#but the actions he takes to do what he thinks is right can verge on tyranny | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

kithtaehyung · 3 months ago

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minted: two (explicit) | myg

title: minted: two (explicit) pairing: street king!yoongi x street vendor!reader series: one | masterlist rating/genre: m (18+) ; angst , action ; haegeum au , gang au summary: after a whirlwind of a detour, you have second and third thoughts about the guy you saved. who even is this man? and what the hell is in that bag? note: holy shit, y’all. thank you so much for the love on this series already! it’s been a minute since we started a new series here, so nerves were firing on all cylinders. but you all showed out and gave me enormous relief and motivation to keep going, so thank you! note 2: as always, this is dedicated to hali @sailoryooons for ur belated bday, nary @joonary for being a cutie pie and letting me adopt the tangerine cart girl idea in general, and luce @minttangerines for ur url and for being a wonderful friend. love you all! warnings: language, violence, weapons (guns), blood/wounds mentions, drugs, alcohol, trauma/pstd, poor reader :(((, but also YES READER???, tension to the max, inner turmoil, mint!yoongi, haegeum!yoongi, tatted!yoongi, his eyebrow is pierced, yoongi visuals in this one areeee… a ha ha, did i mention tension?, tense situations, crass af yoongi lol, reader is also a baddie but who is shocked, slow burnnnn drop date: september 30th, 2024, 9:03pm est word count: 9.8k help me @ god

There’s something to be said about the human gut.

Not for being the source of multiple health aspects, nor the way it’s connected to the brain.

But, other than when violence tears it to shreds, it can be quite the defense mechanism. Just like yours churns and churns with each mechanical click of the elevator shaft.

Who is this person next to you?

Who exactly did you decide to follow upstairs hours ago, killing your daily life to save and join on the run?

You don’t know if you release your hand or if Yoongi lets it fall, but you take this unlinking to create space. As you slide your gaze toward your companion, he merely shifts his weight and finds interest in increasing, beeping numbers.

How can someone’s profile be so troublingly handsome? You’d be able to think more clearly if he wasn’t both attractive and dangerous. Or if you simply weren’t on the verge of collapse.

Frankly, if you didn’t just murder a man you’d pass out as soon as you took too long to blink.

To keep yourself alert—and to hopefully gather some much needed intel—you suddenly question aloud, “Where are we?”

No answer.

Alright.

“That driver called you Agust,” you recap on a second go. “What was that about?”

All Yoongi does is stare at his reflection in opulent, dim mirrored walls. Or whatever else he’s doing besides talking.

Okay. Well.

You can face forward, too.

“Those guys after us,” you try a third time, because who are you to give up now even if he radiates annoyance. “They didn’t look like Crane.”

“Doesn’t mean they weren’t.”

Your neck almost snaps when you turn. “Are you kidding me?”

As you watch Yoongi scorn the ceiling again, you can’t believe he doesn’t agree.

Mm. Does he?

From the flex of his jaw, you have to assume you’re right to some degree. Because it looks like he’s very, very bothered by the people that chased you down.

If those weren’t any of the high-powers but had equal resources and numbers…

What the hell were they? Where did they even come from?

Geez, it’s freezing. Is a drop in temperature the best barrier to you making sense of things? You can’t even appreciate the way Yoongi’s veins protrude with every adjustment he makes to that mysterious duffle bag.

Lies. You absolutely can. But there’s no way in hell you’re ever complimenting that. Or anything about him anymore because he clearly doesn’t want anything to do with you!

Why did he even hold your hand? Was that just a ploy, too?

But that taxi drive…

Yoongi looks down before lightly scuffing his shoe, and both of you fall silent as you finally give up with a huff.

Massively dehydrated. Sore. Still covered in a myriad of unmentionables and now being ignored by the guy you saved.

All you wanna do is go home, and you don’t even know where that is.

How far did you travel? What district is this? You’ve never heard of a grey zone, but they seem fairly peaceful even at night. Neutral enough for you to consider relocating even if it meant sleeping on the street.

That brings up another question. “If we’re in a grey zone, how did you know—”

A ding interrupts your last thought, and you look to see where you ended up.

But the elevator doesn’t say a number. Only letters? What kinda floor did you stop on?

One thing’s for sure, though. Whatever room you end up getting, if there’s only one bed you’re hogging it or taking the…

Floor…

There are many things that have shocked you in your lifetime. Many things just from today that had your head positively and forever reeling.

But when the elevator doors slide open, you can’t even fathom what the fuck you’re dealing with.

And in this second, more than ever, you understand how ludicrously out of your element you really are.

“Holy shit,” you blurt, barely hearing the huff at your side.

Don’t elevators usually open up to hallways? Why are you walking into an entire living space? Is this a real place people choose to sleep in for a night? A whole floor?

Forget a whole floor, it’s a whole other place.

You slowly survey everything, wondering how much this has to be because you have never seen a living space so big. Or pretty. Or anything like this.

The ceilings vault and the furniture looks nothing like you’ve ever seen. Everything looks pristine. Clean. Is that a whole kitchen?

How are there living arrangements this big? This one place is bigger than your entire apartment level back home.

And here you are: speechless, virtually homeless, and dragging your filth onto white marble floors.

Perfect.

“What.”

You turn at the scrape of Yoongi’s voice, wondering why now is when he finally chooses to acknowledge you. Head pounding, you ask outright, “Who… Who even are you? What is this place?”

He levels your stare before walking towards a long couch, dumping the duffle and raking his hair back in minted waves. “There’s a shower in every bedroom. Take your pick.”

…Is that really his only response?

“That’s not what I asked,” you fire back, wondering what the hell his problem is so you can add more out of spite.

“But it’s what you need.”

“Say what now?”

The fucking nerve? Even though you obviously, desperately need one, hearing him mention it makes you wanna re-use the chopsticks in your pocket.

But Yoongi simply waves you off, grabbing a remote and flicking on a television so wide you would struggle to reach both ends.

This is all too much.

“You know what I need? To go home,” you huff out, leaving fire in your determined trek to the elevator. “Have a nice life, Yoongi. Or Agust. Whoever the fuck you are.”

You get to the door and run into a dirt-slicked forearm. “The fuck are you doing?”

“Shouldn’t be that hard to figure out.”

“You serious?”

“Yes, I am. So move.”

Yoongi pauses, jaw working overtime before he steps aside—wait he’s gonna let you go that easily?

…Oh.

That was certainly not what you expected, but what else would you even think? This isn’t one of those stories that ends perfectly after trials and tribulations. Yoongi has proven more than once—in mere hours—that he’s no regular civilian.

But despite that, you blink before freezing at a terrible realization.

No matter how you slice it, you’re much better off with him right now than you are by yourself. Even if he is a secretive criminal with a smoking gun.

He did keep you alive that whole chase.

But there’s the smallest, tiniest chance that you aren’t quite safe with him, either. You don’t even know who this man is anymore—maybe you never did.

So in a quick decision, you skim his side to slap the elevator button, chucking daggers at his brows until he leaves you to wait alone.

Good. You don’t need this. You can find your way back to your city block somehow and live the life you’ve chosen to lead again.

Yes. You can do all of that by yourself. The chase is done.

And so is your story with the man that will never buy your tangerines again.

Grabbing your sleeve, a second fact stings your fingers. A jacket woven in Dragon teal.

Shit. You need to ditch this, too. Either right now, or before you get the hell out of this grey zone because if you don’t, this is the biggest target you could ever have on your back.

No good. No good no good you didn’t plan any of this well at all. Fucking pride blinding you to everything else logical. Is this how your story ends? Because of regret and resistance?

You wait for the sliding doors, about to leave the biggest room you’ll ever see to occupy a box. How poetic.

Your heart pounds as you close your eyes. Yoongi just cut you loose; it’s obvious he doesn’t care so why should you? No going back now. You’ll figure it out. The doors are finally opening.

And someone’s inside?

Wait.

Your brain both whirrs and skids to a halt at the sight of the staff member occupying the elevator. When they give you a look, you find your hand drifting towards your back pocket.

Fucking hell, relax. You should be safe with a staff member, right? They wouldn’t be out to kill you. This is just your adrenaline on its haunches.

However, one foot in the elevator and your senses go haywire.

Because you can’t do this alone. You aren’t nearly as prepared to brave this foreign space as you need to be. With red in your hands and Dragon on your back? Absolutely not.

You bow to the hotel staff before you face forward into the expanse.

And as the doors start to close, you see Yoongi’s stare over his shoulder, storming with emotions you can’t name.

Yeah, you fucked up.

Fuck.

Fuck you actually made a big mistake go back don’t let the elevator close shit—

As you lunge for the door, you get your arm through to block it from closing, turning to the employee inside and seeing their expression change.

What was that about?

“Sorry,” you blurt to their pressed and polished grey uniform. “I forgot something inside.”

“I can wait, Miss,” they immediately offer, to which you politely and cautiously decline.

“No need.” When you step out of the elevator, something happens that you think about hours and hours later. “I’ll come down when I’m ready, thank you.”

You can suddenly breathe again. Why was it so stuffy in there?

The worker bows stiff. “As you wish.”

Without pause, you nod, waiting until the doors close to face someone turned away.

Ugh. It’s like Yoongi knew you weren’t gonna leave. Either that, or he really didn’t give a crap about what you did at all.

Either way, fuck this guy and fuck your indecisive ass!

In full aggravation, you march through the entrance before grating out, “You’re lucky I—”

“Shower.”

“What?”

“The blood,” he calmly breathes. “If you’re gonna hit the streets, wash it out.”

“It isn’t mine.”

“I know.”

Your mouth snaps shut.

Fuck. Yoongi’s right.

“Okay. Well,” you scoff, “Good point but how can I trust you to not do anything.”

When he tilts his head with a bored, unamused, borderline ticked off expression, you almost scoff before he drawls,

“Not interested.”

Oh. He’s…

Oh.

But the taxi and the hand-holding and the the the kiss what the hell? Was your liplock not up to this Dragon’s standards? Why are you questioning something so trivial?

The nerve. You plunge your shoulders in exasperation, hating how you chose to put yourself in another situation with this pain in the ass and he isn’t even… “I swear to—You know what? Good. Not interested, either.”

A lie.

Scrambling, your stomach speaks the next sentence for you, “But there better be food when I come out cus you robbed me of lunch today. So do something about that.”

Fucking hell you do not need his lips to quirk up so deliciously. That one look completely offsets what he just said and annoyingly tickles your core.

Stop. Focus. You cannot entertain any of those thoughts so ignore him and find a bedroom.

