

Donnie frowns, but doesn't push it. He drinks the last few drops left in the jar and reaches to grab you again. Your reaction time is slow, so you couldn't even fly away if you had wanted to.

“Put me down!” You squeal.

He ignores you and shoves you into the jar, overpowering you when you catch the rim with your legs and try to push against him. Before you're able to crawl out, he slams the lid on and twists it shut. You scream, hyperventilating and slamming your hands against the glass.

“Ungrateful bitch,” He says under his breath while reaching for his knife.

You take this as your sign to stop screaming, and step back, bumping against the glass. You cower down, covering your head as he stabs the pocketknife into the lid of the jar, giving you a burst of fresh air. He tosses your jar into the passenger seat, knocking your head against the side in the process, and throws the truck into gear.

You're not sure how long the drive takes to get to his home considering you hit your head pretty hard, but when you come to, your jar has been placed on the mantle above his fireplace. You're overseeing his messy living room, watching him putter around. He's taken his shirt and tossed it on the floor, and now he's kicking his boots off beside the couch.

From your all-seeing spot on the mantle, you watch him drink himself stupid. It started with cheap beer and ended with whiskey after he poured the last of his beer can into your jar. You stand calf deep in foul smelling, warm beer that soaks your hair and your wings. The smell makes you gag, but you try your best to keep your composure. Freaking out wouldn't help. You barely had room to stand, let alone have a panic attack.

A few minutes go by and Donnie comes back to linger in front of you. He just stares at you, swaying back and forth. Suddenly his eyes light up and he's snatching you off the mantle and unscrewing the lid. The violent movement knocks you on your butt, leaving you soaked in alcohol.

Donnie plucks you out of the jar by your wings and tosses the jar onto the coffee table. He walks into the kitchen and holds you over to the sink. Turning on the faucet, not bothering to let the water warm up first, he holds your little body under the water. You're hit with a rush of icy cold water that makes you squeal.

“Cut that shit out!” He shouts.

It scares you bad enough that you jump and immediately stop fighting against him. In an odd twist of events, he leans down and starts to gently wash you in the stream of water. Well, he does as best he can while drunk and using one hand to hold you up by your wings.

Carefully, he glides his fingers across your breasts and then your stomach, slowly dragging them down to your hip. Putting your leg between his index finger and thumb, he squishes your thigh then moves on to massage your calf, washing the remnants of the beer off your skin. He does the same to your other leg, but his fingers trail up the back of your thigh, not stopping until they reach your ass.

You want to kick him or curse him out for feeling you up like this, but you have to admit to yourself, it feels kind of nice. He caresses the curve of your ass before slipping his calloused fingertip between your thighs, slowly parting your legs. Your cunt is positively dripping, your wetness coats his finger before getting washed away by the water. Something about this intrigues Donnie, so he continues sliding his finger back and forth between your thighs, creating sweet, sweet friction against your clit.

You bite your lip, stifling a moan as you grind your hips down against him. It feels heavenly. He lets go of your wings and turns the sink off, watching intently as you straddle him and rub your slick folds all over his finger.

“That must feel real good, huh?” He asks, his voice husky and low, “You're a desperate little thing.”

His words make your cheeks burn with embarrassment, but it's not enough to stop you. You lean forward, bracing yourself with your hands to get a better angle. The difference in position sends sparks of white hot lightning through your body, making your toes curl and your thighs tighten around his finger. Donnie groans, using his free hand to palm himself through his jeans.

Nearing your climax, your wings start to shake along with your legs. Panting moans tumble out of your mouth and your stomach muscles tighten. Inside your chest, your heart is racing, and that white hot pleasure starts turning into a sharper sensation, like pure honey on your clit. That feeling intensifies quickly. You're so close you can almost taste it. You look up at Donnie towering over you, and you're not sure what you're asking of him but the tears in your puppy dog eyes are begging him to do something.

“What do you need, Darlin’?” He looks at you with a dark expression, trying to decipher your pitiful whines.

