#bashes head onto a concrete wall bashes head onto a concrete wall bashes head onto a concrete wall bashes head onto a concrete wall b

[emunenenes]

for ruikasatober

[florencemtrash]

Hummingbird: Chapter Four

Miguel O'Hara x Reader

What if the Earth-1610 (Miles’s universe) version of Miguel’s wife was actually Miles’s AP Art teacher?

Masterlist

Warnings: Violence and injuries

Seven months later

This shit was getting old.

One of Doc Oc’s tentacles rammed into Miguel’s side, tossing him against a wall and leaving a crack in the concrete. She smiled in satisfaction, oblivious to the spider-venom blaster he’d stuck to the underside of the mechanical arm. With a quick chirp and blast of energy the arm was blown off. It landed with a pitiful twitch on the ground as electricity sparked through its circuitry.

“Let’s go!” Hobie whooped, slamming his fingers down the guitar strings with so much force Miguel was surprised they didn’t snap in two. 

Doc Oc screamed, blown backward by an eclectic spray of pink and purple newsprint. 

Three arms down, five more to go… or so they thought. 

New arms sprouted from their old stumps, flailing around for a brief moment before they shot out towards Hobie. 

He barely dodged the series of blows.

“Is that hammer space, bruv?!” 

Joder.

Hobie lept around the barren stage, launching battered amplifiers slathered in a dozen layers of stickers towards her. A stray limb punched through the drumset as Hobie spun out of the way. 

He gasped. The amps they could replace, but no one fucked with his instruments.

“Is it time to call for backup?” Lyla asked Miguel as Hobie gripped the neck of his guitar (the battle-safe one of course) and swung at Doc Oc’s head.

“Do not call for backup!” Miguel growled in annoyance. 

He could handle this.

“Yeah, I didn’t even ask you to come, mate!” Hobie yelled over the sound of Doc Oc sailing over the empty mosh pit and crashing into the guard rails. “I ain’t part of no band.”

“You literally just finished a concert three hours ago!” 

“That got nothing to do with you.”

Miguel groaned, ready to bash his head into the wrecked drum kit. 

No puedo más. No puedo más. He found himself thinking that a lot lately.

But as much as Hobie and Miguel liked to pretend they hated each other, they made a good team out in the field. They swung from the ceiling lights, electric blue and pink lights showering down on them in that crazed, photomontage way that tinged every part of Hobie’s world. It was enough to give Miguel a headache. 

The worst part about the multiverse is that there was no telling what kinds of powers and modifications existed out there. For example, Miguel didn’t know a Doc Oc existed that had lasers shoot out of their tentacles.

“I feel like it’s time to call for backup.” Lyla repeated, casually watching from the safety of her AI existence as Miguel’s webs were split in two and he took a sickening punch to the jaw. He shook his head, blinking away the dots in front of his eyes as he took a moment to rest in the comfort of his rubble sofa.

“Do not call Jess. She’s on maternity leave.”

“I wasn’t talking about Jess.” Lyla grinned mischeviously. 

Miguel narrowed his eyes, “No. Absolutely not.”

It was too soon, far too soon for him to drag you into a fight like this. 

“CALL FOR BACKUP!” Hobie cried out from the confines of Doc Oc’s tentacles, squirming around and trying to use his head spikes to free himself.

“You weren’t saying that earlier!”

“THAT’S THE TOXIC MASCULINITY TALKING! YOU GOT TO BE COMFORTABLE WITH CHANGING YOUR OPINION AND ADMITTING YOUR FAU-”

A portal opened up stage left. 

Miles swung out first, black and red suit standing out like an ink stain.

“¡¿Alguien pidió ayuda?!” Miguel could hear his smug smile through the mask.

“You already called him!?” Miguel scowled and hopped onto his feet, sprinting to join the fight as Miles landed his first punch against Doc Oc. 

Relief flooded his system. He thought that-

“I actually called her.” Lyla said, pointing a finger with a grin.

Miguel’s heart skipped a beat.

You stepped through the portal, adjusted the gloves on your newly designed suit and teleported yourself onto Doc Oc’s back, casually blinking away any tentacles that got too close. 

You were absolutely buzzing with excitement. Nevermind that you were currently blinking across spacetime to avoid the lazers that left behind scorched scars on the grass. This was your first real mission outside of occasionally helping Miles with his friendly neighborhood Spider-Man duties. And in Hobie’s dimension no less! Ever since you’d seen his unique color palette and design you’d been itching to see his world for yourself. Maybe you and Miles could take an impromptu field trip to the nearest museum afterwards.

“Lyla said you didn’t want to call me.” You said, happy with the way his eyes slightly widened beneath his mask. He coughed to clear his throat.

“You’re supposed to be at work.” Miguel said, tearing into Doc Oc’s tentacles with his forearm blades, “I didn’t want to bother you.”

“It’s summer break.” 

“You said you were teaching summer classes.” 

“I am! Only five kids are enrolled and he,” You tilted your head towards Miles, who waved back before he tore off an arm, "was the only one who could come to the Met field trip. Which you so rudely interrupted by the way.” The smile in your voice exposed the fact that you were quite ok with the interruption.

Miguel rolled his eyes half-heartedly, hoping you didn’t notice his restrained smile.  “Let’s just get the job done.”

And you did. 

Fighting a flesh-and-blood supervillain was a far cry from the simulations you’d fought at Spidey HQ where the only injury you could sustain was a blow to your pride when Lyla flashed the battle stats on the screen. Your training also didn’t account for the absolute chaos of working with a team. You nearly got in the way of one of Miles’s spider venom blasts and accidentally teleported onto Hobie’s back, throwing him off his rhythm long enough for a punch from Doc Oc to send you both crashing. Miguel had nearly lost his mind after that.

But after walking away from the fight with only a bruised jaw, cut upper arm, and a very disgruntled Doc Oc in tow, you were going to call your first real superhero outing a success.

“Sorry about earlier,” you said, extending a hand out to Hobie from where he groaned on the ground. He grabbed your arm and rolled onto his feet, shaking the dust off his jacket.

“Eh, it’s part of the learning.” He straightened his coat and reattached one of the pins he’d tucked safely away in his pocket, “Not bad for a first anomaly though.”

“Hmmmm, are we counting Spot?”

“No.”

“Damn.”

A shadow fell over your shoulder and you smirked, turning around on your heels to come face to face with Miguel. The fight was over, but somehow Miguel looked even more tense and irrate than before. Behind his back you saw Doc Oc yell and punch at the orange walls of her prison. 

“Are you here to say good job?” You teased.

“Are you hurt?” He asked, voice tight.

Hobie brushed past you, “I’m good, cheers.” he said, patting Miguel on the shoulder before heading over to where Miles stared in awe at the anomaly. You felt more than saw Miguel roll his eyes.

“I wasn’t asking you.” 

“I know.” 

Hobie’s reply widened your smile. There was something glorious about seeing Miguel lose his cool. Normally you tried to get him to smile or laugh, but sometimes annoyance was an easier emotion to muster from him. It reminded you that beneath all that hard-won armour was a man just trying his best.

“I’m fine, Miguel.” You said. 

He gently tugged at the bottom of your mask and you took the hint, pulling it off entirely. Miguel’s frown deepened as he gently tucked a finger beneath your chin and turned your face to the side, eyes narrowed in on your swollen jaw. You tried not to blush under his watchful gaze. It really wasn’t a terrible injury, and with your enhanced healing it would fade within a day, but it stll felt like a gut punch to Miguel.

You were used to this kind of attention from him. The first two months after joining the Spider Society had been a pool of uncertainty that you’d flapped around in with little control - you’d been uncertain about your powers, the multiverse and your place in it, and your relationship with Miguel… especially your relationship with Miguel. 

His aloofness was only matched by his sincerity and once you’d forgiven him for what he’d done to Miles, you found him easy to like. His grouchiness and sarcasm pulled smiles from you as easily as water from a spring, and it didn’t escape anyone’s notice that you were the only one who could make him laugh and crack through his walls. But there was always that itch in the back of your mind that told you he only cared because you looked like his wife, not because you’d both grown to know and care for each other. 

You tried not to think about it too often. 

It made moments like these harder to handle.

“Nada que no pueda manejar.” You said softly, pulling his hand away and towards the anomaly, “Now come on. This anomaly isn’t just going to hop dimensions on its own.” 

Miguel opened his mouth as if to say something, but ultimately relented, allowing you to lead him to where Hobie and Miles bent their heads towards one another, shooting jokes back and forth as easily as their webs.

Margo portaled in to help Miguel take Doc Oc to Earth-928 and you watched their retreating backs disappear with a blink before Hobie turned towards you and Miles, rubbing his hands together and pulling you both into his side.

“Now! Who’s ready to see some real art?”

______

“I can’t believe all the museums in your dimension are Koons-themed.” Miles said, slouching in his seat and looking positively disappointed.

“Why’d you think I took you to the back alleys, mate. Real art’s cheap.”

“Say that to my bank account after a trip to Blick.” You muttered, biting into your empanada with a groan of satisfaction.

You sat cross-legged on top of the bench, watching Margo’s cyber body split into two as the Go Home Machine whirred to life. Its metal claws clicked together, sounding like the chirping of birds as it spun its web around Doc Oc as she watched with no small amount of curiosity.

“You think you could ever do that?” Hobie asked, leaning against your shoulder and slinging his arm around you casually. 

You raised your eyebrow, “What, forcefully send a living person back to their home dimension?”

He shrugged nonchalantly.

“You try interdimensional travel without your fancy watch and tell me how easy it is.” You said with a grin, poking at his side until he squirmed away with a chuckle. You took the opportunity to steal a french fry from him.

“Alright, alright, stop. I think you could do it.”

The four of you watched as the Go Home Machine finished its kaleidoscopic work. Miguel always had a clinical view of the work he did and the machines he created. Whenever it was traveling to another world, or encountering a new being (Spider-Person or otherwise) the last thing on his mind was beauty or a fascination with the ways things were. That’s where you two differed the most. So while Miguel hardly ever stayed around to watch the Go Home Machine run its science-magic, you always craned your neck to catch glimpses of the worlds beyond Earth-928.

“I better check in with Miguel.” You said, hopping off the table once Doc Oc was safely back in her home universe.

Hobie, Miles, and Margo all shot each other a knowing look before you could notice. 

Now that school was out for the summer you found yourself spending more and more time on Earth-928, and after six months of training you could walk to Miguel’s lair from any part of the building with a blindfold on. The first few weeks you hadn’t been able to suppress the slight unease at entering the dark room where many of the captured anomalies would sneer at you like you were a meal to be hunted.

Now… not so much.

“You’re still here, Norm?” You asked, catching sight of the familiar gentleman who shrugged and smiled. He sat comfortably on the floor, purple hood and goggles abandoned beside him to expose his weathered face.

“Still here,” He repeated, “I suppose I’m not as high a priority to send home now that I’m not, you know, evil anymore.” He sighed, “I just can’t believe my luck. I leave an alternate universe and not even a year later I’m sucked into another one!” He chuckled.

“I’ll talk to Spider-Man about it.” 

“Peter?!” His eyes brightened at the possibility.

“Ummm…no. Sorry.” 

He nodded, shoulders deflating every so slightly, “Thanks anyway Spider-”

“Y/sh/n, actually.” Miles and Gwen had helped you come up with it.

“Well, thank you Y/sh/n.” He said and waved you on before he could steal more of your time.

“I told you it’s dangerous to talk to the anomalies.” Miguel said, eyes still trained on the screens as you blinked next to him. One day you’d manage to sneak up on him, but today was not that day. 

You frowned when you saw he was still wearing his mask. 

“Well you’re talking to me right now, aren’t you?” You said, bumping his shoulder with your own before climbing onto the empty space on his desk he subtly reserved for you.

Miguel stiffened and his fingers froze over the keys. It had taken you months to fully forgive him for all the terrible things he’d said and done to Miles - the things he may have said to you if you didn’t have his wife’s face… if you were just a regular anomaly.

“That’s not what I-.” 

“You also said Earth-199999’s Peter Parker took care of the Green Goblin. I think we’re fine.” 

He nodded and sighed. His eyes were killing him right now and even the faint flicking of the red-orange lights from the screens felt like blows to his skull. 

“He wants to go home.” You said and saw his eyes flicker to the anomaly on the screen, red and tired.

“I know. He’s scheduled to be sent back tonight. I promise.” 

You nodded with satisfaction and snapped your fingers, a pair of sunglasses blinking into the palm of your hand, “You should take a break. You’ve been working non-stop for over two days now.”

“I’ve got work to do.”

“The multiverse is not going to shatter because you take a thirty-minute lunch break, Miguel.” 

He eyed you warily and shook his head, fingers flying across the touchpad like they were racing to win gold. 

He always did this. He always worked himself to the bone until you would find him red-eyed and slumped over the tabletop for one of his thirty-minute “power-naps.” 

“Lyla.” You called out. The woman appeared perched on your shoulders.

“You rang?”

“Can you please tell Miguel that the multiverse isn’t going to collapse before he does?” 

“Ooooh you said please. I like you.” Miguel muttered a few choice words under his breath, “The multiverse is holding steady. I’ll alert you if anything changes at all.” Lyla winked at you and disappeared. 

“Realmente necesito cambiar su código.” Miguel grumbled.

“¡Ni se te ocurra!”

Miguel tightened his lips but said nothing. You slid over to sit in front of him and pushed against his chest until he finally relented and sat down in the chair. He didn’t want to admit this, but the only reason he agreed to sit down was because he’d fractured two ribs in the fight, and you pressing against his chest hurt like a bitch.

“Did you really come all this way just to get me to rest?”

“Obviously.” You tossed the sunglasses into his lap along with the extra empanada you’d been carrying around the last half-hour. You hoped it was still warm, but then again, if it weren’t for you he probably wouldn’t have remembered to eat at all. 

The corner of his mouth tilted up. “Gracias.” 

“Solo cállate y come. Lo juro, es como si estuviera tratando de mantener viva una planta de interior. Una planta de interior muy obstinada.”

He tilted his head down, hiding his face as his mask disappeared. 

You held your breath, reaching out instinctively to hold his face in between your hands. Color rushed into his cheeks, emphasizing the dark, purple bruise that crawled its way up from his jawline to his cheek bone, the flesh around it swollen and warm when you carefully traced it with your finger. The bridge of his nose was similarly bruised, the strong slope of his nose tilted ever so slightly to the left. 

Miguel also stopped breathing, the pain hardly registering as he felt your eyes against his skin as physical and real as your hands.

You became all too aware of the closeness, the way he was looking at you. A familiar and malicious voice scratched the back of your mind - What are you to him? Who are you to him? Who is he really thinking about when he looks at you like that?

You let go of his face, your heart sinking in your chest.

“¿Qué te sucedió?” You murmured. His brown-red eyes were wide and soft.

He cleared his throat, disappointment gathering in his chest when you withdrew your hands, “I guess I should have called for backup sooner.” 

“Where else are you hurt?”

“I’m not-”

“Where else are you hurt? Y no te atrevas a mentirme.” 

Miguel melted under your fiery gaze. You weren’t one to show your anger - teaching teenagers had strengthened your patience - but Miguel had a special way of pushing your buttons, whether he knew it or not. 

“I may or may not have cracked a rib… or two.” 

“Miguel!” 

“I’ll heal!” 

“Estúpido, bastardo terco.” You muttered under your breath with no small measure of affection.

You reached over and gently pressed on his stomach, hearing him hiss in pain. He grabbed your arm to get you to stop, shame coloring his bruised cheek.

“I’ll be ok. I promise.” He whispered when you leaned down from your seat to inspect his jaw again. Any longer under your watchful gaze and he might just combust.

“I know you’ll be ok. I just…” Your lips tightened. “I don’t like to see you hurt.”

You’d been in this situation before with Miguel a few times. It always ended with him promising to take better care of himself, holding to that promise for a few weeks, and then falling back into old, self-destructive habits. The others said he had gotten better about taking care of himself ever since you’d come into the picture, but you found that hard to believe. 

“I don’t like to see you hurt either.” He admitted, gently rubbing up and down your forearms. He eyed the tear in your suit, and the clean white bandage that peeked through. 

Who is he really thinking of?

You told that voice to shut up.

“So you can imagine how worried I get when I see you like this.” 

Miguel sighed, running his hands through his hair and mussing up the curls. He could imagine it all too well. Every time you left for your own dimension a knot of worry would sink in his chest like a boulder dropped into a lake, and it wouldn’t dissipate until the next time he saw you safe and whole. He flinched at the very thought of you sporting bruises and cracked bones like the ones he had - the scars he bore after years on the job.