Opening the first door you can see, you continue your tirade, “And no more stealing my chopsticks.”

“Closet.”

Of course it’s a closet! Shutting it with force, you let out a high curse. “Who needs a closet here? Whatever, just—figure it out, I’m starving.”

“Yes, princess.”

You flick Yoongi off as you blaze down the hall, not even knowing nor caring if he sees or not.

The next door works, and you shut him out before falling back onto its weight, so fraught with emotion that you can’t even register the appearance of the room.

Today has aged you multiple years. So much has transpired ever since this afternoon that you can’t even think in straight nor curved lines. As soon as you remember something, another thought juts between. Why are you simultaneously thinking about dingy, stained floors while agonizing over Yoongi’s lips? Is there a place other than hell or heaven you can settle on?

As soon as you’re physically and mentally patched, you are out of here.

The plan is simple. Shower, eat, give this man a piece of your manic mind, then go home.

Although… It would be nice to at least know what’s in that duffle. If it’s something worth taking you could finesse a piece of the loot.

Swallowing dry, you push yourself off the door and finally notice a flood of ambient light.

At your side, you come across an expansive bathroom, eyeing the wall-to-wall entrance before taking in the center shower with disdain and awe.

The whole setup is lavish.

Does the water just fall straight from the ceiling and into that large square tub? This looks nothing like your cramped, chipped one back home. There’s even lush plants lining the area and towels already folded nearby for use.

Maybe you did get killed on the run and you’re in some type of dreamworld.

Too bad you aren’t alone.

As you drag tired feet onto heated tile, you search for the shower knobs, realizing you have a whole panel to work with instead.

Uhh.

What.

You quickly find that one button blows water like a hose straight from the top, scaring you so bad you jump. When you hastily try another, something whirrs in the floor that has your brows kissing—

“You good?”

Fuck!

You flinch and hit the wall, groaning when you see Yoongi lazily resting against one side of the bathroom entrance. Both of your voices echo in the extravagant interior.

“You ever knock?”

“No.”

“Shocker.”

He walks up the tiny steps, and you’re more than relieved you’re still wearing his jacket. When he gets closer, you turn and face the panel, “I can figure it out.”

“Move.”

You get slightly displaced as he gets close, resting a hand on the wall while bending to operate the buttons. As you inhale his musk, you respond to his second question instead of his first. “What?”

“Is this fine,” he repeats, checking the settings before turning to the shower area.

Oh. Wow. It’s a lot more than fine.

A circle of rain falls into a beautifully lighted tub, steam wafting through the glow and coating your skin.

You’re so entranced that you are quite literally left speechless. Skirting around your present company, you gaze up, down, silently observing the plants sway with the shower air.

Strangely, this whole bathroom makes everything you’ve seen today believable because of the sheer wonder of it all. It’s almost enough to make you forget what you’ve done.

Almost.

When you pause, you see Yoongi watching your face from beyond the rainfall. And he looks so handsome, even now, not doing a thing.

Is it because he’s clearly roughed up but still so poised? Very unlike you in your banged up, dirty state?

Huffing, you fold your arms a little too harshly—out of jealousy or whatever else, who is to say. “I’m good now,” you proclaim, keeping your walls high. “I can do the rest myself.”

Again with that little slant.

Ignore him ignore him. If Yoongi keeps doing that, you’re really gonna have to brave the outside world instead of dying by smirk. A tub has never been so interesting in your life.

“Suit yourself.”

You look up again.

But he’s already left you alone.

Solely to undress and contemplate what the hell he implied by that.

Why did you walk left today instead of right?

Under scorching rain in the middle of luxury, this is the question you repeat in your head. Watching all the burnt streams of your decision swirl, and swirl, and swirl.

The blood will never wash out.

Does the price of saving a life have to be this high? It must be somewhat divine, being that in order to save, you took. If only there was another way to achieve that end goal. Though there’s no way to do it all over again to be sure.

Staring at four chopsticks on the ground, you try to assure yourself. You need to.

Because at least you succeeded.

But will your price be more damning because of the one you saved?

Rushing water mutes your hearing as it pours onto sore limbs. When you reach for the scrub for a third time, you make sure to really dig, scraping at every. Single. Inch. In a last attempt to cleanse yourself completely.

Knowing that even after the water runs clear, you still see nothing but red.

You chose left today.

If you had chosen right…

Doesn’t matter.

Your palm tingles.

Blood never really washes out.

Holy fuck, you don’t have clothes to change into.

Wrapping yourself in plush material, you hastily pad around freezing floors as you think of a plan.

You can’t just ask for them. How would Yoongi even have any for you? The jacket was more than enough borrowing for today and you’re in a hotel room, not his place.

Thank the universe.

But the matter is pretty urgent. Because you’d rather burn your belongings before putting them on again. Which leaves zero clothing and a thousand issues. Fuck.

Dragging feet to the massive sliding doors, you steel your resolve. Hoist your shields back upright.

Because there’s no choice. You’re just gonna have to dread another conversation with this man. An embarrassing, awkward, unprecedented shit why is he in the bedroom!

You flinch backward as you slam the door closed. Peeking out, you gawk, “What the hell are you—?”

Did Yoongi just pocket a phone?

The duffle rests at his feet.

Wait. Did he stay in here while you showered? Thank god you had the foresight to slide all the doors shut because you definitely spent a lot of your time scrubbing like mad or standing completely still.

No. Yoongi’s hair is wet, so he did shower at some point. And he’s donning a robe, which is precisely what made you slam the door shut.

How can he look like royalty wearing that? The material is quite lush and silken, but still plain. It makes no fucking sense and you wanna rip it right off—

Gathering yourself, you rush out, “Why are you in here?”

“You took too long.”

“So? That doesn’t—”

“In my shower.”

Wait. What? “Oh.”

You slide the door open a little more to check his claim. And now that you finally see the room, you can tell it’s clearly been used already, clothes and bottles scattered about. “You said pick one.”

“I did.” Yoongi turns to drop something onto a dark comforter. “Figured you picked it on purpose.”

“No, I… I didn’t notice the room.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he says after a brief look your way. “Not sharing the bed, though.”

“No need,” you snip. “I’m leaving soon.”

Motherfucker. Yoongi only regards his sheets with a smile that triggers your fight response. And you almost—almost—drop the towel.

Speaking of. How are you even standing in his vicinity with only a single piece of cloth? Are you seriously that exhausted you didn’t even think twice about it?

Suddenly very, very aware of yourself, you squeak, “Umm.” He waits. “I don’t have any clothes.”

“That’s what you get for kicking me out so quick.”

Your jaw hits the floor. “So what, I’m walking around with a towel? Are you out of your mind? If you think I’m some—”

“Fuck, relax,” he slowly groans to the ceiling. “I was gonna say there’s robes in the closet.”

You snap your mouth closed so hard it jangles. “Then just say that!” And you slam the partition closed before fast walking to find them.

Missing the way Yoongi huffs before staring hard at his bedroom door.

On your second arrival into his room, your steps and demeanor are a lot calmer.

Is it because he’s a lot calmer, too? Maybe. Is it also because you smell food, realizing he did exactly what you wanted? Maybe more so.

Noticing a table situated near balcony doors, you blink before regarding Yoongi’s sitting form on one of the chairs outside.

A man lounging while smoking in a robe should not be this alluring. And yet, that’s the only word you can think of to describe him.

Throat drying and aching, you slowly walk over and take a seat, already ravenous enough to dive into broth head first. But you eye Yoongi while retrieving new chopsticks, scowling when all he does is flash teeth through the glass.

Do not engage do not engage do not engage.

Pretending not to care and severely failing, you focus on your—

“You’re really mad about that, huh.”

You snap your head up to see him leaning on the doorway. “I was hungry.”

“There was a cup of them on your table.”

“So why didn’t you grab those instead!”

Yoongi ticks his brows before peering into the night. And he stays like that for awhile, letting a breeze lift his damp locks. “Didn’t expect to see you there,” he admits. “Gotta say you threw me off.”

Nu uh. No more heart skips for today. “I didn’t expect to see you, either,” you too choose to be honest. “Thought I’d never see you again.”

“You were going to.”

As curious brows furrow, you break your utensils apart. “Figured something happened.” Guess you’re being honest about a lot of things. “Or you found another tangerine girl.”

Yoongi holds his look before taking a drag, smoke spiraling around his words, “Why were you even over there? You’re a bit far from Crane.”

You blink at his deflection.

What was that about? What is that look for?

Holding his gaze because you aren’t done challenging him, you calmly answer, “I was shopping.”

“Shopping.”

“Mmhmm.”

Falling silent, he observes a little longer before flicking ash off his cigarette.

And just like that, the conversation dies.

It’s for the best anyways. If Yoongi kept prying, he was gonna get closer to the truth. And you wanna slip around that as much as possible.

But he keeps standing in the doorway, inked arm bending as he breathes in smoke. Donned in a dark robe and topped in teal, he suits Dragon perfectly. Way too perfectly.

Pretending not to care and severely failing, you focus on your noodles instead.

Your noodles.

You’re not hungry anymore.

Something horrid jams up your throat, and you run through your day in flashes. The restaurant. The food. Dragons. The chopsticks. The kill. The chase. Yoongi. The kill the kill the kill.

Dirt and shouts and lifeless lips clog your hearing, and your grip loosens completely as your vision shakes and shakes why couldn’t Yoongi have gotten anything else why does it have to be—

A hand.

A robed arm.

Your new utensils come back into view.

But when you face reality, you don’t see them put them back into your hand. You don’t even see them dug in your noodles and left there.

Instead, you watch as Yoongi plants one palm on the table, slowly lifting strands from the bowl and staring right into your eyes,

“Eat.”

Words. Get them out. Something something communication. Key is communication. What the fuck is happening to your brain?

“I can’t,” you finally croak out. “I’m not.. I’m not hungry.”

“You are.”

“Not anymore.”

Nose scrunching, Yoongi suddenly drops the food and dumps himself on the chair nearest, stretching his leg and revealing a littering of scars. “Didn’t know you were fine with wasting food.”

The icy descent of his tone freezes your bones.

“Thought you of all people would hate that.”

“I—I’m not—It’s not that—”

“Then eat.”

“I literally can’t—”

“Water. Food. If you’re gonna waste all my shit, then leave.”

“What?”

Is he serious? You’re in the midst of post-traumatic shock and he can’t take the hint? You’re so appalled by this man that you can’t even think straight.

“You heard me. Stop acting like you didn’t.”