He lets go of the bulge in his pants long enough to brush his fingers against your wings, softly rubbing them between his thumb and index. You cry out as an unexpected tingle travels through your sensitive wings and shocks you into your orgasm. You tremble around him with a full body spasm and a contented sigh. The blissful high doesn't last long before Donnie changes his tune and pinches your wings, tugging on them harshly. He laughs when you yelp and tumble backwards, nearly falling off of his hand.

“Stop it! That hurts.” You cry out and reach around to swat him away, but your arms are too short to reach.

“Relax, Tinkerbell, I just wanna see somethin’ real quick.”

He manhandles you onto your back, laying you flat on his palm with your wings tucked between his fingers. You're given no warning before he spreads your legs open wide, putting your cunt on display for him.

“So fuckin’ wet and pretty. I bet you taste sweet as molasses,” Without waiting for your permission, he leans in to lick you.

Ignoring the alcohol heavy on his breath when he opens his mouth, you're hit with a wave of pleasure the second his tongue touches your wet heat.

“Mmm, I was right,” He says, licking his lips.

“Will you do it again?” You ask quietly while canting your hips towards him, hoping he gets the message.

“You want more?” There's a hint of disbelief in his voice.

You nod.

With his tongue being wide enough to cover most of your body in one pass, he uses it to trace from between your legs, all the way up to your breasts. Goosebumps spread across your skin as his slick tongue goes in for another taste of your folds. He moans against you, sending the vibrations straight to your core and making you writhe in his hand. It continues like that for a few minutes; cycling between him absolutely devouring you and having to stop himself from moaning too loudly. To your dismay, he pulls away from you, leaving you sick with want.

“Please, please, please,” You beg, thrusting up against nothing but air, searching for contact. The words come out sounding more like a prayer begging for forgiveness than anything.

“Is all your kind this fun to play with? They all this needy, or is it just you?” You can hear the amusement in his voice as he watches you struggle, “I mean look at how wet you are for me.”

He uses his pinky to rub against your aching clit, sliding down to gather up your slick, and then presses against your entrance. You shake your head at him, scared that his finger would be too big for you.

“I think you can take it, sweetheart. Be a good girl and let me try, alright?” He leans in and kisses your stomach, trying to reassure you.

You shudder. He turns you on way more than he probably should. You nod and bite your lip, agreeing to let him try.

Miraculously, your small hole stretches around the tip of his pinky without too much of a struggle. The sensation is foreign to you but feels divine. You never imagined yourself getting finger-fucked by a human, and yet, here you are. You groan, holding yourself back.

“Keep on makin’ those sweet sounds for me, Honey. I wanna hear how good it feels,” Donnie whispers, his voice gravelly and only slightly slurred.

You obey, letting your moans and whimpers fill the space between you two. That familiar feeling starts building up in your stomach as he gently fucks you, filling you up as much as you can handle with his pinky finger. Right before you reach your peak again, he pulls out of you abruptly. You whine at the empty feeling, making grabby hands at him to come back.

“I got an idea,” He mumbles, carrying you back into the living room and plopping down on the couch.

With one hand, he unbuckles his belt, undoes his jeans, and shoves his boxers down far enough to pull out his hard cock. Your eyes widen, hoping he isn't thinking what you think he is.

“You think it'll fit?” He asks you with a devilish grin.

He holds you up next to his dick, marveling at the size comparison. You're only a few inches taller than it is and your head spins just thinking about trying to fit any amount of it inside of you.

It's impossible. There is no physical way for him to fit, but in his inebriated state, he doesn't care. He's determined to make it fit. While you flutter your wings violently trying to get away, Donnie spreads your legs with one hand and lowers you onto his leaking dick with the other. You let out a disgruntled whimper.

At first it doesn't hurt, there's enough pre cum mixing with your own juices that it simply feels like intense pressure. You focus on the silver cross resting on his chest, rising and falling with each of his deep breaths. Its rhythmic movement reminds you to take your own deep breaths so you don't panic. But, when Donnie reaches up and forcibly spreads your legs farther than they're meant to go, your hips start to ache and your muscles burn. You start panicking.

He pulls back for a moment, letting you believe that he's giving up with a sigh before ramming himself into you, effectively popping your hips out of place and shattering your pelvis. A blood curdling scream erupts from your throat and searing, unbearable pain pulses throughout your body as you feel his dick tearing through your body, nearly ripping you in half.