“What would you have me do?” He asked, “I can’t just give this up.” 

“I’m not- No one is asking you to. I know you need to do this. But you don’t have to do it alone. You know any of the other Spider-People would be more than happy to help monitor things in the Spider-Verse.” 

“One - it’s the Arachnoid Humanoid Poly-Multiverse. And two - the other Spider-People aren’t like me. They can’t do what I do.”

“You’re right, they’re a hell of a lot funnier” He scoffed, setting his jaw in a scowl that had pain flaring up the left side of his face. “And they don’t go around punching teenagers.”

“That was one time!” 

Your lips turned in a downward smile, trying to suppress your laughter at the indignant expression on his face. The scowl on his face slowly but surely loosened, twisting into a barely concealed smile.

“Stop doing that.” He muttered.

“Doing what?” You asked innocently.

“Getting me to smile and laugh. It hurts my ribs.” 

“All the more reason to get some rest, Miguel.” You said, ruffling his hair and gleaming with satisfaction when he finally allowed himself to smile. You plucked the sunglasses from his lap and placed them on his face, careful not to upset his healing nose.

How was it possible that he hated and loved the way you said his name so much? He knew you cared for him. The first two months had been tense and filled with questions of what you were to one another - A mistake? A bad memory? Husband and wife? It had been a time when every touch, glance, and hidden smile had been given with a measure of uncertainty and restraint.

Miguel didn’t feel that way anymore. When you messed up his hair and forced his hidden smile out into the open he just saw you. Not some version of his wife. Not someone he’d barely known. Not someone he’d lost. 

Just you.

“If I promise to take the night off to sleep and let Ben and LEGO Peter take care of it, would that satisfy you?” 

You hummed in thought, “How many hours of sleep are we talking about?” 

“Four.” 

“Seven.” You countered.

“Five.” 

“Deal.” You stuck out your hand, a wide grin on your face that Miguel matched when he shook your hand.

“What would I do without you?” He asked sarcastically.

You scoffed, “Shrivel up and die, probably.” 

<- Previous chapter Next chapter ->

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Author's note: Here's Chapter Four! Y/n is feeling some insecurity about her relationship with Miguel... I wonder if that will come up again in the next chapter 👀...........

As always, please let me know your thoughts! Hope you enjoy :)

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[jermer10]

Oh god.. this is a bit depraved but here we goHello! Uh if you are taking requests right now, could you maybe make a spicy TF2 mercs x male!reader where the reader is into weapon play (could be their reactions to simple things .. like a gasp from the gun touching their skin to something more smutty, your pick!)It'd be nice to have all mercs but if too much sniper, soldier and engineer would the the 3 favs!

TF2 male s/o with a weapon kink

18+ only, male reader | tried to add some heavier nsfw, i hope you enjoy anon!

includes: soldier, engineer, sniper tw: sexual content, weapon play kink

drabbles under the cut :P

Soldier: - Soldier knew about this kink long before he had started fucking you - he may be stupid, but he knows what an erection looks like, and you were always rock hard after watching him bash an enemy to death with his market gardener - so he decided to confront you, like any concerned teammate would - ARE YOU ATTRACTED TO ME, MAGGOT?", he pressed the shovel into your throat, backing you into a corner - subtly isn't his strong suit - "what the f..fuck..?" your skin crawled with arousal - you couldn't speak, let alone think with the rusted edge of the weapon tugging at your skin - "why do you ask?" you choked out, face flushed in embarrassment - Soldier shamelessly palmed your erection, "THAT'S WHY." - you groaned, jaw slack and eye brows furrowed. you expected Soldier to relent, yet he continued to stroke you through your pants. - subtly DEFINITELY wasn't his strong suit, and to be frank you were enjoying the way he was man-handling you - "I SHARE THIS...ATTRACTION." a sickening grin plastered on his rough features and his shovel pressing harder into your trachea - his body was so close to yours, backing you against the concrete walls of the base and forcing himself onto you - your eyes rolled to the back of your head as he continued to grope at your cock - "fuuuuuck Soldier p..leas..e..." your voice was gruff, the words seemed to be drawn out of you "PLEASE WHAT, CUPCAKE?" you didn't take him for a tease - "fuhck me!" you plead, throatily moaning at the cold, stinging sensation of the shovel cutting into your throat, your cock throbbed, the fabric rubbing your dick raw - you didn't have to ask twice, Soldier pushed you to the ground, ass up, knees scraping against the concrete floor, and market gardener pressed strongly between your shoulder blades

Engineer: - he would never admit it, but if he had a dollar for the amount of times he spent fucking his fist thinking about stuffing you with the muzzle of his shotgun, he would be rich - so when was walking past your room and noticed your door ajar, hearing the unmistakable slick sounds of masturbation, he couldn't help but peer in, hoping to get some new material - and when he saw you fucking yourself with a pistol and breathily moaning his name, he knew that he had to help - "hey darlin', seems like you were callin' out my name?" he knocked on the doorframe, smirking at the way you scrambled to cover yourself - "now don't you worry, y/n...i'm here to help," your face was burning - he positioned himself behind you, leaning against the wall and pulling you into his lap - Engie pulled the gun out of your puckering hole and began thrusting - your slutty moans, accompanying the praising whispers and sticky noises of the gun and your asshole meeting repeatedly, bounced off of the walls in your bedroom - Engie, feeling the high from the moment and the power he held in his fist, clicked off the safety on the gun - you began to shake, adrenaline coursing through your veins and the fear that at any moment the trigger could be squeezed - he lazily stroked your cock with his right hand as his left drove the gun into you - even if he did kill you, you would just respawn with no memory of the last hour or so, but he wanted you to remember everything - it was all becoming too much for him, he could feel himself reaching climax as your writhing body pressed into his chest and crotch, and when he finally came, you came with him - ropes of cum lathered his hand and your bare chest, Engie was impressed, to say the least - but despite your joint climax, he wasn't finished with you

Sniper: - Sniper's hide site was in a heavily concealed room sitting atop a random abandoned building - where he was and what he was doing didn't matter, you had been targeted by the enemy team's Sniper, and despite the fact that from where he was perched you seemed clearly annoyed, he couldn't help but see the redness in your face as the other Australian cornered you time and time again with his kukri - countless backstabs from Spy, bonks with Scouts bat, nothing came close to the way your face would go beet when he held the knife to your neck before swiftly ending you - Sniper wanted to try it for himself, clearly you had some sort of attraction to him - and he would be lying if he didn't find the idea of forcing you to suck him off while holding a blade to your throat hot - he signaled you to come up to his spot, making sure no one followed you - "hey, what's up man?" you huffed, you looked exhausted - Sniper felt awkward, but the erection in his pants was unrelenting and the way your eyes met his with a sort of nervous lust didn't help - "on your knees." he simply stated, unsheathing the kukri from his belt holster - your face went blank, did you hear him correctly? was Sniper wrong about his assumption? - "oh god, you saw me with the other Sniper..." realization hit your face, and so did an embarrassed flush - you bashfully knelt, doe-eyed looking up at the New Zealander-Australian man - Sniper unbuckled his pants, his cock springing out into your face - he held the knife up to you "suck." he commanded, his face flush and his palms sweating profusely

[katealpha]

Art by Zenny’s Club

https://x.com/clubzenny?s=21&t=Y5k0MmFAcnmbYxSfSGgVFA

———————————-—

It was great to be out of Pam’s strangling vines, thought Catwoman as she dropped onto the edge of a building from a guardrail above. Behind her was another, larger building that cast a shadow over the famed cat burger. It was the place that Selena had just made her way out of. An old brick built structure that was covered in emerald tendrils that bore blood red flowers. Practically the signature colors of former doctor Pamela Isley. Of course, everyone knew her as Poison Ivy, the ecoterrorist widely considered one of the deadliest women alive. Selena liked to believe she was somewhere on that list. Being able to clear rooms full of men bigger than herself had to count for something. Plus, she had just survived another brush with death

Just moments earlier, Selena found herself hanging upside down at Ivy’s mercy. Only due to necessity. Selena knew of a pair of cases locked away in the Arkham City vault. The newly opened open air prison had a place where the valuables of select inmates were kept. A place she couldn’t just break into on her own. Some force was needed, and with Bane locked up in a toy factory somewhere, Mr Freeze occupied by his popsicle of a bride, and Croc probably eating someone someplace in the sewers, Selena went with the only choice she felt was right for this. Selena expected the redhead to be mad at her for that one time she forgot to water her flowers during some getaway that the burglar had long forgotten, but what she didn’t expect was for Ivy to leave her with something before agreeing to help and let Selena on her merry way. While she was still upside down and before Ivy agreed to drop her, one of the free plant tendrils forced its way into Selena’s mouth, and she felt something pump down her gullet.

Selena wondered what that was about, still having the sour taste of chlorophyll in her mouth and a tingling feeling in the pit of her stomach. Selena spat to the side to get that taste out and then without further adieu, she kicked off the corner of the building, and with her whip she swung over the ice cold waters of the flooded portion of the so-called amusement mile. She was eager to get that loot that Ivy agreed to help her get her claws on, but had no idea what was already set in stone, and that a sour feeling on her tongue and TYGER Guards were going to be the least of her concerns that night.

Five minutes later

The feeling of her heels bashing the skull of a TYGER guard in was more than satisfying for Cartman as she dispatched the last of them that were sent to investigate the sudden vine attack on the storage facility door. Her green eyes watched the man fall limb onto the asphalt, sunglasses broken by the force of her kick. Everyone one of these pricks had it coming, thought Selena. In this quiet moment as sne stood over the manhole cover that led to the underground entrance of her destination however, she began to feel a little off. There was a sudden low groan that audibly bubbled in her lower abdomen. It was an intense enough feeling that it caused her to stop in her stride towards the sewer entrance and hold her clawed hand over her belly. Selena felt bloated. Like she had eaten leftover fast food earlier and her body was reminding her that, hey, fast food is bad for your lifestyle. The bloated feeling didn’t go away seconds later.

“Ugh, either you drank spoiled milk earlier, or Ivy put something really nasty in me. Better hurry up and get that plant back…” Selena muttered to herself before heading down the manhole with quick succession.

Once inside the tunnel, Selena surveyed the damage that Ivy’s vines had done. There were shattered bricks and bits of concrete laying all over the place which she found herself stepping over. Ahead was a series of holes in the walls that had been punched into wide enough to create a hole wide enough for Selena to simply walk through until she arrived at the front door. The storage facility was right there, and as she walked into the empty security room, another churn rippled through her gut. The feeling was a bit more intense this time. Had someone been standing next to her, they’d have heard the noise. Selena once again rubbed her hand against her stomach as she approached the camera feed. The vault was guarded by two armed guards, as well as an extra detail that patrolled the surrounding area that seemed to be a maze of halls and shelves. She sighed with relief as she saw that she’d be able to open the vault from here, though she’d need to obtain three key cards from the guards. It would be easy enough, assuming her raunchy stomach didn’t start acting up on the fly.

For the next several minutes, the guards patrolling the room were completely unaware of the latex-clad woman lurking above them. Not noticing as a gloved and clawed hand slipped into their pants pockets, pulling out each key card until she had three in hand. Once back in the security room, Selena began to use the card, ignoring the growing feeling in her stomach. She couldn’t let this sudden bloat slow her down. She was so close. All she could do was rub around again to soothe the rising pressure she felt inside. The last thing she needed was to be flatulent in close proximity to one of these armed guards as she was taking them out, because that’s what she would half to do in order to get inside that Vault. Soon, Selena jumped back into the fray, now set on knocking out every guard in the area before moving into the vault. As she moved about the facility, crawling through the vents, dropping onto guards, choking each one out, Selena could swear that she could feel her stomach pressing into her suit more than it usually did. Was she really bloating up here? The rumblings of her belly ironically coincided with the ground shaking around the facility, Protocol 10 already underway outside.

With the last guard dealt with, the vault was all hers. Her stomach wasn’t feeling much better or worse, but there was a constant gurgling sensation that persisted. In the table at the other end of the room were a pear of metallic painted cases, and a single potted plant. In a moment of sly spite for the one who had put her through so much trouble to reach her just hours earlier, she approached the plant and chuckled, picking it up.

“Try and tie me up in your plants, like hell.” Selena purred. With a smirk, she dropped it onto the floor where the pot shattered. She then stamped the dry soil and leaves for good measure. A chuckle in her throat.

Catwoman then came to realize that doing that may have been a bad life choice. As she approached the table again for the loot cases sitting upon it, a much stronger reaction took place in Selena’s gut. A deep, ominous churn roared from within, and the feeling was enough to make the thief lean over with a grunt. The bloated feeling exploded, and Selena felt her stomach pushing out and straining against her already skintight suit. Her back curved inwards and Selena turned her body to lean against the table, finally watching with wide eyes as her belly visibly grew outwards under her suit and desperately pushing hand, a futile attempt to make it stop. During this moment, her voice came out as gasps and grunts, her words lost in her throat until the growing stopped. Selena was now panting and sweating in shock, staring down at her belly which now looked like she was about to give birth to twins. It heaved in and out with her breath, and Selena finally found the will to at least say something to herself.

“What the hell??¦I shouldn’t have done that just now….what is happening to me…am I pregnant?…” Her frightened eyes wandered the expanse of her midriff. Inside, there was that constant gurgling, as well as a gentle shifting sensation. It felt like a bad dream, but there was nobody here to pinch her. Whatever Ivy had pumped into her body, it was growing, and it was alive, and somehow, her suit hadn’t ripped open yet despite the size of her stomach.

Before Selena could compose herself, more TYGER guards stormed the room, ready to apprehend her. They faltered, seeing her current state. One of the guards held up their radio to their cloth covered mouth.

“Professor, Catwoman seems to have undergone some kind of accelerated pregnancy since she’s been here.”

Strange’s deep and posh voice replied over the radio. “Most fascinating. Be sure to take her alive then. Perhaps there’s something more I can learn from her.”

Selena groaned and pushed off the table, bracing herself to fight again, now expecting to be weighed down by her new, massively bloated belly. She’d worry about what was happening once she got some more alone time. Pregnant with a plant monster or not, she wasn’t going quietly.

“You don’t say…don’t expect me to go any easier on you boys.” With a deep breath and clenched teeth, she extended her claws and took hold of her whip as the guards began to come closer.

To be continued…

[bludrogue]

Another Random Headcanon About Jason Todd

This is another weird experience I have had, but this is due to a personal experience. If I slam on my breaks too hard, witness a car accident in front of me, or bash the back of my head against the driver's seat (or any seat in the car for the matter), I tend to have the scent of burning oil fill my nostrils.

I don't know if that's normal, and sure, I'm projecting myself onto the headcanon, but I think it's an interesting experience. With that said, here's headcanon #3:

Headcanon #3: Phantosmia

-- Every time Jason has bashed his head against a hard surface, whether it be a wooden table, a brick wall, a lamp post, the concrete streets, a car door - honestly, the list is so long he can't even remember what he's smashed his head against -- the first sense to kick in was his olfactory.

-- Now he wouldn't care if this was just a physical response in general, but his nose always picks up on a scent that's never there. He's not entirely certain why his nose fills up with nonexistent fumes, this has been the case for as long as he can remember.

-- You'd think the scent of bourbon would remind him of Willis, the man always had one in his hand or in the cup holder of his arm chair. Jason can still recall the scent to this day - oak dipped in smoke, tinted in caramel, and saturated with vanilla. And as much as his mind can recognize the smell like he can recite a Shakespearen play off the back off his hand - that's not the scent his body would use to recall Willis.

-- No matter how many times Willis got close enough to burn his nostrils with his breath, it's never been the whiskey either.

-- Instead, it's fucking drywall.

-- Of all the scents in the world, it's fucking drywall. Because of course it is.

-- When he was a kid, it was this putrid scent of a heavy dose of rotten eggs nearing sulfur with a hint of chalk dust. And maybe those particular remnants are from a memory where Willis probably bashed his head hard enough into their shabby walls that he made a hole. Not that Jason remembers aside from the egregious smell - whether that's a side effect of the pit or straight up trauma, Jason is not would willingly attempt to recall any shared memories with his biological dad by choice.

-- If he could, he'd bury those memories deeper than when his body was trapped in the earth and surrounded by an ocean of soil.

-- But it's not just before being Robin.