“Oh, I heard you,” you snap. “Just double-checking what the fuck you said.”

“So you gonna leave or just sit there? If you’re staying I’ll just walk out the roo—”

“Don’t.”

Both of you still at your words.

And you have to force your palms to unfurl on your quivering thighs. One knuckle. Another. Nails leave half-moons in your skin.

Breath haphazard, you finally break. “Just,” you swallow, hard. “I’m not wasting it just give me a sec.”

You don’t want to tell Yoongi why you want him to stay. Despite him being the most infuriating person you’ve ever met, it beats the alternative. And you don’t want the alternative. Truthfully, that’s another reason why you left the elevator earlier.

Yoongi looks pissed as hell.

But he hasn’t moved.

And that’s enough to get you to pick up your chopsticks and try again.

You stare. Stare. Stare. Mustering courage and inhaling all the aromas you indulged in just earlier today.

Fuck, you wanna hurl.

“You’re gonna have to get used to this.”

Your gaze snaps to his, brows and thoughts knitted in disbelief. “What?”

“This feeling.” Yoongi looks out the glass doors, hands resting on the arms of his chair. “The faster you do, the better.”

There’s no way he’s serious. Get used to it? What reason would you ever have for doing that? Caustic, you scoff, “Why, so I don’t waste more of your food?”

You’ve never seen someone laugh in a negative way. But he does before sliding his eyes over. “So when you have to do it again, you don’t lock the fuck up hours later.”

You shoot up from your chair, hellbent on oh fuck you stood up too fast. “You—”

Yoongi just watches as you grab the table for balance, wincing from the pangs in your head. Words grind through your teeth, unable to fully form beyond the light assaulting your brain.

“Like I said.”

Palms press against your forehead before you slump back into your chair.

“It’s better in the long run.”

Technically, he’s right. It’s better in the long run if you get used to this.

But there’s no way you can do it again. Who does he think you are? Yoongi’s got to know that you aren’t planning on making this a daily habit. This isn’t you. You only killed to protect somebody. Killed to save the person telling you to basically get over it.

Fucking hell, this sucks.

Frustration and exhaustion sting the corners of your eyes.

Eat. Build your strength and get the hell out of here. Deal with it deal with it deal with it.

As you regrettably pick up your chopsticks, you don’t care if your tears season your noodles. And quite frankly, you don’t give a shit if Yoongi watches them fall, too.

Because they’re liquid anger. Hot trails blazing down your face, hardening into sticky paths and dried rivers.

“What were you looking for.”

Your eyes slide up to regard him, his arms folded and brows low. Because of course he doesn’t care about your state, either. Of course he’d rather entertain his curiosity. “Nothing you need to know,” you mutter, banning him from knowing another truth.

“Did you find it.”

You swipe at both your eyes.

As spice coats your tongue, Yoongi keeps prying, “Something you needed to go all the way there for?”

“Fuck off,” you dismiss, slurping and swallowing with ease. “I don’t have to answer you.”

“You already are,” he responds, confident. “Now tell me. Is there one in particular you need?”

Wait. You barely gave anything away, so how is Yoongi asking the right questions? There’s no way he actually knows what you were looking for. No way in hell.

This man is more dangerous than you thought.

“Why do you even care,” is all you choose to say, more focused on your food now because above everything else, it’s quite fantastic. It somewhat reminds you of a past home, and you can’t help but escape to those distinct walls. “It’s irrelevant to you.”

“But I have what you want.”

You take another bite before stilling, looking up to see Yoongi propping his head with roughed knuckles. “You’re lying,” you drawl to his smugness, trying to act as if he didn’t just figure you all the way out. Because he didn’t. There’s no way. “And I’m still leaving.”

“If you stay, I’ll show you.”

When you leer over your soup, he simply stares back with no hint of emotion.

And you’re so curious about what he means that you finish your whole bowl.

When you push it forward, you understand exactly what Yoongi did. It worked perfectly, and you have to hand it to him even though he mangled your character minutes beforehand. “Thank you,” you offer some manners. “This was goo—”

The scrape of a chair cuts you off, and your sentence dies in midair as you watch your runaway partner vacate his seat.

Good riddance.

He knows how to stay on your bad side, that’s for damn sure.

But Yoongi simply heads back out to the balcony for another light. So you chalk up his swift exit to vices and not wanting to breathe your air. Or maybe he’s done with his fun and is already writing you off before you head out.

Clearing your bowl from the table, you walk out of the bedroom and bring it to the large kitchen, noting with a scowl that it’s obnoxiously bigger than half your floorplan back home.

Yearning pierces right through your chest.

The elevator is right over there.

You showered, you ate. You can leave as soon as you clean your dish.

Are you way too curious about what Yoongi’s gonna show you? Yes. But is that gonna stop you from getting out of here? No.

Well. This robe is hugging your figure perfectly and feels way too comfortable to just use for an hour or so… Plus, if you ditched it now, Mister Morals will scorn you for wasting that away, too.

How rude of him to assume that about you. Of course you aren’t wasteful. The only times you let things go are when you absolutely have to, like you should have back in that noodle shop instead of braving the back staircase.

Scoffing to no one, you scrub your bowl in the sink, grunting explicatives and stabbing Yoongi with curses until you hear a distinct beep.

Was that the elevator?

You cut the water off with a twist.

Cautiously, you make your way across the kitchen, peeking around the corner to appease your curiosity and spike your anxiety.

A bellhop? Another grey uniform looking to and fro to survey the area. It’s the same person that sent a look of panic your way before you went up to the room.

And your defense mechanism blares.

But before you can hide behind the partition, their eyes lock onto yours. Arm outstretched, the staff is motioning for you to… join them? Why?

You’re the one bunking with a gangster. Why does this person make you even more uncomfortable? This feeling is just like the one you had when you called the elevator the first time. Was your gut warning you then, too?

Maybe it’s because you don’t like the staff thinking they can come in unannounced. Grey zone etiquette or not, you can’t see how this is ever appropriate. In fact, it poses so many safety concerns. How is this okay?

Walking into the foyer, you rest a hand on a robed hip. “Can I help you?”

“I’m the one trying to help you,” they whisper, harsh and with another swipe of their hand. “You have to get out while you can.”

Wait. What do they mean while you can? “And why’s that?”

Sputtering, the bellhop sticks one foot out the elevator while pleading and, for some reason, that pisses you all the way off. “There’s no time to—”

“Get. Your foot. Off my floor.”

Is that fear in their eyes or surprise? “Oh, apologies. I didn’t realize you were… I thought—”

“Thought what?” Your arms fold, weight shifting to your other tired foot. “Speak up.”

Frankly, you don’t know where this newfound energy is coming from. All you know is that there are certain things you still despise and this person is ticking all the boxes.

“I thought you were taken, Miss. I’m here to save you.”

Pausing, you grip your arms, feeling silk gather under your palms.

There’s a lot you tolerate. Many things that a lot of people can’t. But someone assuming you’re the weak one that needs saving? There is no quicker way to lose your interest.

Stepping towards the elevator, you unfurl your arms, robe swaying and billowing around your freshly showered legs.

“Yes, that’s right. Come on, we can take you away.”

Hand on the entrance, you lean forward. “You’re not taking me anywhere,” you command, finger pressing the button at your side. “And you aren’t coming back up here until I say so.”

Slowly, the doors slide shut, your reflection two halves in the metal shine.

Well.

So much for leaving.

You may spend more time here than you thought.

With more thoughts swirling, you spin, heading back into the kitchen to pick up the same bowl you were washing. Hoping you and your gut made the right call.

Yoongi’s a criminal and a madman. But he’s not… the worst. At least, not horrible enough to warrant someone coming up to steal you away.

Besides. Is Yoongi aware that staff can come and go as they please? He seems like the type of guy that would hate that.

Staying vigilant seems to be a little more important now.

It’s soon after, when you’re placing the dish somewhere to dry, that you hear noise in the living room beyond the countertop. Looking up, you see someone much more familiar enter the space.

Hmm. Whatever’s in that duffle must be worth millions for Yoongi to lug it around everywhere.

As he dumps it next to the couch again, you don’t choose to ask about it just yet. Only because you want to ease into it later when you’re both not at each other’s throats. And while you’re not reeling from another strange encounter at the elevator.

So you go with a safer question instead, choosing not mention what just happened. “Is this whole floor… your place?”

Yoongi looks up. “Only when I need it to be.”

Interesting. “Does anyone else know about it—”

“Do you always ask this many questions?”

You blink. “I mean. I don’t get by selling fruit cus I’m quiet.”

“You’re quiet with me.”

“And even then I get you to talk.”

Yoongi frowns slightly before moving away, more towards the sliding door leading out to another outdoor area.

God, this place is obnoxiously huge. There’s still a whole other half you haven’t seen yet.

When you peer out, you watch as he leans against the railing, seeming to look both up at the building and down at the streets below.

Well. If you aren’t leaving anytime soon, may as well offer some sort of peace offering. Maybe the two of you just need to chill the fuck out.

Rummaging through the kitchen, you manage to find some high quality beer in the fridge. On your walk to the sliding glass, you’re reminded of the time you gave him one before when he helped fix your cart.

That was so long ago.

You’re so lost in thought that you barely register Yoongi whipping a hand to his waist when you walk outside. But you catch the metal just in time.

“It’s me!” you quickly alert before regressing back to annoyance, “Really…”

You’ve had way too much to deal with today. You don’t need a bullet in your chest to be another problem.

Especially since his little maneuver showed a bit more skin than you meant to see.

Yoongi eyes you before his shoulders rest, and you stride forward to offer up the cold can in your palm.

But you decide to hesitate while he goes to grab it, and you instead open it to have some.

Ugh. High quality, your ass. This one is way too bitter.

Your companion snorts as you make up an excuse, “I’ve had better.”

“Do you even drink?”

“Well, yeah,” you pout. Needing to prove it, you decide to keep the can. “Lemme try again.”

Somehow, this leads to you sharing the beer with him, tasting the mix of alcohol and smoke even after he tosses another cigarette off the ledge.

It’s not quite enough to forget, but it’s certainly helping. Observing the clouds so close and the city so far beneath your toes is extremely calming. It’s almost like you’re flying.

“It’s different here,” you mention out of the blue.

“This sector?”

“This high up.” Breathing in altitude, you sigh. “I’ve never been higher than my fourth story. It’s nice.”

“It’s usually silent, too.”

Your eyes slightly stab. “Whatever. You like having me around and just won’t admit it.” At this, Yoongi avoids direct contact. “Mmhmm. Don’t even try to hide it.”