You beg and scream and cry as he forces himself deeper, an incredible tightness building up in your stomach and chest. To make room for Donnie, your organs are being squished up into your ribcage. You’re thankful you can't feel your legs anymore, but the rest of the pain still has your vision blurring. You can't see the cross anymore, just a shiny blur of silver against his skin.

Another thrust and you feel a mushy pop inside your ribs, preventing you from taking another full breath. You cough to clear your airway, but you only get a mouthful of blood. Your lungs are on fire, begging you for a fresh breath of air, but you're powerless to comply.

The last thing you feel is a terrible crack inside your chest, ribs splintering like twigs underneath your skin. You're blinded by the pain before it completely knocks you unconscious. Your body goes limp in Donnie's hands, making it infinitely easier for him to manipulate your limbs where he needs them.

Using you like his own personal fleshlight, he pumps himself in and out of you like a mad man, desperately chasing his release. He ignores the blood coating his dick and dripping from your slack jawed mouth, it really just makes this smoother for him. An inconvenient cleanup, sure, but that's a problem for sober Donnie.

As he nears his climax, his thrusts get sloppier and harder. Frantic chants of ‘fuck, fuck, fuck’ ending with a grunt marks the moment Donnie cums inside of you. His seed spills out around his cock and drips down your legs, mixing with the blood to turn a surprisingly pretty pink. Your broken little body is nothing but mush, barely contained within your skin when he's done playing with you.

Donnie takes a few deep breaths and slowly slides you off his softening dick, surveying the damage he's done. Your mangled corpse sags in his fingers as he inspects your crumpled wings. He pokes at your hand. Though it's still balled into a fist, it unfurls as he nudges your fingers, placing his fingertip against your palm. It's as if he's expecting you to grab onto him, give him some sign that he didn't go too far.

Maybe it's the alcohol dulling his senses, but he can't seem to find any feelings of remorse. Even looking at your glazed-over, empty eyes doesn't spark any emotion within him, except for mild disappointment that he broke his new toy. Without pulling his boxers or jeans back up, Donnie slumps over sideways on the couch, clutching you in one hand.

He dozes off for a few hours before lurching awake in a cold sweat. There's a moment of confusion while he looks at your now stiff body in his fist. He doesn’t remember what happened beyond a few blurry flashes of memory. Wiping the sweat off his forehead, he groans and sits up, opening his fingers to look at you in the process.

Donnie probably can't tell you what possesses him to take hold of your tiny wings and rip them out of your back, but he does. He then shoves them in his pocket, and carelessly dumps your wingless body back into the jar still sitting on the coffee table. He shoves his dick back into his underwear and yanks his jeans back up. Rising from the couch, he picks up his shirt from the floor and shrugs it on, then snatches the jar from the table and puts the lid back on.

Carrying you with him, he opens the back door and stares out into the woods silently. He looks down at you and blinks. With a grunt, he winds his arm up and hurls the jar into the darkness, listening for the thud it should make when it hits the ground.

To his surprise, he doesn't hear anything. No thud, no glass shattering, nothing. He doesn't care enough to figure out why, so he shuts the door and goes back into the living room. Donnie mumbles something about getting another drink as he rubs his eyes. When he opens them again, he's taken back by what he finds.

On the coffee table sits the glass jar. Only now, it's empty.

#donnie barksdale x reader #donnie Barksdale x you #the gift 2000 #donnie Barksdale #keanuverse #keanu reeves x you #keanu reeves x reader

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heartbreak-hotel-35 · 5 days ago

Text

Give Me A Chance

Elvis Presley x Fem!Reader

No one would ever believe the high and mighty King of Rock and Roll could be so clingy. But I’ve seen it first hand. He just can’t seem to leave me alone. If this damn job didn’t pay so well I might just leave it. But I must say, having him on an invisible leash made me feel some sort of way. Some sort of way indeed… Do I truly hate him? Or am I just afraid I’m not as special as he secretly makes me feel.

Warnings: lil bit of cursing, pretty suggestive actions in this one… but no smut!