-- During his time spent as Robin, if he hit his head hard enough, Scarecrow gave off a musty odor with a tinge of the world's worst garbage dumpster. Peguin, oddly enough, reeked of spoiled milk. And don't get him started on the Riddler -- that one he can't even describe with just words. (He weirdly gives off the scent of nail polish remover, do not ask him why.)

-- But the Joker?

-- The Joker's scent was nothing what he expected.

-- His sense of smell doesn't go toward the crisp and suffocating scent of smoke, the one that clogged his lungs so much that he wondered if that was the final straw to lead him marching towards death's door. Nor was it the smattering metallic smell emitted from the crowbar that bashed him over and over and over and - And his nose does not recall the Joker with the lead heavy scent of blood, no matter how much of his own spilled the day he died.

-- No, instead the monster carries the scent of fucking bubble gum.

-- Sweet, fruity, pink chewing gum.

-- Because of course the universe just has to ruin the little things, those simplicities of enjoyment. Like the birds chirping in the morning become screeching alarm clocks, his coffee mug always being chipped, a hole in his favorite pair of pants, just anything to ruin his day. He wonders whoever the fuck is in charge of mapping out his life is relishing in the misery he endures every fucking day. When he fucking gets his hands on -

-- Did you know it took him a solid year to even so much as spare a glance at a pack of the most basic, minty chewing gum again after his spent training with the League of Assassins? Did you know that it was until two years after his whole war between him and the bats he was finally able to even hold a stick in his palm without gagging? Did you know that only four years after all the bullshit he went through, he could finally place one stick of ice peppermint gum in his mouth for a solid ten minutes without throwing up immediately after?

-- He still can't handle the fruity flavor gum - no sour apple, no watermelon, no strawberry, no cinnamon, and especially no bubble gum flavored shit - without the dreadful urge to vomit lingering after.

-- And before Jason mended his relationship with the bats (or is still trying to, he has plenty of ups and downs with Bruce that he's getting dizzy from the ride.) Bruce's scent was ruined.

-- When he was Robin, Bruce carried the redolence of leather and a warm campfire. There was just something that screamed safety in his scent that he couldn't explain. The every time he woke up in the gurney from a concussion, the smell would hit before he would open his eyes and he knew Bruce was there.

-- But everything changed the night Bruce chose the Joker.

-- Bruce had hit his head hard enough against a porcelain toilet seat that his nose was bashed with the scent of leather instantly. He thought he had picked on his own jacket, but once the campfire wood wafted into the air he knew that was his designated scent for Bruce.

-- The emotional side was then crying for his dad, begging him to keep him safe from the monster in the closet, pleading to just let him come home, to choose him - his son - please - But the logical side was louder, especially when he aimed the gun at the Joker's head and gave Bruce a choice to make.

-- He had a job to complete and Bruce had a choice to make.

-- And Bruce decided and his scent was tainted.

-- Now, when there's a meeting held in the bat cave, or the only company he shares is with Bruce, he has to resist the urge to rub the scar on his neck to reassure himself he's not bleeding. To remind himself that his nose is just playing tricks to get himself to believe his throat is sliced open again.

-- But he never minded his olfactory any attention about these scents. Honestly, it was more subconscious than anything else, so why pay any attention to the matter? Plus, it wasn't like the matter was giving him any issues or disrupting his routine in any sort of way. He was still able to patrol and function to his usual capabilities -- which was not the standard, but still... functional.

-- And that meant had nothing to be concerned about. That these phantom scents had to be normal, right?

-- Maybe this was just another secret human function nobody spoke about. Kind of how the American education system fails to explain safety for sex because of the desire to keep a 'puritan' image.

-- But, as usual, he was proven wrong.

-- According to Tim, phantom smells were not a normal human function. Because, 'No, Jason. People do not have specific scents when you hit your head too hard,' and 'No, Jason. It is not common when you hit your head hard enough to smell a person or smell a nonexistent scent.' And blah, blah, blah.

-- He stopped paying attention after the third no.

-- But how did this conversation come about? Allow Jason to draw the scene for you:

-- Jason 'allowed' himself to be dragged to the manor by Bruce due to the severe concussion he received due to an Arkham breakout, followed by the orders of mandatory bed rest. And so, he was trapped under one roof with his siblings, who were piled into his room to force him to remain awake for the required hours necessary to be deemed safe from a coma.

-- He knew Dick was besides him, and the head massage he was receiving was not helpful in keeping him awake. But the others were somewhere in the room, he didn't need to open his eyes to know. He could tell by their scents.

-- The only person who wasn't in the room was Tim, who claimed he'd come right back without another word. (He's positive Tim went to go refill his coffee mug for the seventh time, and someone needs to get a handle on this kid's caffeine addiction.) But when Tim returned, he heavily smelled of apples - he always did when he was anxious.

-- Not that Jason usually minds if he hits his head, but this time the pounding was an incessant bitch who brought a drill to ram against his skull, so he couldn't handle the heavy scent at the time.

-- Jason immediately scrunched up his nose the moment Tim entered the room the moment he caught a waft of green apples. He rolled onto his side to have his back face the door, followed by a groan of, "Dude, Timbo, you fucking reek."

-- If Jason hits his head, sometimes he can practically smell Tim's potent and eternal state of anxiety. It's just as bad as Bruce's paranoia (but no one can ever beat that man in his levels of anxiety). However, when Tim is anxious, he carries the particular scent of green apples.

-- He hears Tim scoff, and there's a dip of weight at the corner of the bed. Jason lightly kicks Tim to shove him further away, only for the asshole to scoot closer.

-- "Hey, I took a mandatory after-patrol shower," Tim retorts, and he lifts his mug up to his lips and sips his coffee.

-- "No, you smell like fucking green apples," Jason hisses, burrowing his face into the pillow. If Tim gets any closer, his churning stomach might aim at Tim as his puke bucket. "You always do when you're fucking anxious about something, but Jesus fucking Christ, tone down the scent or, fuck, go sit in the arm chair."

-- "Green apples?" Dick mumbles, pausing in the movement of his hand. Jason almost whines at the loss of movement and he taps Dick's wrist. The moment Dick's hand continues those soothing circular movements, he relaxes.

-- What Jason doesn't see - or decides to blatantly ignore -- is the wide - eye stares everyone is glaring into his head. If Jason were to look, he would find a 'what the fuck' expression on each of their faces.

-- "Are you positive you're not smelling one of Tim's scented shampoos, tough guy?" Steph asks with curiosity lacing her tone. Tim has an array of scented shampoos and unscented ones -- the kid may be shit at self-care, but he certainly knows how to tend to his hair -- ranging from pomegranate to coconut to lavendar to oaky to vanilla, etc. (The list could go on.) But he certainly does not have a single apple scented shampoo.

-- "I'm positive," Jason replies. "He has a scent, you have a scent, everyone has a scent. Especially when I hit my head, it's normal."

-- People having individual scents is totally normal. He's positive of it. Plus, he's hit his head a multitude of times that the phantom scents kind of linger.

-- Tim taps the side of his coffee mug with his nails. "Jason... that's not- that's not normal."

-- Jason lifts his head from the pillow, the combination of scents burning his nostrils, but he ignores the hot twinge in favor of glaring at Tim. "It's fucking normal, Tim. I fucking experience it every time I hit my head."

-- "May I implore that none of your human experiences are what is considered 'normal', Todd?" Damian raises an eyebrow. He's settled on the ottoman by the end of the bed.

-- Jason opens his mouth to argue, but quickly clenches his jaw shut. As much as he hates to admit... the demon-brat has a point. Not that he needs to elaborate.

-- 'Is this a side effect from the lazarus pit?' Cas signs, tilting her head at a slight angle. Her eyebrows furrow together and the corner of lips curl - just as she always does when she's curious about a topic she doesn't understand.

-- "No." Jason whispers, keeping his tone gentle and crossing his arms over his chest. These phantom senses have always been around for him, even before the pit.

-- "So," Tim drawls, shifting the weight in the bed as he crosses his legs and holds his coffee mug. "When did this start?"

-- Jason narrows his gaze at Tim. "Fuck you, you're not my therapist."

-- Besides, he'll see his therapist next Wednesday, and he'll snitch on Bruce to his therapist. (And yes, his therapist is Harley.) He's not clinically insane - yet - but if this another 'Jason Todd anomaly', then why does he have phantom scents that hit his nose at random times? Especially when he hits his head?

-- "Wait, Lil' Wing," Dick pipes up, and Jason finds a cheeky grin on his face that warns Jason that Dick is about to ask a question he won't want to answer. "What do I smell like to you?"

-- "Yeah! I want to know too." Steph chimes in, resting her head in her hands as she places her elbows on the bed. There's a doe-eye look in her eyes that screams 'Pretty Please' as she flutters her lashes.

-- Heat crawls across Jason's face and spreads across his cheeks. He should have just kept his mouth shut, but he just had to go and whine about Tim reeking of fucking apples. It's not that he's embarrassed - not that he'd admit the truth out loud - but he's now more nervous than anything to reveal their scents. Especially now that he's more aware that having phantom scents isn't a typical human function.

-- Jason releases a breath, and decides to tell each one of them their identifying scent.

-- He has to admit, there are some positives to this phantom scents.

-- Dick carries the scent of sugar coated, blue cotton candy and mouthwatering salted popcorn. It reminds Jason of the one chance he took to sneak into the circus tent and hide under the bleachers as he watched the performance of the graceful Flying Graysons. He's always transported back to that memory when the scent hits his nose. But there's always a hint of hyacinth, and Jason has no idea where that comes from.

-- Tim may smell like apples when he's anxious, but he always carries a different scent of a different apple depending on his mood. If Tim is anxious or afraid, he reminds Jason of the odious redolence of a green apple. If Tim is mildly annoyed, enraged, or upset, he carries the scent of red apple. If Tim carries the scent of a yellow apple, it's an indicator that Tim is in a good mood.

-- Jason likes the yellow apple the most because A) That means Tim is in a good mood, and B) the smell of a yellow apple is a piquant flavor he has added on to his list of good scents. He doesn't feel has to avoid that apple without a specific reminder which is nice.

-- Steph smells zesty and sweet and reminds him of pop rocks candy, specifically the grape flavored kind. This could be due to her vivacious nature, but he nose tingles every time her scent appears. That could sometimes lead him to sneezing - which he doesn't admit to her.

-- Cas smells like Jasmine and sandal wood with a hint of roses.

-- Damian smells like paprika and cinnamon.

-- Duke smells like honey (and a part of him wonders if that's just because of the suit or the bee meme that his nose decided to join on the bandwagon.)

-- Alfred smells like his homemade chocolate chip cookies and hibiscus tea.

-- "And what about Bruce?" Dick's question is hanging in the air as Jason is drifting off to sleep. And Jason will never speak the truth of how Bruce smells now.

-- But he can always bend the truth.

-- "Used to smell like leather and campfire wood," Jason yawns into his pillow. "Used to smell safe."

-- "Used to?" Tim's question remains unanswered as Jason finally falls asleep.

-- When Jason wakes up, he notes that everyone is asleep except for Tim, who's claimed his spot in the armchair and curled around his laptop. His mug rests on top of the coffee table, his fingers are rapidly yet quietly typing away on the keyboard, and his focus is so honed in on the screen in front of him that he's caught off guard when Tim abruptly states, "Phantosmia."

-- Jason rubs the sleep out of his face. "Phanto-what?"

-- "Phantosmia," Tim repeats, adjusting his body weight on the arm chair and his eyes remain on the computer screen. "Or more known as a phantom smell, meaning you'll smell something that isn't there. Most people typically smell metal, burnt toast, or chemicals. This isn't necessarily a bad thing, just what occurs with either strokes or severe head trauma."

-- "Well, that explains a lot." Jason huffs, a smirk teasing his lips.

-- Even though he has an answer - which is pretty rare considering his medical history puts Santa's naughty list to shame - he doesn't believe having phantom smells is necessarily a horrible thing to have.

-- If the wind blows in just the right direction, he'll have scent of his mom follow him. Not his birth giver, Shelia, but Catherine. His mom carried the luscious scent of marshmallows, lilac flowers, and lit vanilla candles. And in his mind, it's still like his mom is there, still with him. Oddly, that was the last scent he remembers before he died in the warehouse and it's the safest he ever felt in years despite all the surrounding chaos.

-- "Thanks for researching, Timbo." Jason whispers.

-- Tim turns his head to Jason, and his lips lift into a grin. "Sure thing, Jay."

-- Phantosmia, while there are aspects of it he despises, he thinks there's a bit of a blessing buried in it too.

Hey guys! It's been a solid few days (I got super busy this week), but I thought I'd produce another headcanon. I hope you enjoyed and thank you for reading! I'll post another head canon soon!

Other headcanons:

Head canon 1

Head canon 2

[iwritewhump]

"what happened to you?" + recapture + new clothes

day sixteen of whumpember

760 words

warnings: bashing someone's head in, kidnapping (technically)

a/n: this one is a little underbaked as far as my writing goes but i like the concept! if enough people remind me about it after september i might try to rewrite it eventually

~

Living Weapon resituates on the couch, tucking its legs underneath itself hoping to find a perfect position to fall asleep in. It lays its head on the armrest and watches the documentary.

Lights flash in the corner of its eye and its heart drops. The frosted glass around the doorframe lights up a few more times and Living Weapon stares hopelessly outside. It looks at Caretaker, the TV reflecting on her sleeping face.  It blinks and looks ahead, counting the flashing lights in Caretaker’s driveway. By some miracle the flashing light doesn’t wake her up and Living Weapon walks up to the door. 

It slides the bolt over and cracks the door open. The flashing lights stop and Living Weapon steps out onto the porch. The concrete has been warmed by the sun and it relishes in the moment, closing its eyes for just a second. The car honks and Living Weapon springs to life. 

It slides into the passenger seat and stares at Caretaker’s house. Slowly, it relaxes into the seat and looks at Handler. The lines on his face are more defined, softening him almost. Living Weapon bites the inside of its cheek until it tastes blood. It inhales sharply and looks at Caretaker���s front door. 

“Glad you came out, I didn’t want to break in.” Handler says, tapping irritably on the steering wheel. 

Its breath hitches and it looks at its hands. Almost whispering, it asks, “How did you find me?” 

“Oh please,” Handler scoffs. “I never lost you.” 

Living Weapon nods solemnly and takes a shuddering inhale. “So what now?” 

Handler huffs and reverses out of the driveway. He stares at the road and sighs, “Now you’ve hopefully found out that everything I do is to help you. Not to hurt you. Now we go home and fix whatever Caretaker did to you.”

Living Weapon picks at its cuticles as Handler turns and twists and travels back to the cabin in the forest that he called home. 

Blood beads out of Living Weapon’s nail bed by the time Handler parks the truck. He jumps out of the truck and motions for it to do the same. 

Its feet sink into the mud and when it pulls its foot out of the mud, its sock stays. Living Weapon jumps to the small mat outside the door and wipes its feet, doing its best to get all the mud off of its feet before walking inside behind Handler.

He whistles and throws a bundle of clothes at it, “Put these on.” They fall onto Living Weapon’s feet and Handler seethes. 

“What happened to you?” 

Quickly, Living Weapon plucks the clothes off the ground and smears the mud around, working it into the fabric. “I’m tired, I wasn’t expecting it. Nothing’s happened.” 

Handler chucks his shoe at it, “I think you’re slow. I think Caretaker coddled the killer instinct in you and now you can’t keep yourself alive. You rely on her.” 

Living Weapon spits and hurls the shoe back at Handler. “You’re wrong!” it stomps up to Handler and hovers a hand over his chest. “She made me stronger than you ever could.” 

It takes a deep breath and lowers its hand to its side. Handler exhales shakily and blinks a few times, forcing a laugh. 

“Then why did you come back with me? If you’re so strong?” 

Living Weapon grins, its teeth showing, “To do this.” 

Without a moment’s hesitation, it charges Handler and shoves him up against the kitchen wall, hands around his neck. Handler gasps, a hand flying up to his throat and he tries to claw Living Weapon’s hands off of him as the other gropes behind him, hopelessly searching for something to help. 

Living Weapon pulls him away from the wall and slams him back, his head making a sickening cracking sound at impact. Handler’s mouth makes a strangled sound and his head falls forward, nose brushing Living Weapon’s arm. 

Living Weapon lets him go, his body falling forward onto the kitchen floor. Blood spills onto the tile and Living Weapon watches it spread. The blood reaches its feet and Living Weapon steps in the puddle of it, letting it get sticky underneath it. Slowly, it reaches into Handler’s pocket and pulls the keys to his truck out. 

It peels its feet up from the ground and walks out of the cabin. This time, it avoids the mud and climbs into the driver’s seat. 