“You’re useful to me.” You freeze. “That’s why you’re here.”

You shake your head. For someone deeming you useful, Yoongi’s pretty nonchalant about you dipping. Taking a tangy sip, you clarify, “But you don’t care if I leave? If someone comes to take me?”

He takes the offered can. “Mm.”

That answers that.

You should probably still tell him about what happened, though. His reaction could give more away than his words.

Instead, you drink in the night with your eyes. Knowing that you should know better about the company present.

The more you converse with Yoongi, the more you pick up. And one of those sad facts is that he doesn’t give a shit about anything you do or don’t do. Because all he really cares about is what he needs.

You can’t do anything to change him. Fix him. Whatever exists in fairytales. So you decide to take the night in stride. Not give a shit about him, either, per se.

Your curiosity gets the better of you now. Not just about what he’s gonna show you, but about that duffle. You quite literally don’t have anything to lose anymore, so may as well go for the question you’ve been wanting to ask all day.

“I was gonna ask for a cut of that,” you divulge with a head-tilt to the bag. “But figured you won’t even show me.”

“Why not?”

“Uhh.” You didn’t expect this. “You don’t like questions? You’re always secretive?”

“Never talk to the streets, princess. They’ll snitch on everything you say.”

“That’s deep,” you admit, taking a once full beer in your palm. “But I’m no snitch.”

“I know.”

Your look carries a slight pang.

“Come here.” Both of you walk inside as he plays with his lighter. When you round the couch, Yoongi dumps the bag right onto the cushions. “If you wanna see what’s in here, do it.”

You stare before slowly walking forward and kneeling to unzip the bag. As your slide reveals the contents, you’re nervous about what you’ll see.

But when it’s open, you freeze.

It’s all…chil-don? Tons of money wrapped in sleek stacks with edges so… Crisp. New.

Wait.

These patterns.

These are il-don?

Holy fucking shit there’s no way these are real. This is currency seven generations old. The first ever of the established system. Worth more than anything in current circulation, especially in their pristine state. Forget being worth millions, these are next to priceless.

You’ve never seen them like this.

“They’re some of the last in mint condition.”

The shock value is so high you forgot you were alone. Slowly turning, your breath catches as you ask, “How did you know where to find these?”

“Like I said,” he drones. “Streets talk.”

You look at the bills before glancing back up. “Can I…?”

Yoongi cocks a brow before angling his mouth. “Touch them? Do what you want, doll.”

You blink at the name this time. Because him saying that with a fresh cig in his lips is making your stomach flutter.

Picking up a fresh stack, you inspect the ancient pattern inlay with eyes wide, admiring how paper so old can have such detailed engravings. “These can’t be real.”

“They are.” He shifts. “And most people never see one in their lifetime.”

You put the money back on the pile inside. Yes, these have got to be worth a fortune. But there’s nothing else in the bag? No drugs, no lethal substances, anything? “Wait, so. This is it?”

Yoongi fully laughs before flicking his lighter again. “You want something else?”

“No, I—” You back away. “There’s really nothing else in there?”

Coolly, he lights up before taking the initial drag. “Nah.”

Smoke spirals around you. “I dunno what I expected but it wasn’t that.”

Yoongi lets a wisp leave his mouth. You know it’s getting in your robe, but caring about the little things has now jumped out the window. “Whatever’s in that bag can feed half the city.”

“What?” As you look, he walks over to what looks like a small section of a bar. “Is that why you stole it?”

“Stole it?” Yoongi grins and shakes his head. “Sure. That’s why we stole it.”

“We? Leave me out of this.”

“Too late.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

You step forward in anger, but you only get a sound out before Yoongi straightens, aura blazing,

“I—”

“Say I do leave you out of it. Nothing happened tonight, according to me.” He discards his fresh light in an ashtray, watching it die before sliding his gaze your way. “Doesn’t mean whoever we just fought will suddenly leave you alone.”

Shit. He has a point. You ran for so long and fought plenty of those guys.

Is this what he meant? Getting used to that feeling? Maybe your consequence is joining the cycle of the damned, forced to kill in order to protect. Both others and now yourself.

“But I’m… Just a nobody. A civilian, I…”

Yoongi walks until he’s in front of you, hand cupping your chin and voice whispering mortifying allegations in your ear,

“You took a body for a Dragon, love. You’re not a civilian anymore.”

Your arms shove him backward without pause, face distraught as you watch his smirk bounce with his shoulders. His cackle echoes mad through the room, pinging the floors and piercing through your robe.

Truthfully, it doesn’t even feel like you’re wearing one. So naked and exposed in the open for this man to see. “You’re despicable.”

“That right?” His mouth sets as his lids lower. “And what about the one that killed and kept running?”

What.

“There was a police car at the restaurant,” Yoongi continues, a reminder so sharp it slices clean. “Yet you didn’t turn yourself in.”

Your feet sink into the rug beneath. “That’s not…”

With measured steps, he stalks forward, a harbinger of horrific realizations that you don’t want to hear, “You didn’t have to keep running. Didn’t have to get in that taxi.”

Stepping back, you find the room so stuffy it’s hard to move. “You—”

“Could’ve taken another train.”

“Stop.”

“Could’ve stayed in that elevator.”

What the fuck is happening right now?

Yoongi’s close. Very much too close, and the energy he radiates sets your instincts ablaze.

This is the man you’ve been pining over this whole time? If you ever get back home, you have got to remind yourself to avoid him at all costs. There’s nothing good for you if you stay. Danger surrounds every inch of him, and there’s no telling when you’ll take collateral damage.

“But you didn’t,” he delivers the final blow. “And you’re still here.”

Lifting your chin, Yoongi grins slow when you yank away.

“I should’ve never saved you.” Gaze finally locked, you growl from within, letting a monster loose,

“I should’ve left you for dead.”

Wait.

Stop.

This isn’t you. This isn’t who you are. You’re a helper. A healer. Those words came out so strange that you’re questioning how they left your mouth so freely.

Did you really mean that? Or was this some feeble attempt to hurt him?

Yoongi doesn’t seem phased. But you clearly don’t know him so it’s not like—

Something heavy and dark as fuck is placed in your hand, and you snap your eyes to his in utmost disbelief.

“Go ahead then.”

Oh, this man is psychotic.

“Be my guest.”

No fucking way you’re gonna do it. “Stop—”

“If you regret it, why waste time—”

“Seriously, I’m not gonna—”

Yoongi forces your fingers flush against metal as he holds the gun to his forehead, both eyes piercing right into yours with no hesitation whatsoever.

And it is frightening.

All anger from before flees as fear and intensity rush into its place. Your brain fizzles and cracks as you try to wrestle out of his grip, and you feel burning at the corners of your eyes. “Stop!”

“Why.”

“I’m not gonna shoot you, the fuck!”

“You sure?”

“Yes!”

Mercifully, he lets go, pistol thrown as you’re tugged forward with a—

“What’s stopping you,” he grounds out, formidable presence all-consuming. “Tell me.”

You’re breathing so hard it hurts. “You”—a shaky heave—“You are out of your fucking mind.”

When you struggle from his grip, Yoongi pulls you even closer. Reacting in a rush, you propel your knee up to wrap around his side and twist.

But he proves just as quick, gripping the bare skin of your leg as you shove him down against the sofa. Grunting, you both curve with the furniture, Yoongi locked onto your knitted, conflicted brows.

“You regret saving my life,” he simply repeats to your frustration. “I gave you the chance to fix that.”

“Shut up—”

“But your will is weak.”

“I swear to—”

“Guess I was wrong.”

Who the hell does he think he is? This guy—Yoongi, Agust, whoever the fuck—has no right to play with you so casually.

But something else is swirling inside your ribs. Because through his cutthroat words and actions, this man is somehow stirring the deepest waters of your soul. Ripples rumble and stretch into waves, tugging your toes in undercurrents of obsidian. Dark. Primal. Hazardous. All you.

Is it from being subjected to such a heavy dose of his power?

Or is it because—even if just for a moment—he’s handing all that power to you?

Quite literally, you’re the one on top.

And Yoongi holds your gaze, unfazed by the way your robe completely spread open during your tumble. Or the fact that you have nothing beneath that silk.

He could easily take over. From the feel of his build beneath your hands and between your legs, you know he can.

But he’s not. There’s no hesitation. He’s legitimately giving you the choice and reveals no ounce of remorse.

This revelation courses through your veins, pumping a new kind of life into your palms. You have a shot at a criminal with a bag of il-don waiting to be snatched. And you know you won’t take it.

And that alone alters the chemistry of your brain.

With more fear of yourself than anything else, you shake out, “If I’m killing you, it’s gonna be entirely my choice.”

He’s laughing? You’re instigating a threat and he’s enjoying it? God, you are teetering on the brink of madness and another emotion that won’t dare be acknowledged.

Tugging Yoongi up a notch, you proclaim to the glint of his eyes,

“And when I do, you’ll die exactly how I want.”

Yoongi’s lips slowly, dreadfully spread, teeth shining in the dim lamp lights that sharpen half his features. When he speaks, you shiver. Because it’s a mix of pride and fear, sprinkled with a hint of alarm,

“That’s my girl.”

The room quiets, your bodies locked in a way that you’ll remember years from now. Breaths. Your bare chest hovering inches above his. If there were bystanders, they would no doubt get the wrong idea. Because if things were different, and if this man underneath you wasn’t who he was, you’d entertain another type of ferality and not stop until morning.

To be fair. That same dark part of you would still do it.

But this is about the righteous part of who you are. The one that abides by the rules. The one that fights to keep days boring, uneventful, the same.

So you quell that monster pacing in your core.

One more exhale leaves your lips before you let him drop, sliding off his silken, tone form to quietly readjust your robe. Turning away, you focus on the night skies, wondering if the people back home are sound asleep as you should be.

“My will may seem weak. But I don’t care what you think of me.”

Sound is crisp again as Yoongi rises to his feet. Around you, the air starts to lighten, cold slipping delicately into your skin.

Slowly tying the wrap at your waist, your words float to the ground, “Because I know who I am. And no one can take that from me, not even you.”

His presence fills the space at your back. But it’s muted. Less intimidating. Or maybe you’re just at your limit because you admit a little more than you intend,

“This world has already tried enough.”

Both of you come to another standstill, two black robes staining a room full of white. Even time itself gives you space, slowing and circling until you’re ready for it to flow straight again.

As a cloud shadows the light of the moon, you feel knuckles caress your neck. And Yoongi’s never sounded so calm as he starts, “They’ll come after you.”