70s Elvis / International Hotel Elvis

• •—•• •••— •• •••

There was Vernon. Followed by Ronnie, James, and Glen. The Jordanaires. The Sweet Inspirations. The Colonel. Diskin. Lastly, there was Red with Elvis Presley walking right on his heels, like there was something to fear in the lobby. I rolled my eyes before turning my attention back to the computer, hoping silently that he had not seen me looking at him. Lest it inflate his already enormous ego. Just as I was about to stand and hide in the back office, a voice traveled effortlessly over the counter.

“See the show tonight, Honey?” It said. Honey. The nickname made my skin crawl. I kept my eyes firmly on the screen in front of me.

“No, Mr. Presley. I’ve been here for the last eight hours.” I replied plainly.

“EP, the girls are comin’ man. We gotta get you outta here.” Red said urgently. I saw Elvis wave him off in my peripheral vision.

“When you gonna come to one?” He asked, clasping his hands together and resting his elbows just inches away from me. At this point, I was growing extremely agitated with his presence. I turned my attention to him, trying to look past how sweaty and disheveled he looked.

“Unfortunately, Mr. Presley, your shows bring in so much business, that I will forever be stuck at my desk for every show you put on.” I told him. That sickening smirk appeared on his face at my words. He tapped his ringed fingers on the counter almost impatiently.

“Just say the word, Baby. I can get you into a show whenever you’d like.” He said, resting his chin in his hand.

“Bold of you to assume I want to attend one of your shows, Mr. Presley.” I said, my words dripping with venom. Elvis stuck his tongue out, glazed his bottom lip with saliva and nodded his head slowly. I bit the inside of my cheek, worried I may have sounded a little too rude. Before he could retaliate, the sound of hundreds of women’s screams poured in through the sliding glass doors. Red grabbed Elvis’ arm and pulled him away, taking my breath along with him.

I looked over to see our three security guards on duty holding the women back, telling them that if they came any closer there would be consequences. I sat back in my chair, rubbing my temples and brushing away the thought of him. Looking at the clock, I groaned in realization that I had another hour and a half before shift change. That meant more complaints, problems to be fixed, and endless questions of “where’s Elvis?”.

“You’re going to have to get used to him you know.” Lillian, my co-worker said. I shot her a dirty look.

“Easy for you to say. If the man sneezes you’d be there with a damn tissue.” I prodded. She scoffed and gave me a gentle smile.

“Did he call again last night?” She asked, grabbing a stack of papers and flipping through them.

“Yes. Of course.” I replied. “Only to say, ‘what’re you wearing, pretty girl?’.” I mocked his voice, adding a huff of disgust at the end. “Which is stupid, cause he knew I was sitting right here.” Lillian looked over at me with wide eyes.

“What’d you say?” She asked, sounding almost excited.

“I hung up, Lillian.” I stated harshly. “That’s incredibly inappropriate and unprofessional.” I hoped silently my cheeks had not grown red at the memory.

“Did he call back?” She was fully facing me now.

“No, surprisingly.” I told her. Lillian stared at me, mouth hung open in silent awe.

“Well, you’re way stronger than I would be in that scenario.” She admitted, hiding her face behind a paper she’d be gripping. I rolled my eyes and faced the computer again, reopening tonight’s guest list. My head was throbbing, my shoulders were heavy, and my chest felt tight with frustration and another feeling I couldn’t quite put my finger on. An hour and ten minutes left. The minutes seemed to be running like hours and it was making me nauseous. Then the phone rang. I picked it up without a second thought.

“International Hotel, Vegas.” I stated.

“Hello! Is Elvis Presley staying at your hotel tonight?” The woman asked. I bit my tongue so hard it nearly bled.

“Yes ma’am. He does have a residency here. But I’m not allowed to give any personal information.” I replied. I felt like a robot; programmed to repeat the same thing over and over.

“But he is there?” She pried. I stayed silent. “Hello?” More silence. Then she hung up. An hour and seven minutes.

—tiny time skip—

My eyes had grown dry with the amount of time I’d stared directly at the clock. Lillian had gone nearly an hour ago, leaving me to answer the phone and check guests in on my own. Elvis’ band had come down for dinner about thirty minutes ago, their laughs and chatter echoing from down the hall. But there had been no sign of Elvis. Five minutes left. I felt my body relax with every tick of time. The phone rang once more.