The music blares through the speakers, deafening Living Weapon to its thoughts as it drives back home to Caretaker.

[itgirlgyu]

COLGATE CRUSH | choi beomgyu.

pairing: beomgyu x fem!reader ft. huening kai.

genre: fluff, crack.

summary : because of your undeniable curiousity, and lack of survival instincts you end up meeting the junoesque artist, choi beomgyu, and his oddities.

word count: 1.4k.

warnings: illogical made up professions, there's some violence (one line), reader is very curious, beomgyu thinks he got rizz.

"this is how i might end up dead someday."

you had no concrete idea how you found yourself in front of a building undergoing construction; especially when it looked like there might have been a case of aggravated assault etching the history of the eerie institution.

the very first thing that you can recollect was probably the chime of the ice cream man that lured you into an empty alley lined up by the blossoms blessed by spring, and the gentle breeze of nonage, and once you had got your hands on the vanilla cone, you kept wondering into the strange place. curious eyes marveling the unfamiliarity of the street, until of course you found yourself standing in front of the said building.

'if i see no sign from the heavens preventing me from entering this sketchy building then I'll probably still be alive,' is what you thought right before you nearly got trampled by two idiots in a razor scooter with one of them holding a giant rock in his hands, yelling some things along the lines of, "ill bash his head in with this!"

you may have been lucky enough to get your feet trampled over that death vehicle, but that was not the case for another person walking along the road. the man, victim, laid on the floor while holding his feet as some brilliantly colorful curse words flew over his mouth and the two offenders, standing there while profusely apologized to the man.

this would have been a supposed sign from god if you were gifted with the blessings of being self aware—but since that had not been the case for you, along with the fact that your bad luck had bled onto the other person— you were pretty sure of the fact that instead of warning you of any impending danger that awaited you depending on your action, has been warded off successfully.

so you step inside of the damned property; breaking off the sheath of protection, and entering the land of foreign, filled with nothing but cement, and broken debris of bricks. there had been nothing new to explore, plus the added anxiety of hurting yourself at every step increased the pace of your heartbeat; and you couldn't deny the fact that it didn't excite you.

amongst the mucronate end of iron rods sticking out, and half made walls your eyes captured something—a single panel of windows installed. it intrigued you as you approached it cautiously, stepping over the sharp objects laid on the dirty floor, your eyes focused on the peculiar scratching on the glass. the crack swirling into an enchanting ornate design as if it had been crafted by hands, and not born out of a misjudged trifling accident. the broken rays of sun streaming through the gaps of the cracks casting a riveting image onto the floor with you as its muse, compelling you to move closer to learn more about it's unrivaled individuality.

"its so beautiful," you couldn't help but wonder out loud, as your fingers dipped into the clementine shadow the drowning sun casted onto your fingers through the art before you, carefully enough not to go close to the sharp edges of the charmer.

"isn't it?" you twirled around almost immediately to the owner of the voice, and maybe turning around that fast might have not been the best idea as your lungs empty the air out of your system—or that might have been the breathtaking beauty of the mystery man before you with the healthiest long hair you've ever seen, and the most precious lips.

"uh-" you paused, words failing you as you fumbled in front of the beautiful stranger, but maybe the god was actually on your side today. instead of scowling at you for trespassing, or coming off as a creep, he actually laughed at your awestruck expression, as he slightly adjusted his bangs. alluring bruises, and adorable band aids covering the expanse of his winsome hands stirring awake the incessant need to know about the beautiful stranger before you.

maybe his eyes caught the way your gaze followed the movement of his hands, and he somehow smelled of your curiosity as he put on a bewitching smirk, and took a step closer.

"I'm beomgyu, i actually am a professional window scratcher." the beautiful stranger, beomgyu, introduced himself, putting forth his hand for you to shake. you gently put your hands in his, providing him with the confidence to sneak in a squeeze before he lets go.

there's exactly two thoughts swirling in your head: first was the pride that swelled in your heart for recognising art when you first saw it. you're just one step away from becoming the next best socialite at this rate, and the second one was the fact you were almost flirting with one of the prettiest men you've ever come across who is actually the creator of the art as well!

"you-" you stumbled on your words as your eyes widen to hide your excitement—calming the high pitch in your voice you turned around to point to the art, and face him, " you made this?"

beomgyu nodded, the halcyon lines of his eyes tugging at the ends of his lips, as the cheeky smirk melted into a smile dipped in fondness. unbeknownst to the both of you, he took another step closer to you.

"oh i forgot to introduce myself," you chided yourself, and gave him your name.

"that's a pretty name," he commented, "for a pretty girl."

you could assume that he had the full view of your blushing cheeks by the way his lips tugged at the corner. you tried to hush away all the butterflies that started to emerge into your stomach at his silly comments you know he doesn't even mean.

"im being truthful, you're the most beautiful girl I've laid my eyes on," He comes in closer, and closer—until there's only a shy line of invisible distance between the two of you, taunting you for it's presence. even though it feels wrong, you feel like it's the right thing to do, so you look up at his starry eyes, through your eyelashes to show your approval.

words held not much of importance of the strings of your heart tangled, and you could feel beomgyu tugging yours as he gently grabbed the sides of your lips and pulled you close to him.

what you had not expected from this comely artist to have the stinkiest breath that you ever had the misfortune to smell. you tried your best to hold your breath as he moved closer to you. the unbearable stench of filth assaulted the inside of your nostrils—you could hear the sizzle of your nose hair burning off in the acidic smell of his breath—but you persisted for your new found love, well until he opened his mouth, that's when the world blacked out as the lack of oxygen, and the insufferable smell of his mouth knocked you out of consciousness, and to some degree, your misery.

"if you're afraid to come closer to your loved one because of the fear of something like this happening," huening kai, korea's best mc appeared into the camera holding a mic to his mouth, as he pointed at your unconscious self, and a hyperventilating beomgyu holding your pinky with his own as he cried your name, praying for you to wake up.

"don't worry because we have the perfect solution!" huening kai held up a packet of colgate next to his face, staring straight into the camera with a grin with a similar voidity of the black hole—might not be wholesome but at least it sucks you in!

"colgate—no need to be afraid to fall in love!" huening kai explained, and threw the packet at beomgyu, who caught it and brushed his teeth immediately. as soon as the paste touched his teeth, it's as if life was breathed into you by some miraculous spells. your body jolting forward, as you lovingly gazed at beomgyu and the foam in his mouth, almost dripping as he shook in happiness to see you conscious. you giggled at his excitement, and scooped some of the foam that was holding onto it's life by his chin and put it back into his teeth.

"i was so scared of losing you," beomgyu cried out, splattering you with the foam, but you didn't mind as his minty fresh love coated your skin. coloring you ivory in his love—this time you closed the gap between you two and smelled the scent of love directly from the source.

" i will never leave you."

"curating love stories all around!" huening kai yelled, holding up the the colgate as he wiggled his squatted body to come to the center of the camera in order to block you and beomgyu, "colgate!"

"AND THAT'S A WRAP!"

NOꕀT. ִֶָ E : COLGATE SPONSOR ME?!?!!?

i know ive been awfully ia that's why i really wanted to comeback with a writing as awful as this,, but this idea! is so dear to heart because my favourite writer and my best friend came up with this and i just had to write it!! sometimes ill get her on tumblr one day for sure!!! PS the pedestrian the two dumbasses ran over was yeonjun, and the two dumbasses were soobin and taehyun. taehyun being the one with the big ass rock.

PERM〞TAGLIST— @impureperhaps

©ITGIRLGYU—feedbacks are so so so appreciated and ill love you forever!!

[eggcompany]

Lost Bears Part 2

That night when Jamie showed up to watch the rest of the show, dressed in comfy clothes, he had Roy following behind him, something wrapped up in shopping bags. Jamie kicked his trainers at the door, shucking his zip jacket off to get comfy on the couch. He hugged Keeley briefly, saying hey, before flopping onto the couch. 

“Hey, I’m gonna order Italian, I know what everyone likes?” Keeley said, phone out in her hand, having thought over dinner for the last hour. 

“Yeah.” Jamie said and Roy stood by Keeley. Just standing there, looking at her, bag in hand. 

“And the bag is?” Keeley asked softly, hand landing on Roy’s forearm, not reaching for the bag but referencing it. 

“Bear-Bear, and a pack of biscuits.” Jamie answered with a smile and made himself comfy on the couch, pulling the folded blanket apart. Roy looked down at his hand and forced his clenched fingers to relax. Keeley took the plastic bag, untying it, she left there, hanging open from Roy’s fingers. 

“Are you any better now Roy? Are you feeling any… safer?” Keeley asked quietly and rubbed up and down Roy’s bicep. He was so strong, solid and warm under his shirt, she always loved that about him. His solid warmth she could always fall back on. But she saw the soft side of him now, his eyes looking up, finally catching her own gaze. He shrugged, not shaking his head no, so she took it as progress in the right way. 

“Okay, it’s okay. We’re gonna make sure you’re alright. Why don’t you go get a shower, you’re staying the night again, the guest bed is just the way you like it if you don’t end up staying on the sofa again.” Keeley explained, trying to sound calm and cool. She’s made up the bed how Roy needed it, with the heavy blankets and the pillows that stayed cold and cranked the fans up. He liked being cool and weighed down. She knew how to get that done. 

Roy nodded and looked at her hand that laid in the crook of his elbow. He had a thinking look on his face, swallowing thickly before he spoke. 

“The blue blanket… Can I have it?” Roy asked and kept his eyes to the side, on Keeley’s hand unable to meet her eyes anymore. Keeley paused and swallowed. The blue blanket. Not a blue blanket. The blue blanket. 

The blue blanket Roy had told her felt like the one he had when he was a kid. The blue blanket she’d wrap around him after six too many drinks or when his knuckles were freshly wrapped from punching concrete or that one time he bashed his own head into a wall until he passed out. 

That was the hurt blanket. That was the hospital visit, having an episode, ‘we’re gonna pretend it didn’t happen till the morning blanket. 

Doctor Fieldstone had called the blanket a grounding item, like the blankets they put on shock patients. It was a blanket that made Keeley feel sick to her stomach.  

“The blue blanket?” Keeley asked and felt her own heart picked up, she just needed to make sure. Roy nodded and looked back up at her finally. His eyes were watery, chaos rolling in his mind behind them. 

“Can you sit in the bathroom?” Roy asked, tears sitting in the lines of his eyes, barely contained. Keeley felt a cold shock roll through her, freezing her to her core. 

“Roy, do you need to go to the hospital? I’m being serious, I’ll tell Ted you can’t be coming for a few days, we can say you’re on vacation.” Keeley offered and kept looking at Roy who shook his head. She was dead serious, voice steady and unwavering. 

If she had to take him to the mental ward, it would be fine. She could have the NDAs printed in ten minutes, lord knows she had them saved. Roy just shook his head, moving his free hand to catch hers, giving it a squeeze. 

“I feel… tired. My head is too fucking full. Fieldstone on Monday. Just don’t wanna fuckin… be” Roy explained in a struggled manner, like it hurt him to even try and make the words form in his mouth. 

Keeley took a minute to think it through. It was Friday. Monday would make him reset. Seeing the doctor would help and she would send him to the hospital if he needed it or on vacation or give him advice to help him get over it. Only the weekend and it would be all better. Keeley could handle that. 

“I want you to go get in the shower upstairs, leave the door open. I’m going to get the blanket and get everything set up in here. Jamie can go home and then we-” Keeley started to explain, laying out her plan, but Roy spoke up, cutting her off. 

“He doesn’t have to.” Roy said, stopping Keeley in her tracks. She was going to just tell Jamie and send him home, they could watch the show some other time, Jamie would understand. But if Roy wanted him to stay, or felt like having Jamie there would help with the awkwardness, so be it. 

“Oh, alright. Then I’ll come sit in the bathroom with you while he sets everything up down here. Can you get in the shower and get cleaned up for me though? By yourself for just a minute?” Keely asked, squeezing Roy’s hand, moving to be in his field of vision. Roy nodded and took his hand away, shoving the bag covered teddy bear into Keeley’s chest before turning for the stairs. 

“Yeah. Yeah.” He grumbled, almost drowned out by the crinkle of the plastic bag as Keeley took Bear-Bear out. She sighed and walked to the couch. 

“Jamie, I'm telling you this once and only once. You know when you had your big fit? Your big one and you broke your finger?” Keeley said sternly when she heard the shower kick on upstairs. 

Her and Jamie had been dating for a bit when he had his big fit. He’d come home having been shoved around by his dad after a shitty match, scratch on his cheek that Keeley had tried to tape up but he’d just broken. Screaming that he wasn’t a baby, that he didn’t need her treating him like he was six. He’d pulled a shelf from the wall to the floor, kicked the cabinet doors, and tried punching the fridge while wailing like a possessed man. Keeley had just watched him, calling an ambulance when she saw the way his finger twisted to the side. He’d just laid on the kitchen floor, curled up knees to his chest, hands on his ears, cabinet door splintered beside his head, and wailed. The paramedics had to sedate him to keep him from hyperventilating. 

She wasn’t scared, never had been scared of Jamie hurting her, but she knew he needed help. She’d been at the hospital the next morning with NDAs for the psych ward nurses and everyone else who needed to help Jamie. And he came out better, apologized, and bandaged up. The stress of everyone looking at you, it got to a person, she knew that. She knew that when she was with Roy. That the eyes were still glaring at him. 

Jamie nodded, remembering the shitty food and the stupid brace on his finger. 

“Yeah? It sucked. You made me stay in the hospital for, like, ever.” He said and absentmindedly reached to his pinkie that had snapped. Keeley looked at him, trying to make sure he knew what she was saying. 

“It was two days but you remember that it was horrible and you felt horrible and it was scary? For everyone, it was scary.” She said and raised an eyebrow at him. Jamie nodded, guilt still digging at him years later. 

“Duh it was shit” Jamie said but his voice hung heavy with guilt, with seriousness that was never present. Keeley took a breath, calming herself. 

“Roy’s there. He’s right there. No old man jokes, no poking him, no teasing. He is so close to falling apart completely. Understood?” Keeley said and got into Jamie’s space, looking up at him. She watched his face turn pale, eyes widen. He swallowed, opened his mouth, and closed it again before clearing his throat and nodding. 

“Un-understood. Should I leave?” He asked, eyes going to the front door. He could leave, leave and it could be between Roy and Keeley, they were dating after all. He was just… He was just Roy’s friend. Keeley put Roy’s bear down next to Jamie on the couch. 

“He wants you to stay. Just get the food, the blankets, put the show on. Just don’t… ignore the fact he’s an actual active volcano right now. Like he’s…. Ya know?” Keely said as she went to the linen closet that held her million throw blankets and couch pillows. She pulled out the blue blanket from the very very very bottom and a couple extra pillows. Jamie was nodding, remote in hand already up to fix the couch and make tea. 

“Roy, what'd you feel like wearing? I know you like wearing your shirt and pants, why don’t we just put these on and wrap you up in blankie. Come down right away, food’s going to be here in a sec." Keeley said and brough the found (definitely not kept) pair of Roy's boxer briefs and one of his shirts she'd kept (it was left.) She put them on the sink, folded up like she hadn’t worn them, before sitting next to them on the counter. She could see through the fogged class Roy was just standing under the steaming hot water, letting the water half drown him. She sighed and leaned back against the mirror, he didn’t even flinch. 

“And Bear is waiting downstairs for you. Jamie too.” She said and that got a response, a slight nodding of his head, his shoulders drooping a bit further, a big breath shaking through his chest. Keeley just watched, watched until he was turning the water off, opening the door to reach the towel she had laid out for him. 

She let her eyes take him in. He always looked good, strong and healthy. She watched the water roll down his chest, off his hips, down his legs. She couldn’t help but smile at the way he scrubbed the water away roughly, like he was mad at it. He always did that and always his skin was still damp when he was done, hair soaking the collar of his shirt until Keeley toweled it off better. 

She took his hand, his rough palm a warm solid reminder he was alive, and took him to the couch just in time to catch Jamie tipping the delivery boy and hauling the food in. Roy picked at his food, taking small slow bites and then looking at Keeley or Jamie, watching them eat before taking another bite for himself. 

Keeley watched him, he was always weird with food, she didn’t understand but she watched until he had eaten his portion before finally stopped picking at her own.

Jamie threw away the trash, being as quiet as he could, stealing obvious glances at Roy as the older man leaned on Keeley heavily, bear tucked in his lap. 