You slightly turn.

“You still want to go back?”

A pause. A nod.

His knuckles continue to glide along your neck, slipping down your back before traveling the swoop of your shoulder. Everything in your body thrums, silently quaking because you have no idea where this is coming from and you can’t say you hate it.

Quite the opposite. And that scares you more.

“If you do, you’re dead to me.”

Of course. You’ve seen and know too much. There’s no reason for him to show up to your street now, especially if tangerines are all he’s looking for. He can always find them anywhere else.

But, for some reason, this still stings. In a way that irks even your reasonable side. Is it because of his touch? No. That’s only making you nervous from the fact that you probably aren’t… as experienced as he is. The uneasiness is wholly from your own limitations.

“I’ll survive without you,” you whisper resolute, chest squeezing when he replies,

“I know.”

The same fingers get bolder, tracing down your arm before sliding along the wrap at your hip.

And you freeze.

Because the tension is palpable. The power is intoxicating. It’s a new type of anticipation and you are fighting yourself to not give in. Don’t let everything get to your head. Don’t let anyone in again. Don’t stray onto a path you can’t quite navigate.

But fuck, you kinda want to.

Rocks slide against exposed skin when he decides to speak again. And it makes you wish the two of you were extraordinarily normal. Or that you at least knew what the fuck to do here because the attraction you feel is not as one-sided as you presumed.

“What made you stay.”

A breath you didn’t know you were holding huffs out, and you swallow with difficulty. “I just…”

Get it together. Keep up your guard. It’s proving so hard, especially when his touches spark fires along your limbs. But you have to.

And therein comes another lie. “I wanted to know what you stole.” Gulping down the truth, you harden your resolve. “That’s it.”

With more restraint that you want, Yoongi bunches silk at your pelvis, hitching your robe and your breath all at once. When his other hand slowly holds your neck in place, you can’t help but flinch, and his low hum pours lava straight down your chest,

“What a shame.”

Oh. Is this how it ends? Did your gut get it all wrong?

He could end your life with a flick of his wrist. You know far too much. You’re not useful anymore.

“Someone will take you back tomorrow,” Yoongi murmurs, proving every single theory wrong. “After that, you’re on your own.”

And just like that, he releases you to stand alone.

Oh. You’re going home.

Good.

This is good, right?

Your heart beats overtime, almost drowning out your entire thought process. The thumps and pulses seem to cut every string of consciousness short.

What was that? What was any of that?

Never mind. Nothing happened and you can keep it that way, for the better. Yoongi is risk draped in beauty, and once you’re back home you can cut ties with anyone like him for good. You saved him; he spared you. It’s over.

…But do you want it to be?

Yes.

Of course you do.

Clouds let moonlight shine again.

When you arrive at an answer, you turn to find that Yoongi’s already gone, duffle and all shut inside his room with a muted click.

A flip switches as you let exhaustion take over completely, falling onto cushions that still hold his scent. Inhaling, you drift into darkness, wondering how your final decision will affect the rest of your days.

Whether awake or asleep, nightmares are real.

Only this time, you aren’t quite sure if the blood and guts you’re seeing are yours or someone else’s. Can’t discern the limb on the ground from the limb on your torso. Screams echo and ping from all directions, a cacophony of death that has you scratching at mania to stay sane.

Murderer. Murderer. A murderer that regrets who she saved. No, wait, that’s not true. You’d still do it again.

And you watch the same swing over and over. The same arc of finality. Those lifeless eyes. Closer. Closer. Sharper. Judging.

You were wrong. Were you wrong? Running does nothing and doesn’t provide an answer. The ground under your toes gives out.

How far are you straying? How low are you sinking? If you told your neighbors who you killed for, would they be upset or betrayed?

They’d hate you. Their fingers aim straight. Their tongues fire bullets.

They’ll hate you. Hate you. Hate you hate you hate you—

A room bursts into view as you jolt awake. Sounds snap silent, the hum of the air all you can hear as you rub your eyes.

So much for sleeping. There’s no way you’ll be able to now.

Focus on something else. Anything else. The past cannot be undone, so live with the choices you made and deal with the faces that haunt your dreams.

Staring into the dark, shapes and sharp edges slowly form, your vision sharpening with every passing second. Tiny pops and creaks tickle your eardrums, and Yoongi’s scent still lingers with your own.

You don’t want to focus on him, but it’s better than what forced you awake.

A lot happened tonight. But also, nothing at all. Something is keeping you both together, tightening and squeezing the strings in your chest. But you don’t know if that’s from the adrenaline of today’s events, or from the pure shock of your unexpected reunion.

There’s something else you haven’t considered until now. Despite his unorthodox and hellish methods, Yoongi did keep your head on straight. You showered. You ate. You drank. You inhaled fresh air.

Your compass righted itself when you didn’t blow his brains out.

The nothingness was all to your advantage. Was that all calculated, too?

One part of you—the bright side of you—knows that it doesn’t matter. No matter how helpful he was tonight, distance is crucial. Stay away from people like him. They’re all too cunning to be kept close.

But if leaping that crevasse allows you to keep your mind off everything else? If you need to stop the bleeding, why not reach for a cure?

Your exhale shakes as your shoulders fall forward, self-deprecation destroying your brain because what the fuck are you thinking? This is nonsense. Madness.

Maybe you’ve just been insane from the very start.

Your breath quickens at the possibilities. The potential outcomes of what you’re about to do.

This is the most solid decision you’ve made all night.

As your toes travel across plush, trek over marble, and arrive at their destination, the rest of your body quietly, nervously follows.

Raising your hand, you listen for movement. When you find none, you softly knock and wait for what seems like an eternity.

For nothing.

All that worry for naught. Yoongi’s most likely fast asleep and not dreaming at all.

Good. This is your sign to let it go completely. In the morning, you’re going back home. The nightmares will consume you and you’ll wake up everyday to brave the streets. Assassins will be on the hunt for revenge. You won’t be saved by the boy in teal.

What a shame, indeed.

As you step to leave, you hear the door slowly swing.

And Yoongi emerges from behind, minted hair mussed over lowered lids and robe slipping down a tatted shoulder.

Fuck everything.

“I don’t regret what I did and I’d do it all again,” you admit with finality. To him, to yourself, to the ones you’ll disappoint back home. “And I refuse to get used to this feeling because it reminds me I’m still a good person.”

Yoongi’s eyes don’t change as he stares.

“But,” you exhale with a shake. “Just for tonight…”

This is it.

The brink of no return.

Your soul dips into the dark.

“Please make me fucking forget.”

—

⟶ what do we feel! | 🥢 join the taglist 🥢 | masterlist

a/n: once again, i cannot thank y'all enough for being patient and understanding as i go through life while working on this and all the other writing projects we have going on! it means the world, and even though there were some not-so-fun asks to get, the supporting and wonderful ones are what i will continue to focus on! so if you've ever left something sweet, thought provoking, encouraging, etc - thank you from the bottom of my heart! you're what keeps this writer going. a/n 2: if there's something you liked about this or a line/scene/whatever thing you enjoyed, feel free to let me know! feedback is never expected, but always appreciated. if the interest level is high, that adds motivation like no other. thank you all for reading! ++ feedback box: ⇥ of course, any reblogs/comments/messages are appreciated! ⇥ for the ones that are too shy to reblog with a review, comment on this, or send a message, i went ahead and made another anonymous form where you can send in what you think! ⇥ no emails collected, no need to put in a username. it’s literally just a comment dropbox :D feedback can be as short/sweet or as long as you’d like! ⇥ here! ++ more links: ⇥ masterlist ⇥ minted masterlist

#PART TWO IS HEREEE #bts fic #bts imagines #bts reactions #yoongi fic #yoongi x you #yoongi x reader #yoongi angst #yoongi fluff #yoongi smut #bts smut #bts fanfic #*latest #ryenwrites #minted #*ryenfictalk #tw: violence #tw: blood #tw: murder

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liliacamethyst · 2 years ago

Text

Webs of Fate - Miguel O'Hara (Part II)

Sequel to Web of Secrets

Miguel O'Hara x SpiderSun Reader

words: 5.2K

warnings: secret pregnancy trope, swearing, angst, heartbreak, grumpy/sunshine, smut, time jumps, not really comic accurate (canon events), semi public piv, 18+

Part I Part II Part III Part IV

You are all back at the Spider-Verse Headquarters and the atmosphere is tense. Everyone is still high on adrenaline from the mission. You’re nursing a deep gash on your arm but your spirit is far from broken.

Miguel, however, seems to be on the verge of an explosion.

“WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT OUT THERE SPIDER SUN?” he bursts out, his voice echoing through the HQ.

You're taken aback. “What do you mean?”

“That reckless behavior! You could have been killed!” he roars. “Why didn’t you retreat when you were injured?!”

“Because there were lives at stake! I can handle myself, Miguel!” you shout back.

“You think this is a game?! You think being part of this team is just for kicks?” Miguel’s face is red, his voice strained.

“Don’t you dare! Don’t you dare question my dedication!” you yell, your own anger now matching his.

The team is watching, shifting uncomfortably. Gwen looks at Jess, who shakes her head. The room is thick with tension.

Alright, if you are being honest with yourself, your recent actions in the field could definitely be classified as reckless. Perhaps even bordering on idiotic - not that you’d ever confess that in front of Miguel. You didn’t know where your mind went. Wait, no, scratch that. You knew precisely where your thoughts were, every mission since you discovered your pregnancy has been like this; your spider senses dulled, focus scattered to the wind, and reflexes that would’ve made a sloth proud.

And then there was this mission – your first one in quite a while alongside Miguel. He was bound to notice.

So you were fighting an Electro variant from an alternate universe, alongside Jess, Gwen, Ben and Miguel. The electric villain was throwing bolts of energy left and right and everyone was giving their all. You noticed a civilian trapped under some debris. You made a beeline for them, not thinking about anything else.

As you lifted the debris, an energy bolt flew straight for you. Usually, your Spider-Senses would have alerted you but not today. It hit you square in the back and sent you flying.

You hit a wall but ignored the pain as you scrambled back to your feet. A sharp ache spread across your arm but you gritted your teeth and kept fighting.

Miguel yelled, “What the hell are you doing?! Fall back!”

But you didn’t, you kept pushing forward.

He landed next to you, his eyes filled with anger and something else, maybe a hint of worry. He grabbed your waist to pull you back. But as another energy bolt was coming your way, you shoved him out of the path, taking the hit for the second time. So yeah, you could say that this mission wasn't exactly the shining star in your superhero career.