“Last one.” I told myself. I picked it up and spoke slow.

“International Hotel, Vegas.”

“Hey Doll.” The voice said. I nearly choked on air. I didn’t say a word for what felt like several minutes. Once I collected my thoughts, I spoke.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Presley?” I asked, remaining as professional as my sanity would allow.

“Elvis.” He said. “Please, call me Elvis. Just once, would ya, Honey?” He pleaded. Pathetic. I shut my eyes, hoping it was just a bad dream.

“What can I do for you, Elvis?” I asked again, adding emphasis on his name. He hummed in approval.

“Jus’ wanted to hear your voice.” He said. This had to be a joke. Yet, something in his voice led me to believe he was dead serious.

“Mr. Presley, this is very unprofessional of you. If you need something, please call room service because I’m,”

“Done for the night?” He finished my sentence. I swallowed my words and grit my teeth. “Why d’you think I waited to call?”

“Enlighten me.” I bit. There was a pause. I smiled to myself. He couldn’t. There was no reason.

“Let me buy you a drink.” He finally said. I shook my head.

“No thank you.” I replied with forced politeness.

“Please? I jus’ wanna talk.” He continued.

“Mr. Presley, I have no interest in talking to you. You have a hundred groupies in the lobby just hoping you come down looking for a damn towel. I’m happy to send one of them up. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m no longer on shift and I would like to go to bed. Have a good night.” Then that was it. I put the phone on the receiver, stood up, and walked to the office to clock out.

My skin was was hot. I could feel my heartbeat in my throat. My sight began to blur with frustration. It would be a miracle if I still have a job here tomorrow morning. I pulled the bobby pins from my hair, releasing the half up style I had worn all day. I walked down the hall, keeping my head on a swivel in fear of Elvis appearing out of nowhere. I made it to the staff only stairs, walking down to the employee quarters and unlocking my door.

Once I triple checked the lock, I pressed my forehead to the door, sucking in a breath of relief. I survived another day. I knew I was being dramatic, but I just don’t understand why he seems to be… obsessed with me. Running my fingers through my hair, I walked to my bed and reached for the remote, turning the tv on and letting it run whatever happened to be on.

Just as I began to undress from the days work clothes, there was a knock at my door. My stomach sank.

“Please, God.” I pleaded, crossing my fingers behind my back. I stood on my toes, looking out the peephole only to see a post-boy standing in silence. I unlocked the door and opened it, greeting him quietly.

“You’re out awful late.” I told him. He tipped his hat and handed me a dark purple envelope.

“I know, but he said this was urgent.” The boy said. My eyes widened.

“Who said?” I asked, a little too aggressively. Then it was the boy’s eyes that widened this time.

“Uh, he said not to tell you.” He replied, picking nervously at his finger nails. I mustered up a smile and held the envelope to my chest.

“That’s all I needed to know.” I said, the sarcasm practically drowning out the kindness in my voice.

“Good night, ma’am.” He tipped his hat again, and vanished into the darkened staircase. I shut the door, triple checking the lock again, then pushed my back to it, forcing myself not to scream.

“This is ridiculous. How did he know where to send this?” I asked my empty room. I tossed the envelope in the small trash can by the desk, and began to undress, just ready to be pajama clad and in bed. I was shaking my head the whole time, muttering nonsense to no one. “How?” A pause. “Why?” Silence. I threw myself onto the bed, shut my eyes, and tried to force myself to sleep. But it never came.

An hour went by. Two hours. Another hour. I slammed my hands on the bed, looking over at the red digits on the clock. It was like they were staring at me. Taunting me and my inability to push Elvis Aaron Presley from my mind. I ripped the covers from my body and stormed over to the trash can, grabbing the letter the post-boy had given me only a few hours ago. My hands were trembling as I reached for the bedside lamp, switching it on to read whatever he had written.

Then I froze. Gazing down at the unopened envelope.