Keeley was rubbing at Roy’s shoulders and neck, hands working on the tense muscles and tight knots. It made his eyes slide shut and content sighs leak from his lips, his mind finally starting to spin down. Jamie was dead set on watching the show as his own hands found Roy’s feet and ankles, careful as he dug his fingers into the pressure points. 

Roy was calm, the air in the room felt different than the night before, than a few hours ago when they arrived. It felt… warmer. Something had shifted and Jamie could feel it in the back of his neck down to his hands where he touched Roy’s clean warm skin. Keeley could feel it too, like Roy’s gloom had lifted off them all, at least a bit.

[just-a-creep-babe]

a demon's ache is so good i bashed my head onto a concrete wall in hopes it gives me amnesia so i can reread it again for the first time 🤷🏼 it's been such a long time since i've been fed good ej fics 💔 thank you for your service 🫡🫡

SKDJFHGLSKDJDL ok but hearing ur fic makes someone wanna bash their head in is SUCH a high compliment I’m—

[ctommyisnt]

Fighting with my brother bc I find concrete to be gorgeous and wonderous and he’s like ‘if I see another gray wall I’m going to bash my head onto it so at least my blood will stain it into something better like NO. STOP DISSING THE CONCEETE IT IS BEIYIFIL

[blacknidstang]

Thinking about John giving Dean the colt and how that is exactly the same as John leaning onto Dean on that hospital bed to tell him about Sam and how China has put the quote "man hands on misery to man" over the hospital scene in this insanely gorgeous post and now I'm violently bashing my head to the wall and chewing concrete

[greedful-tari]

"Look what we have here.."

/ you've gotten an bounty over your head by the high table, especially eclipse. Everywhere you go, nothing is safe. After a bashful 6 months of hiding, you haven't seen the 4 in a while. Every angle you look, they weren't there. Maybe they have forgoten about you. Just maybe. \

A fic for @8um8ble8ee's cyberpunk au, which i adore dearly. (This is mostly fron my self-insert perspective, but it can also be used for a y/n perspective!)

You've been wandering through the alleys with a sickening feeling in your stomach. It wasn't the first time you've been under a bounty by eclipse and the others.

But it felt different this time.

You shrugged it off and continued walking to try and find your partner. It's felt like hours finding them.

But the more you continued to look, the more it felt like you kept being followed. Every turn you made. Every path you go..

.

..

..someone was following you.

There was a dead end to where you had found an empty wall, nothing but concrete. A place to create art on.

You sigh to yourself to finally have a place to unravel your emotions onto art.

No one in the way.

Nothing to get in the way..

But,

the moment you pulled out a bright pink paint spraycan and shook it up & down to get ready for motivation; a voice cracks the silence from silence.

" Well, look what we have here. "

Eclipse spoke, looking over you at a whooping 10 feet in height. The shadow fulfills the wall from infront of you.

" Isn't is the one & only, Greedy. "

You slowly turned to eclipse. The look of horror and feeling of your stomach just rotting away just at the sight of eclipse just made him smirk.

You backed up to the wall, dropping your spraycan that rolls to eclipses foot.

" I thought you'd never leave your little hide-out.. "

You quivered at the voice. Inhaling your fear into your body before responding;

" ..Why do you want me, why- with this bounty?"

Eclipse narrowed his eyes as he leaned forward, making you shiver in terror from the height difference. Eclipse could easily squish you like a balloon if he wanted too..

".. Cause, Greedy."

The 4 arms on eclipses back quickly extended & grabbed your whole body, slaming you into the wall. The pain filled your body.

You gasp for air at the short and forced movement that knocked the wind out of you. With you being 5'8, being held by some 2 times your height, it scares you.

But, it also had this odd feeling of admiring towards eclipse. It flushed your body into a warmth layer of woah, they are big.

"You've brought me interest,"

Eclipse leaned in with a smug look,

"And I've been waiting to finally find you."

The two free hands let go of you, shrugging as he tilts his head to the side.

" I'm sure you're friend Y/N is worried, along with sun & 8ot.."

Eclipse looked back at you, his smug smirk slowly turning into a crazed smile.. Narrowing his eyes as his 2 free hands cup your face.

" But I think you'll be just fine with me. "

[popthirdworld]

Chapter 15 - The Dungeon

This is a Christmas story told in 25 parts – with one chapter released each day of December ‘til Christmas. Enjoy!

A portal opened in the dungeon that sat deep below the ground underneath Sable’s mansion. The dungeon was dirty and cold, made up of a series of iron-barred cells and a cage dangling from a chain high overhead. The siphon stepped out of the portal with Puddles. She opened the brown sack and, with a wave of her hand, a gust of wind carried the fairies out of the bag and dropped them into the cage. Sable then waved her hand again and the yetis flew out of the sack too. They were slung into a cell with the door slamming behind them. 

Lastly, Sable dipped her arm deep into the bag and pulled out Lolly. The elf was already feeling groggy, having just fainted. She was left feeling worse once Sable hurled her into a cell, landing on a hard concrete floor with a THUMP! 

The yetis immediately began jumping up and down in their prison, flickering from visible to invisible. The fairies flittered around their cage in protest, bashing into the solid metal netting encasing them.

Sable was not about to tolerate such disruptions. She manifested thick black ropes to tie up the yetis and used her powers as siphon to suck out their vanishing abilities. The yetis howled as they felt their powers being extracted from them. Sable then turned her attention to the fairies. Sable drained the beings of their powers of flight, watching them fall to the base of their cage, one by one. 

As the yetis writhed helplessly in their restraints and the fairies let out a mournful hum, Sable summoned another portal and, with Puddles in her arms, disappeared into it. 

After Sable had left, Lolly opened her eyes and slowly tried to raise her body from the floor. The first thing that she saw was reindeer huddled together in the neighbouring cell, staring back at her.

“Comet? Vixen?” Lolly managed to squeak out in her frail state. “What are you … we … where are we?”

Dasher reached an antler through the bars for Lolly to hold onto to help lift herself up.

“Lolly!”

The elf heard an anxious voice behind her. She turned to see Ana, rushing in her direction to check her head for lumps and bruises. Ana was resplendent in the thick red cloak with white trimmings that she had been wearing back at the Workshop. She stood out among the filthy grey walls of the dungeon. Lolly noticed two other figures in the cell with them but, in her hazy state, could not make out their faces. 

“What’s going on?” Lolly murmured. 

“Sable is liquidating the Workshop and selling off its assets at an auction upstairs”, Ana recited from a piece of paper in her hand.

“Wha … ?” Lolly said, more confused than before. That did not sound like Mrs Claus.

The other two figures in the cell came into focus as they kneeled beside the elf. It was Mayor Paul and Sister Roula. They had been thrown into the dungeon by the trolls who had hauled them out of the showroom earlier. The nun and mayor still could not speak due to Sable’s hex. That is why, Ana explained to the elf, Mayor Paul had to write down what they had learned upstairs on the piece of paper she was holding. He had written it with his office ballpoint pen on a scrap of parchment from Ana’s pocket (on the other side of the parchment was a draft list of children in Angola who wanted scooters).

“Do you know where Santa is, and the two children?” Ana asked urgently.

“I … I was with them. We were in the Winter Forest. But … I don’t know where they are now. I’m sorry. I don’t know.”

With that, the elf watched as the look on the faces of Ana, Sister Roula and Mayor Paul turned from mildly hopeful to despairing.

“Lolly?” someone to her right shouted out. “Are you alright?”

Lolly recognised the voice. It was her friend and fellow elf, Lemon. Lolly turned and saw him and the other elves packed into the cell across the corridor. 

“Lemon! I’m OK. How are you all?”

“We’re fine”, a gruff elf named Marshmallow said curtly. “Ana, make sure you put some pressure on Lolly’s head. That wound looks nasty.”

Ana took out an embroidered handkerchief and pressed it against Lolly’s forehead. “I’m on it”. 

BANG!

A security guard heaped with muscles on his massive frame pounded his fist against the bars of their cell. Everyone in the dungeon jumped. The bars bent slightly from the impact. Even in her hazy state, Lolly could deduce that Sable must have imbued this guard with super-strength, just as she had with Puddles. He looked like figurines of Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson that Lolly had wrapped and ribboned countless times over the years, but this muscleman was not so delightful. 

“No talking”, the guard ordered.

He strode over to sit at his desk stationed by the door. The prisoners had little option. As instructed, Ana, Mayor Paul, Sister Roula, Lolly, the other elves, reindeer, yetis and fairies fell silent.

___

Upstairs, the portal opened in the empty showroom. Sable, with the globe in her hands, marched past the various exhibits towards the pedestal with the red velvet pillow in prime position under the spotlight.

Santa, standing motionless within the globe, looked on with shock at all of the Workshop items he held dear so coldly displayed in this clinical white room. Beside each item were plaques with price estimates written upon them.

Sable placed the globe on the pillow, drew the velvet curtains and turned off the spotlight overhead. Left in the dark on the podium, the reality of what was happening dawned on Santa. He was one of the items for sale.

“Brent”, Sable called out to her personal assistant as she marched out of the room.

“Yes ma’am?”

“The auction can begin.”

[plentiful-pushes]

Heroism

TW: Sexual themes, Violence, 18+.

Jumping from building to building wad getting her achy and sore, but not her legs.. no her belly was, her large bump of a belly and her tight and hot suit didn't help the spider-woman.

Her genes we're altered to save her from a very lethal dose of radiation, her body coped with spider genes that made her.... well her.

She wore a purple suit with black armor pieces and green gilded lines, her eyepieces glow with a turqoise as she glides across the sky.

She shot a web and swung from tower to tower and pulled herself between tight places at high speeds, she landed onto a roof to breathe off.

Sat off the edge, taking slow breaths to calm her tightening belly down with a small rub across her underside easing the tightness.

Once ready, she stands up and moves back as she takes a long leap but a contraction takes her attention, she grips her belly but shoot a web at the right moment. Swinging through the city.

She inhales a sharp breath, through the pain while she swings above across New York city's streets and corners, reaching across a gang.

Shots fire through the air and she dodges every one of them swiftly, landing on her feet and punching someone clean out "So wanna go?"

They shot bullets and she dodged every single one of them, webbing one from behind and slamming him on the truck wall "Oops, sorry."

She webs one and slams her foot into them, "Ouch, that must hurt. Oh, yeah you." She spins around the bullet and punches them cold.

A hard pressure binds her belly, she pulls her body in and grunts at the strong pain "Ooh, okay not a great time, Oh we are goin- OOH okay yep"

She let it pass and swings off to another gang scene, finding one atop a rooftop being hit by heavy contractions frequently on the way here.

"Oughhh, C'mon just a few mor- hraaagghh" Her breath was shaky, she shrugged it off and went in for the attack, slamming onto the concrete.

"That's a hospital visit, Ouhh hold on... Damn it!" The remaining crooks point the barrel towards her "You sure...? Really? Okay, here we go."

She shifts her stance as a sharp burns grows with in and a slow gush of fluid drips down her leg "Hgk! Oh, fuck now?" She inhales deeply.

She punches the man to her left, making him faint "Hooo, Oughh.. Okay *Gulp*" They all fire and they miss every shot as she pulls their guns out their hands and slingshotting it back.

Whilst flurry of contractions wrack her belly, slowing her down and she compensates and speeds up tightening her clench on her belly "nrrggh! Ack, auuhhh." The head slides near.

The head bulges out with great force "Ougghh, Grnnghh. Damn it!" Stretching her suit and had forcefully stopped her as she barely dodges the bullets "Ouuhhhh, Haaahhh." As the pain grows.

She felt a sudden stop and crunched her fist tightly, letting out a small groan "F-- ffucck! I ne-eed Haagghh!" Hiding behind supply crates.

She groaned cupping the head trying to stop it's movement but it was to far out, she rammed the thug to the ground "Shut it, be quiet- Nrgghh!".

Then slammed his head on the floor knocking him out, she gripped her belly as the baby pulls out the amniotoc sac from her body "Ghaa- ?!".

The head abruptly stops by her tight suit, and left her a strong searing pain as the last crook, tall and powerful as he grabbed a table.

He threw it and broke a huge chunk of the crate as she braces "Hooh- Hoo, here *gulp* we go" And she swung above him as he throws tables.

She dodges every attack he threw, fighting huge contractions as she grabs a pillar and bashes him, leaving him fainted as she fell to her knees.

She screams in horrendus pain as the head was beginning to tear through the suit and through pain she bore, all in she stopped holding back.

She heard a loud rip, as a huge gush of fluid had flowed out, puddling up as the baby fell out as it tore through the amniotic sac.

It gasped and wailed loudly, calling for it's mom as Louis crawled to her child and pulled it to her chest calming it down. She smiled so tiredly.

[gttinyprincess]

Steddie vampire!Eddie request. Fluff. Steve and Eddie cuddling when Eddie starts to get hungry. Steve offers his wrist as a snack.

Ah yes, definitely!

Warnings: blood and tooth rotting fluff ^-^

___________

It's calm, a dull but rhythmic thudding in the air.

Eddie smiles at the wall in front of him, enjoying the weight of hands on his waist. A thumb rubbing circles into the skin his pulled up shirt reveals. He'd almost be certain Steve were doing the motion in his sleep if it wasn't for the soft kisses he feels press to his neck and shoulder every so often. "You good back there Harrington?" Eddie chuckles at the soft sleepy hum he receives in answer.

Eddie likes days like this, the two of them curled up on Steve's bed after a fruitless attempt to explain the rules of D'n'D to the ex-jock. Steve had cleaned the books and notes off of his bed much to Eddie's dismay and once he himself had hopped back onto the bed, he pushed Eddie back, pinning the metal head to his bed with a grin. Eddie had acted disgruntled and fought back (with no true strength behind the actions, they both knew if Eddie wanted to fight back Steve would stand no chance against him) but Steve keeps him down, peppering kisses across his face, Eddie's heart flutters full to the brim with love. They're both laughing and trading kisses.

They had settled down to cuddle soon after, both exhausted and craving each others warmth, that's how they stay for the next hour or two with Eddie's back pressed into Steve's front.

Eddie doesn't know what they are. After coming back from the upside down, Steve had patched him up and they had gone for a few beers here and there and eventually settled into a rhythm. Never giving their situation a concrete name, never talking about the light touches, hurried kisses and mornings spent with delicate hands and shy smiles both too scared that talking about it might break their fragile bond.

Steve shifts behind him, the thumb on his hip stilling before renewing it's movements albeit slower this time around. Eddie can tell that he wants to say something and so he stays quiet, waiting for him to pluck up his courage. Eddie places his own hand over the one steve has rubbing patterns into his hip, silently giving him the go ahead.

Seemingly finding his voice Steve shifts to lean up on his free arm so he can look down at Eddie who rolls onto his back, their hands threading together over his abdomen. "Are you feeling...y'know..." Steve trails off and Eddie can't help but chuckle at the bashful reaction.

Ever since they had accidentally discovered how it was that Eddie had managed to survive, Steve had offered his help. Although the first time had not been willing, the two silently agreed not to bring that incident up it seemed. The guilt still ate Eddie up inside sometimes. When he was left alone those memories would creep up from the depths of his mind and whisper cruelty to him. Convincing him of the monster he had become, reminding him of the pain he had inflicted upon his friends.

"Yeah, I'm a little hungry"

But it's different when he's here, the little moments he gets to share with Steve make him feel so human. Steve doesn't view him as a monster. He's just Eddie. The weird freak who plays D'n'D, enjoys metal music and watching horror movies. The guy who let's Steve run his hands through his hair and over his waist. The man he had kissed when they were supposed to being watching a movie. To Steve he's just Eddie.

"Here, let me" Eddie watches as Steve shifts, lifting him up slightly so he can sit behind the metal head with his legs caging him in at either side. He loves when they sit like this, his head resting on Steve's chest so close to his heart.

Steve holds his wrist up to Eddie's face and he takes it gently in his hands. It feels like years ago they were discussing this as a possibility when in reality it had only been a few months. He huffs a soft laugh at the memory, he had been so against the idea of letting Steve be his personal blood bag. But now with how close it's gotten them, he wishes they had thought of it sooner.

Eddie presses a kiss to Steve's wrist who in turn presses one into his hair and then he's biting down. Skin parting beneath his sharpened canines, Steve grunts behind him.

Eddie had been scared back then that he had been putting his friend through so much pain just so he can eat, but after a long vulnerable conversation between the two Steve had explained that it felt oddly nice. Robin has a theory that it might be some kind of vampire trick to keep prey calm.

Eddie hadn't liked hearing Steve be referred to as prey.