“ESTÚPIDA! So damn stupid. I won’t fucking watch someone throw their life away recklessly!” Miguel was now yelling loudly in oyur face for everyone in the HQ to hear.

“Oh, please. What’s it to you? Since when do you care, Miguel?!” you shout back, finally having enough of his insufferable attitude. “All this time, you’ve treated me like I’m dispensable. Like I don't matter! Well, guess what? I can fight, I can make decisions, and I don’t need you to approve them!”

“Don’t!” Miguel's voice cracks, and for a brief second, there’s a look of hurt on his face that surprises you. But his rage quickly replaces it. “I cannot do this anymore with you, ¿me entiendes?” he yells.

The room falls silent. Everyone’s gazes dart between you and Miguel. You can feel Gwen’s worried eyes on you, and Ben Riley. looks like he wants to intervene, but this moment is too charged.

You take a deep breath, tears welling up. “I can't do this anymore either,” you whisper.

“What?” Miguel's voice is barely audible.

“I can't keep fighting for a team where I’m not respected or trusted. Where you treat me constantly like a liability, like I am worth nothing to you,” you say, your voice steadier now.

“You don’t know what you are saying,” Miguel says, his tone slightly softening.

You turn around, your eyes welling up once again and open a portal to your universe. “I do, I quit” you say, your voice breaking.

You reach into your pocket and pull out your transdimensional gizmo, the small device that every Spider-person uses to travel across the multiverse. It's an intricate piece of technology, a blend of science and magic that fits in the palm of your hand.

You toss the device on the table in front of Miguel. It skids across the surface before coming to a stop right in front of him. He looks from the gizmo to you, his expression unreadable.

"Take it. We don’t need it anymore." You say defiantly, meeting his gaze.

Everyone knows the implication of you returning the gizmo. Without it, you're effectively stranded in your universe, unable to return to the society. This isn't a decision made lightly, it's a point of no return.

As you step through the portal, you glance back one last time. You see Miguel’s face, contorted in pain, but he doesn’t move, he doesn’t speak and he doesn't stop you.

Your heart is breaking, but you can’t stay here. Not when it’s this painful.

You turn away and head toward the portal room, with one hand lightly grazing your tummy. Gwen calls your name, but you don’t stop.

In the dim light of the room, the world seems to fade away as you lie there with Miguel on top of you. You are under him, breathless, your fingers running through his hair. His body pins you down in a tender, electrifying way, and you can feel the rhythm of his heart beating against yours.

His fangs graze the curve of your neck lightly, eliciting a shiver that runs through you. In response, he nuzzles into you, his breath warm against your skin.

"Ever think about what we're doing?" he asks in a whisper that vibrates against your neck.

"Constantly," you respond, your fingers tracing the curve of his broad shoulders, "but I don’t regret it, not a moment.”

He lifts his head, his red orbs searching yours. “Neither do I,” he says, his voice barely more than a whisper. His hand reaches up to trace the contour of your face.

"You know," you whisper, your hands continuing caressing his back, "I always wondered what it was like in your universe, in your time."

He shifts a little, propping himself up on one elbow as he looks down at you. His eyes, usually as unreadable, now seem to crack open; emotions swirl within them like stars.

"It was great, you know," his voice is gentle, each word enveloping you. "No, more than that – it was perfect," he corrects himself. His eyes never leave yours as he continues, "I had my Gabriella. Ah, you would have adored her." His voice softens to a mere whisper as if speaking her name too loudly might shatter the memory. "She was this incredible burst of life just like you. My own little sunshine. I didn’t know my heart could hold so much until she came into my life."

"The way she would throw her head back and laugh, it was like music. Her tiny hands – so soft and gentle. I remember how one of them always found mine, and the world felt... right." He continued, "I was never alone, never empty." He swallows hard, as if trying to keep the flood of emotions from washing over him.

You cup his cheek gently, smiling up at him. "You don't have to be alone, you know?"

He lets out a dry chuckle. “Sometimes it feels like there's no other option. It’s my fate."

“What scares you the most, Miguel?” you suddenly ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

He hesitates. “To lose myself… to forget what it means to care for someone,” he finally confesses.

“You won’t,” you assure him, your thumb stroking his cheek. “Not if you don’t let yourself.”

“¿y tú?” His voice is husky. “What’s your biggest fear?”

“To be forgotten,” you whisper.

He lowers himself and presses his forehead against yours. “Imposible,” he breathes. “You’re the sun. No one forgets the sun.” He pulls you closer, pressing a soft kiss to your lips, his arms tighten around you, pulling you closer until the world outside disappears.

Suddenly, his wrist console beeps, yanking him back to the present. "O’Hara, are you okay?" Lyla's voice echoes in the room, breaking the silence. He blinks, his gaze focusing on the holographic screen displaying the mission details in front of him. "Yeah, Lyla," he responds, his voice a bit hoarse. "Just remembered something," he murmurs, and refocuses on the screen before him.

Amidst the sea of codes and numbers, Miguel finds himself struggling to focus. His thoughts still are consumed by you, and a heavy realization crashes down upon him like a tidal wave - he’s lost you forever.

He always knew that this was how it was meant to be. This was the only logical conclusion, the inevitable outcome that he had tried so hard to deny. He was aware of the potential repercussions, the cosmic imbalance that could be brought about by your intertwining fates.

Lyla had warned him multiple times, cautioned him against letting you close. But how could he have possibly resisted you? You, who shone brighter than the sun, who captured the hearts of everyone around with your aura and your kind soul. Your beauty was unparalleled, and your laughter had the power to fill a room, casting away shadows. He was a moth drawn to your flame, hopelessly captivated from the very first day he met you.

But you were never meant to be his story, not the path his life was meant to tread. You belonged to another world, another universe.

"You're thinking about her, aren't you?" Lyla breaks the silence with her smooth, computerized voice. “No,” he interrupts her sharply, his voice a little too forceful.

But Lyla isn't easily deterred. "You know it was dangerous from the beginning, Miguel," Lyla continues. "Engaging with her like that...it could have caused irreparable damage to the multiverse."

"I know," he replies curtly.

Unyielding, Lyla continues, "This was never supposed to be a canon event. Her universe is not meant to mix with yours. It's fortunate that she left when she did. The damage could've been—"

“I KNOW!” Miguel suddenly erupts, his voice thundering through the room. He screams, his frustration boiling over, "¡Ya lo sé, Lyla! ¡Basta ya!" ("I already know, Lyla! Enough already!") With a loud grunt, he sweeps his arm across his desk, sending his keyboard, mug, and various other items crashing to the ground.

There is a deafening silence as Miguel breathes heavily, his chest heaving. His eyes are wide, his face is flushed and his fangs are bared. He never loses control, not like this.

Lyla, for once, remains silent.

3 months later…

Back in Nea Yorkey, Earth 586 , you are perched on the rooftop, absentmindedly rubbing your stomach. Time has passed since you left Nueva York and Miguel, but your feelings for him are still a tangled mess. Damn these pesky pregnancy hormones.

For once, it’s pretty calm out there. No honking horns in traffic jams or the usual buzz of people everywhere. It’s like the city hit the pause button and honestly, it’s kind of nice. The streetlights are like tiny fairy lights all over, and the tall buildings around you feel like they’re keeping you company.

The cool breeze brushes against your face, and you can't help but be lost in your thoughts. Thoughts of him. The relentless flood of emotions is almost too much to handle.

The flashback hits you hard, placing you right back in Miguel's office late one evening. Your legs were wrapped around his waist, your backside planted firmly on his desk amidst strewn cables and metallic pieces and half-empty coffee mugs.

"Miguel, someone will catch us," you had warned, your breath hitching as he nipped at your skin, his hands deftly moving to undo your skintight suit. His hair was a little longer then, the ends tickling your forehead as he kissed you.

He had just chuckled, the sound deep and throaty, making your heart flutter. "They know better than to disturb me," he'd responded confidently, his lips trailing fiery kisses along your jawline.

Usually, Miguel was cautious about showing any sign of affection when others might be around, even if 'around' meant anywhere in the sprawling headquarters of the Spider Society. Yet, that night, he seemed to throw caution to the wind.

In his enclosed office, late into the evening, he let his guard down - a rarity. His lips were insistent against your skin, his touch setting you alight. You remember how the soft glow of the desk lamp had caught in his eyes, making them appear even more mesmerizing.

As he was holding your ass up steady and pounding into you, in a pace and fervor you never experienced before, you hear his communicator ring vibrating. You instinctively attempt to pull away, assuming he would answer the call, but he holds you tighter, his lips never leaving your skin.

His free hand pulls up a holographic screen,which flickered to life above the desk, revealing a slightly pixelated image of Jess. You panic for a moment, worried that she might see you in this intimate moment with Miguel, but he just shook his head slightly, reassuring you that she can't. He must have filtered the video feed on his end.

“Yes, Jess?” Miguel’s voice was steady, but his breath ghosted your neck in short spurts. He continued with his action, his thrusts a little slower but deep, nevertheless. You clamp your teeth down onto Miguel's shoulder in a desperate attempt to stifle the moans escaping your throat, your senses overwhelmed by the intensity of the moment. You can barely contain yourself. Miguel's soft, amused chuckle vibrate through you as he wraps his arms around you protectively. Asshole.

“We’ve got an anomaly on Earth-4067, seems like a temporal rift,” Jess's voice came through the hologram.

“Have you tried the Q-particle stabilizer?” Miguel asks, his voice so casual it's almost disarming. His eyes meet yours, a playful glint in them.

“Yeah, but it didn’t work. The rift is actually growing,” Jess responds, the worry in her voice increasing. “What do you think we should do?”

“Alright, I want you to reconfigure the dimensional frequency to match the rift. Then patch the satellite feed through the Alchemax algorithm, reverse the temporal frequency by 4.7 hertz and use the resonance pulse to stabilize the rift,” Miguel articulates with authority as he continues to pick up his pace. You’re close to the edge, with the euphoria threatening to make you cry out. The sheer pleasure is now tinged with a faint edge of pain, and a wave of panic crashes over you. The thought of Jess possibly hearing you is nerve-wracking, and you’re now fighting to suppress your screams.

Your breathing becomes erratic as you whisper in a hoarse, needy voice, “Miguel, ‘m close."

"I know, mami. Come for me," he whispers back, his voice filled with a playful mischief that seems to defy the gravity of the situation. His hot breath against your ear sends shivers down your spine and the wave of pleasure crushes down on you.

“Miguel, are you sure about this? I mean, if something goes wrong…” Jess hesitates.