“What am I doing?” I asked myself. “Why am I letting this bother me so much?” A question I had not spoken out loud until that very moment, sitting on my bed, fancy envelope from Elvis Presley in hand. Next thing I knew, it was opened, cream colored paper in my right hand while the envelope was set aside. I stared at the cursive words at the top, chewing my lip nervously.

from the desk of Elvis Aaron Presley

Those words sparked something in me. The man that every woman in the world wanted a piece of, took time to write me a letter. Using his very own stationary, from his very own desk. I don’t quite know what I was expecting to be written. But what was written was not at all what I was expecting.

Please come up and see me,

I need to tell you something.

Yours,

Yours. That made my heart melt. How was it that I could hold such a grudge against him, just for existing. But because he signs a silly note with ‘yours’, I suddenly can’t resist? I shook my head, hoping that the curiosity would fly right out. But after about five more contemplative minutes, I folded. I wanted to sleep. I wanted to hear what he had to say, and be done with this whole mess. I rid my body of my pajamas, settling for a light blue lounge gown that sat at about mid thigh length.

“What am I doing?” I muttered, giving my appearance a once over in the mirror before grabbing my room key and going out the door. “What the hell am I doing?” I was now standing just outside the staff elevator, the sound of its descent making my heart thump faster. I stepped on, pushing the ‘private floor’ button, followed by scanning my key. It felt as though it wasn’t even moving. My knees were growing weak. I tried to retain my firm opinion of ‘not liking him’. But with every beep of the elevator’s climb, a little piece of me wanted him more.

“Stop it.” I demanded. “You don’t like him. You want no part of this.” It became my mantra for the rest of the ride up. The doors pulled open, revealing the navy blue and red walls of the private floor hallway. I stepped out, looking right and left, like it was a dangerous street crossing. Fiddling nervously with the charm on my necklace, I walked toward the door I knew belonged to him. Then there I was. Stood directly in front of it, staring as though it was a portal to another dimension. Part of me wanted to run. Run right back to the elevator and forget I even attempted to speak to him.

Then there was the other part. That little voice telling me I must be something special. The voice I’d been shushing for the last six months of his residency. The part of me that desired him. That enjoyed having him on this invisible leash. Like he was something I could play with. I chewed my cheek, drawing a coppery taste to my tongue that startled me. I raised my hand to knock, but just as my knuckles brushed the wood, the door flew open and there he was. He stood before me shirtless, damp and messy hair, with pajama pants sitting dangerously low on those rebellious hips. Elvis Presley. King of Rock and Roll. The man I loved to hate and hated to love.

“I knew you’d come.” He said lowly, pressing his palms on either side of the door frame. My mouth went dry.

“And how, might I ask, did you know?” I asked him, fighting to keep my voice steady. He smirked and looked down at his feet.

“I was bold enough to assume.” His eyes scanned my body from the floor up, locking onto mine and giving me a knowing wink. My mouth opened with the intention of words leaving it. But nothing came. He took a cautious step forward, his eyes never once leaving mine.

“Elvis,” I squeaked, my voice barely above a whisper.

“There it is.” He said, taking another step toward me. “Say it again.” My eyes began to water at the closeness he was creating.

“Elvis.” I said again, still unable to raise my voice. He smiled, his arms by his sides now.

“That’s it, pretty girl. Again.” He demanded, his tone remaining gentle. My hands were clasped together against my chest, my breathing growing rapid.

“E-Elvis.” I repeated. His head lolled to the side, his gaze still fixed firmly on mine. Then he bent down, placing his palms on his knees, like you would stand when scolding a child.

“Ain’t no other name needs to come out of that pretty mouth tonight. Alright?” He said softly, bringing his right hand up to brush my lips with his thumb. What was happening? Not even twenty-four hours ago I hated the man in front of me. But now all rational thought was clouded with him. I was overwhelmed by him. All I could do was nod in response. I found myself gravitating toward him. Reaching for him. Aching for him. Something dark flashed across his eyes and suddenly he scooped me up from the backs of my knees, holding me against his bare chest. I gasped, pressing my hands flush against his shoulders and looking down at him.