Eddie makes a noise in the back of his throat as the sweet taste of Steve's blood coats his tastebuds. He has only ever fed on steve but he just knows, almost like it's pure instinct, that nothing will ever be able to compare to his blood.

Of course it was inevitable that thee king Steve would be perfect in every possible way. Handsome, kind, funny, brave and oh so delicious. Just the sound of his heartbeat made Eddie positively ravenous.

Steve is patient with him as he feeds, leaning his head back against the headboard, combing his free hand through Eddie's hair. He felt calm and warm. The pain from the initial bite never lasted long and the light almost floaty feeling that follows makes the experience a little bit addictive. Couple that with the excuse of having to have Eddie close by and well steve would never say no to an excuse to hold Eddie more than he already does.

Eddie takes a deep breath as he pulls back from Steve's arm, licking the residual blood from his lips as he eyes the still leaking bite. "How are you feeling?" Eddie asks as he leans back in to lap at the wound, catching every drop possible so as not to let any go to waste. "I feel good, I could go for a nap though" Steve replies in a sleepy hum and Eddie chuckles fondly at the reply as he pulls back watching Steve's skin knit itself back together till only smooth skin remains, as if nothing had even happened. That had definitely freaked them both out at first too.

Eddie plays with Steve's fingers as he speaks, a nervous habit "do you want to cuddle?" He asks still unsure as to what is okay and what isn't.

Steve doesn't reply, removing his hand from Eddie's touch and the metal head can't help but feel disheartened at the silent rejection. However it doesn't last long as Steve's wrapping his arms around Eddie's waist and twisting, rolling them both onto their sides with steve once again pressing himself into Eddie's back. "Cuddling sounds perfect right now" he mumbles, lips brushing the outer shell of Eddie's ear. He's speechless for a moment, still confused at what just happened before allowing a smile to break onto his faces as he moves his hands to cover Steve's own.

"Yeah, cool. We can cuddle for awhile"

[inkykeiji]

break my heart in two, but when it heals it beats for you

character: zenin naoya

genre: smut + angst

notes: aaaaah this is my lil submission for the sewer’s soulmate syndrome collab (and my first collab ever waaah!!!) it’s a curseless soulmate AU with the tiniest hint of the zenin’s being a prominent crime family. please please heed the warnings!! | title credit: back to you by selena gomez

warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, incest (reader and naoya are half siblings), mentioned death of a family member (mother), naoya being his misogynistic self, excessive use of the word ‘Daddy’ to refer to their biological father, one (1) instance of physical abuse, size kink/size difference, mentioned relationship between a university student (reader) and their TA, infidelity, one (1) mention of Daddy being yakuza, age difference, spanking done by reader’s biological father, toxic relationships, minimal prep, rough sex, a hint of degradation

words: 9.5k

synopsis:

Except the torture doesn’t stop, even when you’re gone, because he’s assaulted with thoughts of you the very moment you leave—what you’re doing, who you’re with, if he plagues your mind as much as you plague his—you’re like a fucking sickness, a parasite that burrows deep between the folds and tissues of his brain, infecting it, and he’s hopeless to find a cure.

It’s a few days after his twenty-ninth birthday, the night you appear—unannounced, uninvited, and an absolute fucking mess—falling into his father’s arms the moment he opens the door, fingers curling in the material of his cashmere button up and tugging as powerful sobs rip through your entire body, violent tremors following.

It’s fucking disgusting, the way his father reacts. Naoya watches the entire thing unfold from the shadows of the living room, nose wrinkled in distaste, features twisted in aversion and saturated in abhorrence.

Because his father lets you cling to him like a child—a grown woman, gripping a seventy-one year old man like a sniveling little girl—as he manages to scoop you up into his arms, collapsing onto his favourite armchair with you in his lap, hushing you gently as he rocks you back and forth, large hands stroking your shuddering back as you nuzzle your puffy, snot-stained face into his chest, wailing out Daddy!

It’s the first time Naoya’s ever seen his father behave in such a way, revolt churning his stomach as he observes the quite frankly unfamiliar man in front of him. It makes him fucking sick to watch, acidic bile rising in his throat until it stings the back of his tongue, face souring as he swallows it back down.

And you can’t even manage to force words through your stuttering breathing and hiccupped little sobs, unable to explain the situation at all without being overwhelmed by another fresh wave of tears, crashing over your body as you fall back into the sanctuary of his father’s arms, face buried in his neck, now soiled with spit and salt water.

“Naoya,” his father calls, voice curt and stern and demanding, snapping Naoya’s gaze to his own in an instant. “A glass of water, please?”

Naoya scoffs, narrowing his eyes. “What the fuck do I look like to you? The help?”

And Naoya’s no stranger to the level gaze his father fixes him with, has seen that same look etched into his father’s face more times than he can count, eyebrows pinched and mouth pressed in a firm, fine line, chest rising as he inhales slowly, calmly, deeply, then exhales through flared nostrils.

“You look like a good big brother who’s on his way to get his baby sister some water,”

Ah, right, that’s who you are—the bastard, Daddy’s little mistake, an ugly, irreversible stain on their family’s prestigious name.

“That bitch is not my sister,” he grumbles as he stomps from the room and towards the kitchen to fetch you a drink, huffing under his breath about being treated like a fucking woman, yet obeying his father’s orders nonetheless.

It turns out, Naoya learns, that your mother has passed away, leaving his poor bastard of a baby sister all alone in the world, with nowhere to go—and you’ve come here to ask for shelter and food, just until you get on your feet.

It’s fucking pathetic, as far as Naoya’s concerned, shaking his head in condescending disbelief with a cruel snort. It’s almost difficult to believe that you, undoubtedly the family disgrace; you, with your dirty blood and the dishonour you haul around everywhere with you, have the balls to come crawling to his father begging for support. You’re an adult, for Christ’s sake, and you should act like one, should be out scouring the earth for some equally pathetic man to serve like you ought to, like you would have, if you knew your place. Maybe then, Naoya would have a shred of respect for you.

Maybe.  

“How selfish. Daddy already pays for your tuition, why should he provide you with housing, too? Are you really that incompetent? Can’t do a thing for yourself, huh?”

Your head whips around to face him, almost as if you’re startled by his presence, by his voice addressing you directly, a sharp gasp falling from your lips the moment your eyes meet.

It’s the first time you’ve actually looked at him since you’ve arrived, the first time your gaze has connected with his, eyes bloodshot and gleaming as crystal tears stream down your cheeks, excess water clinging to spidery lashes, clumped together in spikes.

God, you’re beautiful.

It kicks him right in the motherfucking chest, hard enough that he stumbles back a few feet into the stone fireplace, a hand gripping the mantle for stability while his body caves in on itself. A spear of agony sears through his body, slicing clean through all of his vital organs as you choke out an apology punctuated with an honorific, head shaking in jerky little motions as your tongue struggles to form words to explain yourself.

And he’s never felt anything like it in his entire life, skin feeling as though it’s been set ablaze from the inside, thick black smoke filling is lungs as he wheezes on an inhale, strangled by it.

“Naoya,” his father snaps, eyes wide and scorching. “Leave.”

Each step away from the living room feels heavier than the last, as if his blood’s been replaced by lead, by rapidly drying concrete, rendering him incapable of lifting his feet from the floor, dragging them against the tile until it’s fucking painful, calves and thighs tingling as if the blood flow’s been entirely obstructed, muscles quivering and exhausted.

“It’s okay,” he can hear his father’s faint voice soothing you, each of your sniffles feeling like a sharp little thorn straight to his heart, each of your tiny I’m sorry’s carving out a vacant, phantom wound in his chest. “Shh, it’s alright, Daddy’s here, Daddy’s got you,”

“Pathetic,” Naoya spits to the empty hallway, though the word wavers, catching a little in his throat, letters scraping the gummy walls as he forces them from his mouth, leaving scalding little blisters in its wake.

It’s then that Naoya decides he hates you; standing motionless in the dark  hallway, feet inexplicably bolted to the floor and chest burning with some unknown emotion, a fire that blazes and rages, flares and thrashes, with each of your hitched little apologies, his teeth clenched together so tightly he’s surprised they don’t crack.

But it’s only after your sobs have calmed, father having reduced them to soft sniffles and half-hiccups through tender words and sweet affirmations, only after Naoya knows that you’ll be staying here for the night—that you’ll be safe—that he regains control over his limbs, that he rips his cement-filled feet from the floor and trudges towards his bedroom, scalding inferno dulled to simmering coals and faint flickering cinders.

He doesn’t think about it—isn’t going to think about it, refuses to waste his time or energy on such absurdity, refuses to allow his father’s preposterous decisions and ridiculous sentiments soak up space in his consciousness.

And he absolutely refuses to think about is the way your sudden presence punched a sharp gasp from his chest, the way he suddenly feels incomplete, like something’s missing, now that you aren’t within arms-reach, the way that he lost control over his entire body for the first time in his fucking life, in that hallway, just a few moments ago.

    ✰          ✰          ✰

His father—your father—falls in love with you almost immediately; having only met you briefly a few times before this, despite sending your mother multiple cheques every month for over twenty years.

It’s truly deplorable, positively sickening to watch the way his eyes light up when you come skipping into the living room after your afternoon university classes, dropping a fat, almost obscene kiss to Daddy’s cheek before plopping down on his lap as you chatter on about your day—about what you learned in lecture today, about the essay you got back (top of your class, of course), about your cute TA with the white hair and crystal eyes who always seems to conjure a bashful expression the moment you mention his name.

Naoya watches the entire thing unfold day after day, a deep sneer etched into his face, jaw clenched so hard it begins to ache, light eyes glaring daggers in your direction.

Something akin to jealousy, a creature with glowing emerald eyes and gnashing teeth and razor claws that slash and tear at the pit of his belly, roars and rattles the ribs that keep it caged within his chest, gnawing on the bones every time his—your—father makes you giggle, your eyes sparkling with adoration as you gaze at him; every time lithe fingers brush hair back from your face or a large palm settles on the crown of you head, petting you gently; every time you nuzzle into his neck, curling up comfortably—perfectly—in Daddy’s big, strong arms that keep you protected from all of the bad, from all of the evils of this world, from him, the big brother that loathes you.

It’s unsettling, almost sad in a sense, seeing his father fall from grace, observing the way you decay his persona so quickly, eating away at it like corrosive acid, rotting him from the inside out; the way he morphs from one of the most powerful and feared Yakuza bosses into soft, sticky, sweet putty in your hands the moment you appear; the way your presence shatters his tough, hard exterior and renders him gentle and tender—gentler and tenderer than he’s ever behaved with Naoya or any of his older brothers.

He can’t fucking stand to watch it, despises every single thing about it, positively detests the inexplicable, uncontrollable sensations that thrash and thunder inside of him, an unusual mixture of envy and melancholy, of wrath and desire, combined to create something toxic, something hazardous, something uncontainable that erodes his senses and mind, leaking into his bloodstream and poisoning his thoughts.

Because his gaze stays glued to you the moment you enter a room, like he’s bewitched by you, cursed by you the way his father has become, unable to rip his eyes from your form until you exit.

Except the torture doesn’t stop, even when you’re gone, because he’s assaulted with thoughts of you the moment you leave—what you’re doing, who you’re with, if he plagues your mind as much as you plague his—you’re like a fucking sickness, a parasite that burrows deep between the folds and tissues of his brain, infecting it, and he’s hopeless to find a cure.

And the worst part, the worst part is that he hasn’t a clue why. He doesn’t know why he feels the way he does, why you evoke such strong emotions—emotions he’s never felt before, emotions he doesn’t have a name for—or why, suddenly, everything feels wrong, off, whenever you’re not around.

It’s fucking annoying. Those tiny, raised bumps on the inside of his wrist—shaped in the form of a zodiac constellation, a mark everyone is born with, a mark that supposedly hints at your soulmate—burn and tingle as he meditates on these notions, blunt nails scratching viciously at his skin.

    ✰          ✰          ✰

Daddy grants you permission to stay at the estate for as long as you’d like, because of course he does, a victim to the spell you’ve cast. He even gives you your own room, helps you pick out furniture and takes you shopping for new clothes. You promise to do your share around the house—pinky swear—and, to Naoya’s immense dissatisfaction, you don’t disappoint.

No. Instead, you excel.

Those pretty little words weren’t empty promises—you begin cooking all of the meals, taking on the task to do the dishes entirely by yourself, tending to the house and the garden outside, even going as far to aid the help in their daily cleaning routines, until Daddy tells you it isn’t necessary.

And you manage to capture almost everyone’s hearts through your deeds and duties, through your kind and compassionate nature, through your being attentive and, for the most part, obedient—but most important of all, being family oriented.

You do the laundry when it needs to be done. You keep the house spotless and the kitchen sparkling. You learn everyone’s favourite dishes and then dedicate hours upon hours to perfecting them.

Naoya observes you throughout it all, sharp eyes following your movements, watching as you expertly tend to everyone’s needs, almost as if you know what they’ll require before they do.

You’d be perfect wife material, if you weren’t his sister—he catches the thought as it drifts through his mind—a sentiment that’s almost involuntary, unthinking in nature— and strangles it with his bare hands, stomps on it until it’s nothing but dust.

Because what’s more infuriating than anything else is that you are a good woman, a perfect woman, a woman who—for the most part—understands her place and duty in the household; or, at least, you did, before Daddy began spoiling you rotten.

It earns you the nickname princess from your favourite nii-san, hissed through gritted teeth with narrowed eyes and scrunched up noses, drenched in condescension and sprinkled with artificial icing sugar—a nickname Daddy irritatingly and affectionately adopts, extracting all of the patronization Naoya had imbued it with and stuffing it full of love.

You aren’t invincible, though, no matter how precious you are, how sweet your voice becomes when you bat your eyelashes and fix a pout on your lips, how much Daddy is barely able to deny you.

Because Daddy’s incessant spoiling does eventually bite him in the ass, just like Naoya knew it would.

    ✰          ✰          ✰

“But Daddy,” you whine, wearing your prettiest pout and cutest puppy-dog eyes, lethal weapons that are nearly foolproof, your most cherished expressions that grant you almost everything you want. “It’ll just be for a little, I promise! Just a drink or two!”

“I said no—”

“But everyone’s going! Even my professors will be there; I’m expected to show up!” Voice rising in pitch, your arms cross over your chest as eyebrows knit deeply and a lip juts out further, looking about two seconds away from stomping your foot.

Naoya would be amused, really, to see a grown woman acting like a petulant fucking child over some inconsequential party being thrown by the department, if he didn’t feel like his heart was ripping itself to pieces with your teary expression and soft half-sniffles, with the knowledge that, if you attend, you’ll be with him.

“You have an exam tomorrow,” Daddy reminds you in a sigh, dipping his head to scrutinize you over the rim of his reading glasses. “Are they not all required to write the same exam as well?”

“Well, they are, but—”

“But they didn’t spend their study break out gallivanting with their TA, did they?”

Your eyes widen for a second, shocked by the words leaving your father’s mouth, but the expression is gone in an instant, morphed into incredulousness, eyes rolling as your tongue tuts in disbelief.

“Please, we were studying,”

The chuckle that escapes your father’s lips is anything but warm; it’s cruel and condescending, a sharp slap to the face, your bottom lip beginning to tremble as he snaps his book shut, the sound echoing throughout the living room.

“You must think me a real fool,” he’s almost snickering as he throws his glasses on the coffee table, grunting a little as he stands from his armchair and raises himself to his full height, towering over you. “Do you think Daddy’s stupid?”

“What? No, of course not—”  

“Then why are you lying to him?”

“I-I’m not—”

“And you’re doing it again?”

Head shaking in jerky, quivering movements, your lips open and close, emitting nothing more but little squeaks of breath as you try to backtrack, managing to stammer out an apology.

“It’s a little late for that,” your father’s saying sternly, a large hand curling around your bicep as he yanks you towards him, beginning to haul you down the hall. “Good girls do not lie to their fathers,”

Naoya sits tense and coiled in his father’s armchair, a symphony of your cries mingled with harsh slaps of Daddy’s calloused palm against your smooth skin carrying throughout the house, and he swallows thickly, past the lump that’s lodged itself in the column of his throat, past the bitter acid rising in his chest, past the irregular thumping of his heart against his ribs.

Because he doesn’t know why your wails and squeals of Daddy! M’sorry! Daddy! make his cock throb and his chest ache—ache with longing, with want and desire, with jealousy—doesn’t know why he finds himself fucking his fist to those memories that same night, mind fixated on the quick glance he had caught through the sliver of the open door when he couldn’t stand it anymore, when he had to sneak down the hallway just to make sure everything was alright, images of you thrown over father’s knees, bare ass spanked raw materializing in his head.