“I’m sure, Jess.” Thrust. “Do.” Another hard thrust. “it.” Miguel’s voice turns forceful.

“Okay, I trust you. But... are you alright? You sound kinda breathless,” Jess's suspicion returns.

“Oh, just...uh...running some diagnostics. It’s a bit stuffy in here,” Miguel replies with a smirk on his face, his fingers now gently brushing against your bare heated skin.

The rooftop is silent again, and you're still rubbing your belly, where the life you and Miguel created is growing. A bittersweet tear rolls down your cheek as you wish, not for the first time, that things could have been different.

You don’t know how long you are sitting there, taking in the city scene. But it was getting dark, when a familiar figure swings onto the rooftop. It's Gwen, carrying a small package in her hand. “Gwen? What brings you to Nea Yorkey?”

She walks up to you with a soft smile, "Do I need a reason to visit my favourite Spider-Ma? I've got something for you."

You raise an eyebrow as she hands you the package. As you unwrap it, you find a tiny Spider-Man hat, similar to the one Mayday usually wears. And to your surprise, there’s a tiny anarchy pin, attached to it.

"From the group," she says softly. She adds, pointing at the pin, "This bit here, that’s from Hobie." Of course it is.

You’re moved to tears as you hug the hat close. It's a simple gift, yet it means so much. You feel a lump in your throat, and Gwen steps forward, wrapping you in a warm, comforting hug.

"I...I miss all of you so much," you manage to whisper, your voice choked with emotion.

"We miss you too," Gwen replies, her voice equally soft.

You pull back, wiping your eyes. Gwen tries to lighten the mood, "So, any guesses on the gender? I bet it’s a boy."

You shrug, a small smile tugging at your lips, "I don't care what it's going to be. I just want them to be healthy."

Gwen grins, "Just remember, if it is a boy and he turns out to be a handful, you owe me a soda."

You both sit on the edge of the rooftop in a comfortable silence, legs swinging over the city, the conversation turns more serious.

"So," you venture, "how are things back at the Spider Society?"

Gwen’s expression turns contemplative. "It's been... strange since you left," she admits.

"Strange how?" you prod.

"Well, you know how Miguel was always a little on the, uh, grumpy side?" she says, making a grimace.

"You mean being a brooding fortress of doom and gloom?" you quip, and Gwen chuckles.

"Yeah, that. Well, he's gotten worse since you left. Like, way worse," Gwen's face turns somber as she continues. "He’s even more closed off than before. His temper’s shorter, he barely communicates, and he's been pushing everyone away. Miguel’s basically got everyone on lockdown. No unauthorized visits between universes. There’s this... I don’t know... this cloud hanging over him, you know?”

Your heart tightens as you take in her words. You had no idea that your departure had such an impact on him, or anyone for that matter.

“He doesn’t talk about it, but I think he misses you,” Gwen adds, looking directly into your eyes.

You are torn. Part of you wants to be angry at Miguel for how things went down, but another part aches for him.

Gwen nudges you. "Maybe he needs his sunshine back," she says with a gentle smile.

You sit in silence for a moment, the weight of Gwen’s words sinking in. “Don’t be silly. I was never his sunshine.”

4 months later…

Beneath the pale glow of hospital lights, pain and joy mingle in the delivery room. The grip you have on the sheets gets tighter as you push to usher your baby into the world. Your hair is sticking to your forehead, your breath comes in heaving gasps, exhaustion painting dark circles under your eyes.

Meanwhile, unbeknownst to you, a portal flickers to life outside your window, and Gwen, Peter B., and Hobie emerge.

“Make way! The party has arrived!” Peter B. exclaims loudly.

“I don’t believe in parties.” Hobie says as he struts in, clad in his Spider suit with a leather jacket over it, pins and patches proudly displayed.

Gwen knocks at your door. The midwife, busy with you in the labor, answers.

“Uh, who are you?” the midwife asks, slightly agitated.

“We’re friends of hers,” Peter gestures towards you, “is it a good time?”

You hear their voices, but you cant muster up a response all you can do is scream and push.

“Blimey, I didn’t think it’d be like somethin’ outta Alien! You alright there, love?” Hobie’s eyes go wide, as he enters the room.

You can't help but laugh through the pain, "Oh, just peachy, thanks for asking."

Gwen steps forward, immediately grabbing your hand, her voice soothing, “Hey, you’re doing great. Is there anything we can do?”

“You could get Hobie out of here,” you jest, rolling your eyes, but your smile betrays your appreciation. Another loud scream follows.

“You got this, luv!” Hobie shouts. “Just imagine the bloody contractions as guitar riffs! You’re about to release the raddest album in history!”

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, you hear the cries of your newborn baby.

“Congratulations, it's a boy!” the nurse announces, handing the baby to to you.

You can’t help but laugh. Gwen steps closer to the bed and takes a peek at the baby. Her eyes light up. “Told you, it’s a boy. He’s absolutely beautiful,” she whispers.

Hobie chimes in. “Alright, let’s get a proper look at the little bloke!” He leans in, and his face softens. "Oh, look at 'im!" Hobie exclaims in his thick British accent, peering at him. "Little blighter's a spitting image of 'is mum, ain't he?” No. You see it then, the dark eyes with a hint of red glow echo the intensity of his father's gaze, the dark chocolate hair and the sun kissed complexion. He looked undeniably just like Miguel. You cant help yourself but fall immediately in love with your and Miguel’s little boy.

As they prepare to leave, Gwen, Peter B., and Hobie each take turns holding Gabriel and whispering well-wishes to him.

“I can’t thank you guys enough for being here,” you say, wiping away a tear.

Peter’s mask is off and he’s beaming. "We couldn't miss this for the multiverse!"

Gwen follows suit, "Yeah! Plus, Hobie wouldn't let us hear the end of it if we didn’t."

“We’re family,” Peter says firmly. “Across universes and timelines. We’re always here for each other.”

With that, the trio put on their masks and with another whoosh, they're gone.

1 year later...

One year has passed like a whirlwind. You've established a balance in your life. By day, you are a doting mother, and your world revolves around a little ball of energy named Gabriel. His laugh is the music that fuels your day, and his tiny hands holding yours make everything seem alright.

At night, though, you become someone else. Clad in a white suit adorned with golden sun patterns, you swing through the skyscrapers of Nea Yorkey as the Sun Spider. Your heart swells with pride, knowing that you’re keeping the streets and your little boy safe.

Your neighbor, Melissa, sometimes babysits Gabriel. She is a cheerful, quirky 19-year-old neighbor who dreams of becoming an Instagram influencer. You trust her (her career choice not so much) and, most importantly, Gabriel adores her.

Up until today, you believed that he hadn't inherited any powers. However, today was the first time he climbed up a wall and spun a web, without the aid of a web-slinger. It was the first time you witnessed him display such powers, and naturally, you were impressed. However, you also realized that being a mom would now involve dealing with a whole new set of challenges and responsibilities, making everyday life more exhausting than before. But you are up for the challenge;

Meanwhile, in the Spider Society’s HQ in Nueva York, Lyla’s holographic screen blinks red as she detects an anomaly in Earth 586 - your universe. She reports it to Miguel, who is still his grumpy self, seemingly even more irritable with each day passing.

“There’s a presence in Earth 586 that does not belong,” Lyla reports in her emotionless tone.

Miguel, sitting at his desk, sighs deeply. “Assemble the team. Pavitr, Lego Spider-Man, and... let’s bring in the newbie, Miles.”

Minutes later, the trio is briefed about the anomaly – a two-year-old child. They are to extract the child and bring it back.

Back in your universe, you're facing off against a notorious villain – The Shocker, who is on a rampage downtown. His high-frequency shock waves shake the very foundations of the buildings around you.

“Not tonight, Shocker,” you quip as you dodge a blast. “I’ve got a bedtime story to read!”

You're agile and sharp, but you can’t wait to get back home to Gabriel.

In your apartment, Melissa is on the couch, engrossed in her phone. She doesn't notice Pavitr slyly slipping into Gabriel's room. He can’t help but feel conflicted, seeing the innocent child asleep.

“This is the target?” Pavitr speaks in a hushed tone into his communicator. His voice is laced with doubt.

“Yes, proceed,” responds Miguel firmly.

Pavitr gently picks up Gabriel, cradling him in his arms. “Sorry, little guy,” he whispers and slips out.

Outside, they gather near the portal. Miles, who is visibly excited to be on his first mission, can sense the tension among the group.

“That was… too easy,” Pavitr murmurs, still holding the sleeping child.

Through the swirling portal, they make their way back to Nueva York.

Meanwhile, you web up The Shocker and leave him hanging for the police.

Back in the Spider Society's HQ in Nueva York, the team stands in a specialized containment room with the toddler still peacefully sleeping nestled in a makeshift bed of spider-web, completely oblivious to the attention he's attracting. One by one, members of the Spider Society trickle into the room, drawn by curiosity and concern.

Miles, who is new to the Spider Society, looks at the child with confusion. "I don't get it, what's so dangerous about a kid?" he asks.

Pavitr looks conflicted, “We have to determine where he came from and why he is considered an anomaly.”

Lego Spider-Man remains silent, trying to analyze the situation. He finally speaks up. "We should be cautious. Just because it's a child doesn't mean it's not potentially hazardous to the multiverse."

Miguel enters the room, his face cold and emotionless. He glances at the sleeping child, then at his team. “It doesn’t matter what it is. Anomalies threaten the balance of the multiverse. Every anomaly has to be returned to its home universe. That’s the rule.” he says sternly.

"But he's not an anomaly, boss," Jess adds, gazing fondly at the child. "He's a little boy."

Miguel’s gaze is unwavering, ignoring Jess. “Lyla? Whats the status?”

Lyla's holographic form flickers into the room. "This entity possesses unknown powers," she declares, her voice ringing out with clinical detachment. "And according to my scans, it doesn't belong to any known universe. Therefore, it cannot be returned. It must be... eliminated."

Miles' eyes widen. “Wait, you mean…?” he can’t bring himself to finish the sentence.

Pavitr steps forward, his fists clenched. “We can’t just... There must be another way.”

Back in your universe, you swing closer to your apartment, but your spider-sense starts are tingling with a ferocity you’ve never experienced before. Your heart races, and you quicken your pace. Bursting through the window, you find Melissa still sitting on the couch, scrolling through her phone.

"Where is he? Where’s Gabriel?!" you shout, panic straining your voice.

Melissa's eyes go wide as she looks up from her phone. "What? He's in his room, sleeping," she says, but her voice falters when she sees the terror on your face.