“What on earth are you,”

“Hush.” He spit, tightening his grip on the back of my thighs. My head was screaming at me to fight and get out. But my heart and the pooling heat in my stomach was crying for me to stay put. He closed the door with his foot and then pushed my back up against it, dropping me lower in his arms.

“Elvis.” I said, regaining his attention.

“Yea, Satnin?” He replied breathily, looking up at me with wild eyes. My senses were overloaded. The chill from his still damp hair. The warmth of his ribs against the insides of my thighs. The smell of his shampoo and aftershave. There was no hiding the blush rising on my skin.

“You… you said in your letter you had something to tell me.” I reminded. His eyes darted back and forth between my own, as if searching for the very thing he had been thinking of when he wrote to me. I trailed my hands along the expanse of his back, eventually tangling my hands in his hair. He rolled his eyes back just before closing them and shaking his head.

“Can’t think of it when I got you against me like this.” He answered with a slight chuckle. I couldn’t help but smile at the sound.

“Then put me down.” I suggested softly. But he only shook his head faster.

“Nuh uh.” He protested childishly.

“Do you do this to all of your one night stands?” I asked, growing slightly irritated. His eyes darkened at my words.

“You ain’t no one night stand, Baby.” He told me. “I want you here every night. I’ve always wanted you here. But you’ve been too stubborn to give me a chance.” His grip on me was tightening at every word. I had nothing else to say. The way he spoke. I believed him. His gaze fixed on mine once more. “Will you give me a chance, Honey? Please?” Elvis’ voice had grown quiet in an almost begging tone. His brows lifted and furrowed together in patient silence.

I stared down at him, taking a mental picture of the sight in front of me. Elvis Presley, holding me against him, pleading for a chance. I slid my hands down from his hair, dancing them teasingly along his back. Any thought that had any trace of hate toward him had vanished. Melted away in his surrounding body heat. Suddenly, I felt myself nodding.

“Y-yes, Elvis. I’ll give you a chance.” With those words, I had given away any control I had previously had over him. My vision cleared and I saw his eyes sparkle. Even in the engulfing darkness he seemed to glow.

“Bout time.” He said, his top lip curling in a sly smile. I felt his hand land on the back of my neck, his strength gently pushing my head down to be level with his. Then he kissed me. Just once, short and soft. “Mm.” He huffed, then pulled me in again. Another kiss, this one longer, still just as soft as the one before. I kissed back, bringing my hands up to interlace behind his head. Then he broke it again, staring up at me to gauge my reaction.

“Alright?” He asked, his breath ghosting my lips. I thought for a moment. Was it? What exactly was I feeling? I couldn’t figure it out. I was so enveloped in the many ways he was making me feel, that I couldn’t pick one I was feeling more than the other. I finally decided to just be with him and let him make me feel anyway he wanted to.

“Alright.” I said at last. I felt his body relax and then he quickly reattached his lips to mine, absolutely devouring them. It was a mess of tongue and teeth, his hands gripping the backs of my legs with a newfound strength. He began to walk away from the door, carrying me to I didn’t care where. As long as he was there with me. I was so focused on the way his lips felt on mine, I’d hardly noticed the silk sheets against my back. Only when Elvis pulled back did I note my surroundings.

“Look so pretty under me, Baby.” He whispered, pressing another quick kiss to the corner of my mouth. I ran my hands along the bed, letting the chill from the silk soak into my skin. He began to pepper my face a neck with loving little kisses before climbing further onto the bed, moving his knee to the inside of my thigh and pushing it forward, causing my legs to spread. I gasped softly at the movement, reaching up and placing my hands haphazardly on his back. I heard him chuckle, the vibrations against my neck causing a chill to run down my spine.

“You like that?” He asked, placing his left hand on top of my hip.

“Mhmm.” I answered faintly, brushing his hair from his beautiful blue eyes.

“What else you want me to do to ya, Satnin?” His voice was low and somehow even more seductive than before. I sat up just enough to press a kiss to his lips before answering.

“Anything.” I said simply. “Everything.” Elvis smirked and touched his nose to mine.

“Anything it is, Pretty Girl.”

#elvis presley #elvis the king #elvis the pelvis #fanfic #fluff #love #short story #x reader #70s elvis #las vegas #sweet #spicy books #suggestive

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