Or maybe he does know. Maybe he refuses to admit it. Maybe he just pretends he doesn’t, because he wishes he didn’t.

Still, you always get off fucking easy, as far as Naoya’s concerned. He’s never witnessed his father allow any woman to talk back to him with such horrid disrespect, to whine and plead and roll their eyes without a backhand so heavy, so hard it knocks them to the floor.

And yet, you receive a few measly spanks to your ass—a punishment that’s more embarrassing than anything else, terribly unfit for a grown woman—and get sent to your room for the rest of the night.  

“She truly is Daddy’s Little Girl,” his mother had snarled after one particular punishment, features curled up in an unattractive sneer.

Naoya can’t help but begrudgingly agree.

      ✰          ✰          ✰

“Oh, lighten up,” one of his brothers nudges his foot with the toe of his slipper before collapsing next to him one abnormally cold evening in early October, interrupting Naoya’s nightly routine of glaring at you, cuddled up into Daddy’s side as you watch a show. “Just because you aren’t Daddy’s favourite anymore doesn’t mean you have to skulk around looking like you just ate a whole lemon,”

“What’re you on about,” Naoya seethes through clenched teeth, glancing at his older brother through the corner of his eye.

“You know,” he responds airily with a knowing smirk, nodding his head in your direction. “She’s taken your place, huh? Or is that not what’s upsetting you?”

And that hurts—it hurts, because he used to be Daddy’s favourite, Daddy’s youngest—the baby—Daddy’s spoiled brat. He’s used to being the center of Daddy’s attention, used to being the object of his praise, used to being the golden child, the prized child, the destined son nurtured and conditioned to take over the Family Business once his father retires.

Light eyes roll back in his skull as he tsks in disapproval, shaking his head and clearing his throat to rid the tremble from his voice. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,”

“Mm, I think I know more than you believe,”

The words are spoken in a murmur, only loud enough for the two of them to hear, but Naoya’s gaze snaps back to his face immediately as he calls your name, gently pulling you from the hushed conversation you were having with Daddy, full of giggles and murmurs, nonchalantly asking, “When’s your birthday?”

No.

No, Naoya wants to hiss at his pathetic excuse of a brother, large hands curling into quivering fists, nails biting into the fleshy heels of his palms as teeth grit, forcefully swallowing back down the two letter refutation.

No-no-no-no-no, he doesn’t want to hear this. He doesn’t want to know, doesn’t need to know, throat constricting as you inhale to speak, chirpily responding.

Blood turns to thick ice in his veins when he hears your birth date, when he realizes those raised little bumps he was born with on the inside of his wrist match your zodiac sign. Heavy dread, black and poisonous and akin to thick disappointment, sinks in his chest, latching onto the floor of his stomach and spreading quickly, sticky as it engulfs all of his surrounding organs, coating them in acidic pollution.

He’s up and out of his seat before his brother has even finished asking you his next question, stumbling out of the room on unsteady legs, nearly tripping over his own ankles in his haste to get away from you, to escape.

He doesn’t want to know what the bumps on your inner wrist are, tells himself that it doesn’t matter, that he doesn’t care, that this is all bullshit anyway, century-old myths created by the dreamers and the sentimentalists. It isn’t like the prospect hadn’t already crossed his mind—drifting through a sick orgasmic haze after fucking his fist to the memory of you—the potential that you may be his ‘soulmate’, a cruel trick played on him by the gods. Except…

Except it isn’t real. It isn’t real. There’s no science backing it up, nothing to concretely prove that the zodiac constellation embedded in his skin has anything to do with his ‘soulmate’—or anyone else’s. It’s just a legend, an old wives tale made up for the romantics and nothing else.

In his alacrity to resist it, he turns fucking ruthless in his verbal assault, but nothing seems to deter you; it barely seems to phase you at all, carrying on your tasks or your cute little babbling as if he hadn’t just insulted you.

Because you’re incessant, almost desperate to gain his approval, continuing to treat him like a god—doing more for him than you do for anyone else, including Daddy—regardless of how many how many expletives and offensive sentiments he hurls at you.

And eventually, he goes a little too far.

    ✰          ✰          ✰ 

The night before Halloween is dark and dreary, thick grey clouds stuffed with rain that continuously drizzles over the estate, brutal winds whipping the tiny droplets against the windowpanes, tiny specks and splatters of water decorating the glass, rearranging themselves every time the wind throws another smattering of rain towards them.

You skip into the living room, full of bashful giggles and muted squeals as Daddy fawns over you, awestricken as he murmurs about how beautiful his princess looks.

His princess.  

Naoya’s not quite sure what you’re supposed to be, nor does he care, tearing his gaze from your scantily clad form before his brain can even register what the costume is, before blood can rush to his cock, before he can witness the shy little smile on your lips and the pretty way your eyes glitter as you twirl for Daddy.

No, the only thing Naoya cares about is the fact that the dress of your costume is way too short to be considered decent, fluffy petticoat barely covering your ass, fanning out to reveal the edges of dainty pink lace clinging to the supple flesh of your ass as you twist and turn.

And he hasn’t a clue what you’re chattering on about, isn’t listening, can’t hear anything over the roar of blood rushing in his ears as he stands from his seat and stomps towards you, strong, callous voice cutting off your excited babbling as he glowers expectantly at his father.

“Jesus Christ, Daddy, you aren’t actually going to let her go out in that, are you?”

“Why?” you ask before your father can respond, genuinely confused, head tilting cutely. “What’s wrong with it?”

“What’s wrong with it?” he repeats incredulously, thick eyelashes fluttering as he blinks several times, eyebrows raising and huffing out a sarcastic laugh in disbelief. “Are you joking?”

Your head shakes slowly, a frown beginning to materialize on your lips as your eyebrows knit.

“It’s entirely inappropriate,” he scoffs, enunciating his words slowly, like you’re stupid.

You stare up at him cautiously, bottom lip jutting out in a pout so deep your chin puckers. “But nii-san, it’s Halloween—”

“Oh? And what are you going as, a slut?”

A little strangled gasp of Naoya-nii! hitches in your throat, your entire expression crumpling at his disapproval, hands running over the costume in an almost protective manner, smoothing it down.

“N-No, I’m—”

“I don’t care,” he hisses. “There’s no way you’re leaving the house in that—go change. Now.”

The direct order surprises you, shock saturating your features before resentment begins to bleed through. Blinking hard, you force the tears from your eyes, expression hardening and shoulders rolling back, spine straightening.

“No.”

“What did you just say to me?”

“Is there something wrong with your hearing? I said no,”

That sharp, self-assured smile drops from his face in an instant, face screwing up from such defiance, such disrespect. “Excuse me?”

Shivers skitter up your spine, tiny spikes of ice chasing them, but you refuse to back down, even though your voice is beginning to quiver.

“Y-You’re not Daddy! You don’t get to tell me what to do, I don’t care if you’re older!”

And just like that, the sharp smile is back, stretched abnormally wide across his lips—like it had been cut, carved, into his handsome face—uncanny and inhuman as his eyes glint with malevolence, words flowing from his mouth slowly, calmly, almost serenely, as he prowls towards you.

“You’re right—I’m not Daddy, because I would never let a woman speak to me the way he allows you to speak to him, you ungrateful little brat,”

A large hand, decorated with chunky, glittering gold rings, cuts through the air, striking you across the cheek with such force you stumble backwards from the impact, nearly tripping over your own feet only to have Daddy wrap a strong arm around your waist, catching you with ease and pulling you to his chest.

And it’s intense, so intense it kicks the breath right from your chest, barreling up your throat where you choke on it as it tangles with a sharp yelp. Hands fly to clutch your cheek immediately, throbbing thorns of pain shooting through the side of your face.

Daddy’s yelling, but it all sounds muddled, muffled, like your deep underwater and he’s shouting from above the surface, despite the fact that you’re clinging to him, pressed up so tightly against his side you can feel the vibrations of his voice in his body.

Naoya-nii isn’t saying anything, hand dropped limply to his side, pretty gold adorning his fingers coated in gleaming crimson. He isn’t even looking at Daddy—no, his gorgeous light eyes are focused on you, on the sticky scarlet leaking from the wounds his rings left when they collided with your cheek and the glistening tears shielding your eyes.

And for once, he has nothing to say, no sarcastic remarks or cynical little comments, voice evaporating in his throat as his chest burns, scathed with regret, remorse, repentance—all unwarranted, undeserved, unnecessary. Because—because you earned that slap for being so fucking disrespectful; you needed it, were practically begging him to put you back in your place, back where you belong: below him, behind him, and never beside him.

Because no matter how cute you are, how sweet and precious and good, none of it permits you to speak to him in such a manner, to act as though you’re equal.

So why has this inexplicable agony taken root at his core? Why does he feel like his heart is mutilating itself, tearing itself to shreds, with each of your pitiful little whimpers? Why does he feel the overwhelming urge to make it better, to make your pretty tears and precious sobs stop?

Inevitable anger surges through his veins—furious at you, for eliciting such bothersome emotions; furious at himself, for being so weak, so vulnerable, and allowing such pathetic sentiments to take over, to rob him of his control, of his autonomy.

And despite everything, all of his rage and loathing and confusion, his hand buzzes from it, from the sensation of touching your soft skin for the very first time, even in such a brutal and malicious manner, and instantly, he craves more.

    ✰          ✰          ✰

You don’t speak to him after that. You stop making his favourite meals, stop asking him about his day and then uninvitedly reciting your own in that cute, excited chatter that is so distinctly you, stop doing all of those extra little chores—washing his clothes and changing his sheets and scrubbing his bathroom until it sparkles. You put an end to everything.

And he fucking misses it.

He shouldn’t, but he does.

It’s painful to admit, but he can’t ignore it, notices your lack of presence almost immediately, that gaping void spreading, growing, as it roars in protest, claiming more and more of his body every day, like some sort of inky disease that only your presence seems to calm, to cure.

It fucking sucks. It fucking sucks, because he can’t stop it, regardless of how hard he tries, an impossible ailment he can’t void himself of. It fucking sucks, because you’re eating him up, consuming his very soul, devouring him from the inside out without even sparing him a goddamn glance—and you don’t even know it.

And it’s getting exhausting, putting up this front all the time, fighting against the intense feelings you swirl around in his chest, in his cock, without a hope, without a chance in hell. Fighting for nothing, because he knows he’ll never win. Fighting for nothing, because he isn’t sure he wants to anymore.

They’re unruly, voracious and rabid, tearing up his chest, his lungs and his heart and his throat, with sharp piercing claws and becoming increasingly difficult to overlook, to disregard.

Still, he’s too stubborn, too proud, to give in, to give up, even though the thing living inside him grows stronger every day, even though he knows that one day, it will overpower him.

    ✰          ✰          ✰

It’s windy—the estate quiet as the wind howls softly through the dense pines outside and ruffles them—the night it finally does, the night it takes over entirely, bursting through the barriers he keeps rebuilding and repairing around his soul and his sanity, writhing inside him when he hears soft sobs, muffled by the wood of your bedroom door, just past three in the morning.

It possesses him, like some sort of eternal spirit sinking deep into his bones and sewing itself into his soul, revoking his control over his body as a sudden, intense need to comfort you, to find out what’s wrong and make it all better, courses through his veins, entirely unaware of his actions as he pushes past the door and into your room.

“Naoya-nii?”

It’s the first time you’ve spoken to him, the first time you’ve even looked at him, since he struck you.

And he aches to apologize, I’m sorry’s and I shouldn’t have done that’s blistering his throat as they linger, just behind the back of his tongue.

But his pride outweighs them by a hair, despite how much his chest stings with the need to make things better, to make things right, for a reason unbeknownst to him. It’s just a sense—vague in meaning but strong in feeling—that longs for reconciliation, that’s desperate to rid your pretty face from the permanent scowl his presence etches into it.

That’s the first time he creeps into your room, the first time he loses his autonomy to the thing inside of him as he takes you into his arms and comforts you, the first time he allows you to cum from grinding on his cock.

Except it becomes a habit, an addiction, a nightly routine, cravings becoming stronger and stronger with each passing night. And for a brief span of time, it’s enough to appease the creature, the short nights spent with you in his arms, body trembling against his as you whimper out his name and his honorific, tangling on your tongue.

Because it feels right. It feels righter than anything in his life ever has, uncharacteristically gentle hands guiding your hips as they rock against his, soaked cunt gliding over the flannel of his pajama pants with ease as you huff out the prettiest little mewls into his neck.

It feels right only when he’s here with you, alone with you. Suddenly, it’s like everything makes sense again, like the world is in colour again, like the planet balanced again. He can no longer deny this feeling, this ache deep at the very pit of his soul that throbs and stings and burns mercilessly without your presence. You’re the only thing that can heal it, that can quell it, that can complete it.

So he gives in. It’s just for the nights, he promises himself, vows never to allow such sentiments to trickle into the daytime, to save it for when the sun sinks beneath the horizon, pledges never to permit these nightly escapades to advance from anything more than dry humping, nothing further than your cum on his fingers and your thighs stained with sticky cream.

But eventually, that isn’t enough, either.

And he was stupid to think it would be.

    ✰          ✰          ✰

The harsh slap of Testoni loafers against stone echoes out among the immaculately landscaped front yard, bouncing off thin tree trunks and being absorbed by tall, thick shrubs. Silver light, cast by the haloed moon hanging high in the clear navy sky, illuminates the garden, the foliage faded and washed out, painted by the moonbeams. Somewhere in the distance, the gentle trickle of water mingles with Naoya’s harsh breaths, cellphone gripped tightly in one fist as he paces back and forth like a rabid dog, small rocks popping under his feet.

It’s late. It’s too late—you were supposed to be home hours ago. Naoya’s tried calling—seven times, now, his phone buzzing in his palm to warn him of a low battery—but you haven’t picked up once. But that isn’t new, nor is it unusual; you rarely answer his calls while you’re out with Satoru.

So, really, this shouldn’t be cause for alarm. It shouldn’t.

Except he knows the man you’re out with, knows what you’re doing with him, and he can’t get it out of his fucking head, assaulted with fabricated images of you trapped under a large man with ivory hair and crystal eyes, back arching in ecstasy, his name leaving your lips in the prettiest gasps, in the way Naoya’s name leaves your lips during his habitual sneaking into your room in the middle of the night.

He’s terrified it’s going to drive him insane, eyes pricking and throat burning as his nose twitches with the threat of tears, eyelids shut so tightly his whole face scrunches up, tense and crumpled every time a new wave of contrived memories of you cumming all over that asshole’s cock crash over his mind.

Copper stings his tongue as sharp front teeth nibble at the raw cuticles surrounding his nailbed, face puckering at the taste and ripping his thumb, glistening with saliva, from his mouth.

This is pathetic, goddamn it! It shouldn’t even matter who you’re with and what you’re doing with them, shouldn’t be any of Naoya’s concern at all whether you’re safe or not, shouldn’t fucking hurt nearly as much as it does, a heavy ache that weighs on his chest more and more and more as each second ticks by, ribs caving in and splintering under the force, snapping into sharp spikes that puncture his lungs and make it painful to breathe.

“This is such a waste of fucking time, I don’t even—” he’s muttering to himself when you step out of Satoru’s car, his internal monologue beginning to leak from his head out his lips, your presence immediately cutting it off as his head snaps up, light eyes paler than normal, practically glowing in the moonlight.

A startled little whimper pries its way past your lips when you see him, stomping towards you with a heaving chest and a growl ripping from his throat.

“Where the fuck have you been?” he’s seething as a large hand seizes your arm, wrapping around your bicep and yanking, bring your face closer to his. “Huh? Do you know what fucking time it is?”

Frenzied eyes search your face, wild and erratic in their movements, sharply zeroing in on the tiny galaxies of swirling lilac and cobalt peppered with little pinpricks of scarlet that’ve been sucked into the flesh of your neck.

He chokes on something—a gasp or a snarl or a sob, maybe a mixture of all three, you aren’t entirely sure—pearly teeth gnashing together. “You’re a little slut,” he spits the word out like venom, harsh and biting as it whizzes past your cheek, slicing into your skin.

“That’s it, that’s all—that’s all you’re fucking good for,” his grip tightens with each word that flows from his mouth. “At least you’ve picked a rich man to sell your pussy to, at least you aren’t a total idiot, just like your mother, huh?”

“What is your problem?” little hands claw at the fingers latched around you, finally breaking free from him, ripping your limb from his grasp with such vigor you nearly fall on your ass, teetering backwards on unsteady feet. “You know, just because you can’t own up and face your feelings, doesn’t mean you get to take it out on me. This,” you gesture between the two of you. “Isn’t my fault.”

“This?” he spits, face screwing up in scorn. “There is no this,”

“Oh my God,” eyes rolling, you shake your head, exhaling a dubious laugh. “Shut up. There’s no one here—you can be real with me, I’m not gonna tell anyone,” you snark, arms crossing over your chest as you level your gaze with him.

He glares back at you, sharp jaw rhythmically clenching and unclenching with the grinding of his molars, large hands balled into tight, trembling fists on either side of his body.

“You know there’s something here, between us, within us, even if you refuse to admit it,” you continue after a beat of silence, voice softening.

His whole form is beginning to quiver and he jerkily shakes his head, exhaling harshly. You think he may be crying, but in the faint moonlight it’s hard to be sure.

Holding your wrist up, you swallow thickly, glancing at those little bumps embedded in your skin, watching the tiny shadows that form when your arm twists. “I have your sign,” your voice is quiet as you look back at him, flashing the inside of your wrist to him. “And I know you have mine,”

A cynical smirk spreads across his lips, but it looks more like a grimace, like a flimsy mask desperately attempting to cover something else, tongue tutting in disbelief. “Yeah, and there’s millions of people in this world with any given sign. It’s all bullshit—it could be anyone,”

“It could be anyone,” you agree, nodding. “But it isn’t.”

“You don’t know that!”

“I do! I know you feel it too! Christ, why are you so—so adamant on denying this, even when it’s just the two of us? What’s the point?”

“You’re my fucking sister, that’s the point. This is inappropriate, it’s wrong,”

“If it’s so wrong, then why do you sneak into my bedroom every night? Why do you let me cum on your fingers? Why do you fuck my thighs?” your footsteps speed up, jogging a little to catch up to him. “Huh? Huh? No answer? Or do you know the answer, and you’re too afraid to say it?”

“I don’t know!” he explodes, whirling around on you and trapping you against the brick, palms laid flat against the wall. “Alright? I don’t fucking know why I do those things. They make me feel sick afterwards, but I…”

But I can’t stop.

But I need you.

But I love you.

Chests heave with harsh exhales that mingle and echo in the garden, your eyes studying his face intently, in a way that makes him feel naked, exposed, makes him want to turn and hide from you.

“I’m not asking—” you start, words catching in your throat and blinking hard to clear rapidly welling tears from your eyes. Your voice is softer, more fragile and weak, when you speak again. “You don’t have to marry me, for Christ’s sake. I just—I just want you to—I need to know you feel it too,”

“Why?” he hisses, acidic envy bubbling in his chest, beginning to erode his resolve, walls crumbling to rubble. “What is there to know? You already have him,”

“But I’d rather have you,” the words materialize on your tongue before you even know what you’re saying, earnest eyes boring into his.

“God, don’t—” eyelids shut tightly, lithe fingers tangling in blonde hair and tugging. “Don’t say shit like that,”

He can feel them, those three little words thrashing in his chest, desperate to claw up his throat and spill from his lips, but he grits his teeth and swallows them back down, letters lodging and forming a painful lump.

And you notice. You notice, because you’ve studied him extensively, have learned to read him—his mannerisms, expressions, behaviours—well.

And you’ve just found his weakness.

“Do you want to know what I think of when he fucks me?” you ask, eyes searching his face in an almost frenzied manner, breath accelerating as you quickly push the words from your lips, worried if you don’t speak fast enough, if you don’t vocalize these sentiments now, you’ll lose him again. “It’s you. It’s always you. I’ve tried—I’ve tried to think of someone else, of anyone else, but you just…you just won’t leave my brain! It’s like a—a sickness, or something. Like a chronic illness, and it’s only getting worse,”

A strangled growl rattles in his chest as he tears himself away from you, fists violently rubbing at his eyes.

He knows. He knows, because he’s tried the same thing, attempted to desperately forget you, to disintegrate the weird feelings you endlessly evoke in his chest by losing himself in women night after night, often multiple women at once, drowning himself in their moans and gasps and soft bodies to no avail.

“There’s no cure,”

He doesn’t even mean to say it, words slipping from his lips unconsciously as he gets tangled in his thoughts, flipping through the countless memories of faceless women of all shapes and sizes, faceless woman that somehow always mange to morph into you.

“No,” you respond, shaking your head. “There isn’t. But at least I’m trying!”

He spins around, gleaming eyes flashing, brimming with bewilderment, features falling in surprise for just a moment before they harden again, varnished in offense.

“What’re you talking about,” he seethes, eyebrows furrowing deeply as his eyes narrow into sharp slits, scrutinizing, analyzing, dissecting.

“I-I’d rather have you, yes, and he’ll—no one will ever compare, will ever even come close to how much I—” you cut yourself off, swallowing the thought, then clearing your throat and beginning again. “At least I’m trying to find someone, though. At least I’m trying to find just a shred of what I feel for you, instead of sitting around feeling sorry for myself, alone and miserable,”

“Oh,” he laughs humorlessly, a callous little sound that viciously tears from his chest, that scrapes his throat and comes out strangled, full of incredulity. “You don’t think I’ve tried? You don’t think I’ve tried endlessly to forget you? To cleanse you from my mind? To move the fuck on from something that had never begun in the first place? You’ve imprinted yourself in the tissues of my fucking brain in a matter of months. It’s tiring. It’s hopeless,”

His voice breaks on the last word, some of the merciless heat fading from his features as he glares at you, eyes almost pleading for you to understand.

Because you’re the only one that can.

You’ve been in this together the entire time, right from the start, from the moment you walked through that front door.

And he’s been resisting it, fighting against it, against himself, all while the current only becomes stronger, only continues to grow in strength and size, and he’s motherfucking exhausted at this point, sick of battling some invisible force he was convinced didn’t even exist, sick of waging a war he will forever be destined to lose.

You’ve broken that wall, shattered it to dust, destroyed all of his weapons of defense and robbed him of his sovereignty, and now it’s all pouring form his mouth, an endless, uncontrollable stream of confessions, of thoughts and desires, of agony and misery.

“But it doesn’t even fucking matter, because I love you. I love you and I fucking hate you for it. And I’ve been trying, alright? I’ve tried not to, I’ve tried every single trick in the fucking book to stop it, to get over you, to forget you—and none of it has ever fucking worked, not even for a second. I don’t want you; I—I don’t want to be, but I’m in love with you,”

It looks as though your breathing has ceased, chest halting in its rapid movements, body gone still, static, stagnant. Your silence is deafening, has his ears ringing and his heart pounding, thrashing against his ribs as it aimlessly attempts to crawl through the cage, to present itself to you, bloody and beating and all yours. It’s all yours—take it, kill it, end its suffering.

“And there’s nothing—”

Surging forward, your lips crash into his, body following as it smacks against his own, effectively cutting him off. Naoya freezes, eyes wide and breathing stopped, entire body turned to ice, rigid and tense, but you are not deterred, arms winding around his neck as fingers thread through the gold and ink at the base of his skull.

“I love you, too,” you mumble into the kiss, refusing to break contact for even a second, lips brushing his as you speak. “I love you so much,”

The confession—an admission he already knew, deep down in his very bones, an admission he can no longer ignore, now that you’ve said it—snaps him out of his trance, and something switches, something breaks. Because then he’s kissing you back, tongue forcing its way through your lips to assault your own as calloused hands find purchase on your hips, squeezing your flesh hard enough that you yelp.

He chuckles against your lips, and then he’s pushing forward, forcing you to walk backwards, too fast for you to keep up, his legs longer than yours, body bigger than yours, stronger than yours.

Even with all of his shoving, you still aren’t moving quick enough for him, clumsy and stumbling over your own feet, whimpering hushed apologies into his mouth, a response to the growls that rumble in his chest each time you trip, your pitiful little sorry!’s consistently being cut off by his tongue.

Large hands hoist you up without breaking the kiss, mouth still attempting to devour you whole, to suck up your very soul, and your legs automatically wrap around his waist, latching onto him.

Either of your bedrooms are too far, and he can’t take it, he can’t wait—not with the way your fingers are tangling in his shirt and tugging, the way needy little whines are hitching in your throat, the way you’re squirming in his grasp, trying to grind against his half-hard cock.

You’re fucking desperate, but so is he, thigh whacking off the edge of the wooden coffee table as he blindly staggers towards the kitchen, tongue hungrily dragging against yours while he does so.

The cold marble stings your skin as he deposits you onto the nearest countertop, hips wedged between your thighs keeping them spread.

Little fingers immediately go for his belt, nonsensical whimpers sounding in the back of your throat as you fumble and struggle, hooking your fingers through his beltloops and pulling.

“Eager girl,” he chastises, a little breathless as nimble fingers find the soaked lace at the apex of your thighs, pushing it to the side. “Nii-san has to prep you first,”

“No,” you whine, pitched high and much too loud. “M’wet enough. Want you, want you now, nii-san, please, just give it to me, been waiting so long, please,”

The words are slurred together as they tumble from your lips, infused with a potent lust that casts a dense haze over your mind, rendering you capable of only focusing on what you need.

Light eyes dart up, holding yours through fanned lashes for a moment, as if they’re searching for any hesitancy, before his lips form the most genuine smile he’s ever given you.

“Yeah?” he huffs out, finally breaking your stare to watch his hands undo his belt, continuing to speak as he shoves his jeans down his thighs and frees his cock. “You think you can take it?”

“Yes, nii-san,” you nearly mewl, gazing at him with blown, glazed eyes and a cute pout. “Please, give it to me, I-I want it, please,”

His gaze finally flicks up, that sincere smile stretched wider across his face, a playful glint in his eye, voice void of any of its usual derision. “You want what? Hmm, baby? Come on, nii-san wants to hear you say it,”

A low whimper leaves your throat and you shift on the countertop, as if trying to wiggle closer to him. “Your cock, nii-san, want your cock, please-please-please, gimme-gimme-gimme,”

It sounds as though you’re close to tears, voice cracking and thick with desire, Naoya’s cock twitching in his palm in response to the sound, and, God, he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to that, absolutely adores it when you beg, thinks you sound so pretty when you’re pleading for him.

“You’re a greedy little girl, you know that?” he pants while he pushes in, a muffled yelp prying past your lips. “Shh, hush now, nii-san will give you what you need,”

The stretch is incredible, cute little cunt throbbing around his thick cock as it struggles to adjust to the sudden intrusion, feeling as though he’s going to tear you into two, leaving stinging micro-fissures in the delicate flesh.

Yet despite the burn, the ache that settles deep in your core, that feels like he’s splitting you in half, a satisfied moan leaves your lips, head falling forward and resting against his broad shoulder, fingers curling in the cotton that adorns his torso and pulling him closer, closer, closer.

Because, finally, you feel whole, more whole than you’ve ever felt in your entire life, satisfying an inexplicable desire buried at the crux of your very soul, something you didn’t even realize you were missing until you finally had it.

“S’not enough,” you mumble into him, nuzzling your face against him like a cat. “Need more, nii-san, need more,”

“You really are a selfish little fucking brat,” he grunts as fingers flex on your hips, tips digging into the pliant flesh and gripping, singeing his name into your skin in rapidly blossoming indigo and ultramarine.

“Nii-san was going to try and be nice,” the words, strained and husky, spill from plush lips as his hips begin to thrust, slow and hard, winding back as they draw the force to ram forward, slamming a cry from your chest as his cockhead pounds against your cervix. “But you’re too impatient for that, aren’t you?”

It’s a fucking lie; his self-control had been hanging by a thread, barely restraining the primal need to wildly buck into you, but you just snapped it, just tore the last of his treasured discipline to fucking shreds with nothing more than a few words.

The pace is ruthless, your head bouncing off the cabinets with each powerful snap of his hips, an endless stream of cries pouring from your lips, one hand curling around the edge of the counter as the other grips his shoulder, nails burying themselves in the hard muscle through the thin cotton of his shirt. Sharp bones carve a spot just for him, made for him, between your legs, into the tender flesh of your inner thighs.

“You’re mine, you hear me?” he pants out, eyes so bright they’re practically glowing. “Mine.”

“Yours!” you gasp out, head nodding in sloppy little movements against his shoulder as you fall forward, wrapping your arms around him and squeezing. “Yours, yours, yours,”

Everything feels hazy, almost dreamlike in a sense, vision blurring over with a thick shield of tears that you can’t quite explain, his name and the honorific becoming muddled on your tongue, fusing into one as you wail it out, clinging to him in a way that’s almost possessive.

“Nii-san’s here,” he promises you, voice hoarse. “Nii-san’s yours, too,”

“Mine,” the arms thrown around his neck tighten, fingers tangling in soft gold and wrinkled cotton. “Mine, mine, mine—”

“Mine,” he echoes, hips never faltering even as you wind your body around his, large hands keeping your hips still as he fucks into you. “And only mine—”  

“Forever and ever and ever—”

“You belong to me, were made for me, put on this earth for me,”

Words of confirmation are escaping from your lips, you’re absolutely sure of it, can feel them vibrating up your throat as you speak them—but it’s so much, too much, all of the feelings swirling around in your chest, sending spikes of pleasure and thorns of pain shooting through your veins as they clash together. A sudden wooziness settles over you, brain fogging over as he becomes the only thing you can think of, the only thing you want to think of, nonsensical babbling still slipping from between parted lips in hitched puffs of breath.

“So full,” you nearly sob, one of Naoya’s hands tangling in the hair at the back of your skull and yanking, pulling your face from the sanctuary of his neck and exposing your expressions to his scrutinizing eyes, devouring the beautiful tears streaking your cheeks, the contorting of your features as pleasure washes over them. “M’so full, nii-san, it’s so much,”

“Yeah? Better than he could ever stuff you?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” you’re wailing out, affirmations falling from your lips with each brutal piston of his hips. “More, need more,”

Because it’s like an addiction, an innate need for more of him, for all of him, ravenous and unquenchable, that’s always existed within you, that his cock stretching you out, filling you up, has only just awakened.

His aura is positively intoxicating, overwhelming your senses and becoming all you can see, all you can hear, all you can smell, taste, touch. His taste lingers on your tongue, faint notes of minty pine and sharp nicotine dancing with your tastebuds; his touch brands itself into you, bruises and bitemarks carving his name into soft skin; his scent assaults you, envelops you, overpowers everything else as it wraps you in a shackled embrace of expensive aftershave and cedar wood.

A growl tears from his chest, so rough that it vibrates throughout his entire body, and his pace quickens, cock plunging into you and an incredible speed, dragging against that one spot that has you nearly screaming, that has your eyes rolling back and your little hole fluttering around him as a blistering fire sparks to life in the pit of your belly.

You can feel it, furling in on itself with each vicious rut of his hips, each relentless bang of his cockhead against your cervix, a concentrated ball of scathing heat pulsing, quaking in your stomach as it curls tighter and tighter and tighter with each plunge forward—until it bursts, a fiery explosion that buzzes through your veins as your cunt clenches, gushing on his cock as he praises you—yeah, that’s it, make a mess on nii-san—entire body coiling from the sheer strength.

“Tell me,” he keens almost desperately, voice pulling you from the clutches of post-orgasm unconsciousness, hips stuttering for a moment before he regains his finesse. “Tell me how badly you need it,”

And you don’t need to be told what, pleads pouring from your mouth in an instant, before your brain can even comprehend what you’re saying, an instinctual reaction to his command. “Need your cum, nii-san, need you to full me up, fill my tummy with it, stuff me full of it, need it so bad, nii-san, please gimme your cum, please, please,”

The words are all jumbled together, thick with tears and wet with saliva and imbued with delirium, quivering and breaking as your body trembles from overstimulation.

“Fuck,” he chokes on the curse, hips stilling, pressed flush against your ass as his cock throbs, filling you with spurt after spurt of thick cum, a broken whine catching in his throat as endless words spill from yours, peppered with the sweetest moans—yes, nii-san, thank you, nii-san, fill me up, fill my body with it, my brain with it, I need it, I need it.

And he does, pumps you full of so much that it begins leaking out from your abused little hole—still stuffed with him—and down his cock.

And it’s then—after he has filled you up, with your precious little cunt still pulsing around his length, whimpering out his honorific as you hold onto him, voice raw and wrecked and cracking with residual tears—then that Naoya’s sure you were meant for him, made for him, perfectly tailored to him; he knows you were, his very own gift from the gods.