You rush into Gabriel's room and find the crib empty. Your knees buckle, and a guttural scream escapes your lips. The room spins as you run back to the living room, grabbing Melissa by the shoulders.

"Did anyone come in? Did you see anything?!" you practically scream at her.

“I... I didn’t see anyone. I swear!” Melissa's voice shakes.

Your heart feels like it's tearing apart. You look around the room, desperate for any clue. You need to find your son, and something deep within you tells you that the Spider Society is where you need to go. You have to find a way to travel through the multiverse without a gizmo and the time is ticking. You have to find your son.

Back in the HQ in the midst of the tension-filled room, Gwen stands up, "Miguel, you can't be serious," she pleads, disbelief resonating in her voice. "We can't just... kill a baby.”

Miguel's eyes narrow. "Sometimes tough decisions have to be made for the greater good.”

Just then, little Gabriel wakes up. His big eyes wander curiously around the room, and he starts to make happy babbling sounds. Unfazed by his surroundings, he looks at each of the Spider-People with fascination.

As Peter B. is about to reach down to pick Gabriel up, the toddler crawls quickly over to Miguel. His little face lights up with the purest of smiles and he reaches his tiny arms towards Miguel as if trying to give him a hug.

The room seems to collectively hold its breath. Even Miguel seems taken aback.

Pavitr can't help it, “He seems to have taken a liking to you, boss.”

Gwen smiles, her eyes watering up. “See? Even this innocent soul can sense there’s still good in you.”

Tiny fingers grip at the fabric of Miguel's suit, baby Gabriel coos and giggles as he clambers up the towering figure. Planting tiny baby kisses on any part of Miguel he can reach, the toddler's joyous laughter rings in the silent room. "Vete, Vete." Miguel mutters. And despite Miguel's cold exterior, Gabriel is unphased, drawn to him as though an invisible bond exists between them.

Miguel looks frustrated and uncomfortable with the baby's affection. He awkwardly picks Gabriel up at arm’s length. But the little one is relentless, trying to cuddle into Miguel’s chest.

Annoyed, Miguel places Gabriel into a containment field made of energy beams, to keep him in place. The baby, though restrained, is still reaching out to Miguel with his tiny hands, cooing.

The room goes quiet again, and Gwen speaks, her voice soft.

“Look at him, Miguel. Please. You can’t tell me that this doesn’t affect you in any way.”

Miguel's face is tense, his jaw clenched. His eyes dart between Gwen and Gabriel. All eyes are directed towards Miguel. The room feels like it’s waiting for something to shatter.

“We do what needs to be done, no exceptions.”

Part III "Web of Shadow and Light"

a/n: Honestly, I can't begin to express how much your support and kind messages mean to me. I literally started crying when I saw how much love this story received. It means the world to me. Truly, thank you. I'd love to hear your thoughts, and if someone could give me a heads-up on whether the tag list functioned properly, that would be great. Also, apologies for any inconsistencies or logical errors regarding the multiverse or canon theory. I watched the movie but I'm not 100% sure of that's how it works.

Once again, I really do appreciate each and everyone of you. Please, don’t forget to take good care of yourselves and stay hydrated! ILYSM

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lost-romantique · 14 days ago

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Blitzø's Realization & Feelings

I like how Blitz is initially confused the moment Stolas arrives on scene and breaks into song...

He understands that Stolas just saved him from getting his head chopped off, but he still doesn't understand what he's doing at the trial.

After all, in Blitzø’s mind Stolas is over him, and moved on the moment he saw Stolas having the time of his life dancing with BTB.

In Blitzø’s memory reel Stolas has his top eyes open, and I think to Blitzø he reads it as Stolas seeing and relishing in that kiss, in that moment. Blitzø doesn't even consider the fact that it was a drunken kiss.

But the moment Stolas takes all the blame for himself, things take a turn...

It clicks for Blitzø, and he's just in pure and utter shock as he sees just how much Stolas genuinely and truly loves him.

It's at this moment where he says the words, "I don't want to live a life without you by my side."

Blitzø takes this time to finally let his emotions pour out like a fucking waterfall.

Whereas compared to Ghostfuckers he just subtly acknowledges it.

His expression drops from realization to pure panic at Stolas' actions. Blitzø doesn't want to die, but at the same time, he definitely doesn't want someone he cares about to take the fall for him.

"What are you doing!? I don't deserve this!"

"I realized too late!" Blitzø acknowledges that he realized both Stolas’ feelings and his own feelings too late in the game.

Blitzø in Apology Tour didn't understand his own feelings, let alone Stolas’ feelings. He tries to, but he can't.

"Don't give your life to clean my slate."

What I love about this line is that it reads as: Don't sacrifice yourself to absolve me of my crimes. Blitzø makes it clear he doesn't want this.

"You’re my heart."

Blitzø breaks down and says these words because to Blitzø this is what Stolas is, the key to his heart that he's kept locked up for years, and someone he wants to give his whole heart too.

Because Blitzø closed off his heart after the fire. His love is something that he believed could hurt someone, but with Stolas, he's worth that risk.

The moment Stolas is wrapped in chains, Blitzø moves on instinct, almost as if he's trying to get out of his own chains so he can run to Stolas.

Felt like it would be a disservice not to show the clip that destroyed me. 😀

Blitzø, the moment he's freed of his chains Blitzø says the words, "No- no!" in disbelief, shock, and desperation.

Blitzø is so desperate to stop Stolas from what he's doing, begging him to do anything to stop this from happening. And if that meant getting himself killed, he'd do it.

Because he doesn't want a repeat of this happening. It's one thing for people to leave Blitzø, he’s used to that, but it's another to have them die, especially in front of him.

He breaks down when he fears his worse fears have come true: that Stolas is dead and he can't do anything to stop it.

It's why Blitzø is so shocked and surprised the moment he sees Stolas alive, because his worse fears didn't happen.

The moment Blitzø gets the reassurance that he's is loved by Stolas he falls into that caretaking role almost instantly, since he knows Stolas is hurting right now.

He's taking steps being extra gentle, extra reassuring, extra soft, even going as far as to fluff the pillow on his couch.

It vaguely reminds me of how Blitzø is able to sorta gage what people's needs are. In this moment, Blitzø was about to shoot Creepzo, but instead he opts to beat Creepzo with the end of his gun once he realizes Fizz is on the verge of a panic attack.

What I love about this shot is that this is the most at peace Blitzø has ever looked in the entire show.

He's just so grateful that he's alive and that Stolas is alive.

~~~~~~

Anyway, wanted to include this bit because I love how Sam Haft pointed out that Blitzø leaves Mastermind more self-actualized.

Whereas for Stolas, he leaves Mastermind more humbled as he gets a taste of how truly privileged he is.

#helluva boss #blitzo #blitzø #helluva boss blitz #ro rambles #stolitz #helluva blitz #stolas #blitzo x stolas #stolas goetia #Mastermind

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canihaveacalmtime · 2 months ago

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A mafia boss like him never relies on anyone, even his right-hand man. He's the solo wolf in a big pack, the person whose ego is just too much to handle.

Eter always tell himself that he never fails so why is he on the verge of death after an assonate attempt and is being treated by a small child like you?

You are an orphan who happened to get lost during a day out with your teacher, you call her mama, and other kids. Well, you just also happened to stumble upon Eter's injured body in the alley way and decided to help him with the medic kit you have in your bag.

When Eter regain his consciousness fully, he asked if you have a phone that can call. You hand him the phone that mama gave you as he calls his men to come get him. The moment you got your phone back was when you heard your mama calling your name.

"So your name is (Y/N)."

You reply before running out of the alley way.

"Yes, please get better and stay safe, mister."

--------------------------

After everything has calmed down, Eter begins thinking about the new emotions after his encounter with you.

He felt like he was cared with love when you treat his injuries, usually, he would treat his wounds himself because he doesn't want to look weak but after being treated for the first time, his thoughts kind of changed.

Not to mention how fragile but warm your little hands were, you're also very thoughtful too despite your age.

It's not like Eter didn't had a thought of having a child, he's scared that he cannot take up the responsibility of taking care of a child and the life he lives in, he doesn't even sure if his child would survive to say the least.

He also never received love from anyone before, even his birth parents. So raising a child? That's the impossible mission for a mafia boss.

But his courage soon raises up when he meets you again in the coffee shop that he always go to, but you were with your mama this time. The shop was rather vacant at the early morning so as you turn around a saw him, you recognized him immediately and give him a small wave.

Seeing your mama is busy on her phone, you went over to Eter's table to say hi and ask him if he's okay now, he nods. Notice the worker is bringing the food out, you only have time to wave a quick goodbye before helping your mama carry the food bags and leave.

Eter then determined to know everything about you, starting from asking his right-hand man to gather information about you. He just can't help but really feel attached to you despite only met a few times.

Knowing that you're an orphan kind of relief him because now he knows that he can adopt you.

From then on, if you notice your surroundings a little more, you'd notice a kind of feeling that you're being watch. But don't be scared, it's just Eter's men ordered to keep you safe whenever to go outside, and they will report back things that you do along with some pictures to Eter.

The main reason why he can't adopt you yet is because his power isn't wide enough to protect you but when it does, he will immediately come to the orphanage and literally snatch you back to his place.

--------------------------

As a first time parent, his actions might be a bit unprofessional at times but he always make sure that you always have your favourite meals and sleep tight every night.

He would also sometimes watch you sleep or just bluntly sleep with you, you don't complain because who would reject a giant body pillow.

Whenever you came back from school with small bruises or in a sobbing state, just know that the ones that hurt you won't be seen the next day at school.

Some nights, while sleeping beside you, watching your small form sleeping, he thought that what if you grow too fast and when you're an adult, you'd leave him or what if you don't want to rely on him anymore. And guess what, he really did thought about some methods to keep you like this forever but soon shrug it off as his first ever goal when adopting you was to see you grow after all.

Eter also wants your full attention on him whenever he's with you and if anyone dares to stole your attention away, he will give them a deadly glare that they wouldn't want to see it again.

Even though he's a first time dad, he is trying his best. Even a little possessive and protective of you, it's because he loves you so much. To him, you're his light in this dull life, the brush that paint colours into his picture and the reason why he's still going.

Although, don't try to leave him, you wouldn't want to know what's the worst can happen and let me tell you, it's not going to be bright at the least.

--------------------------------------------------

A/N: I wrote this in the middle of the night so please don't mind about the mistakes 😭

#calmwrites #yandere #platonic yandere #platonic #platonic yandere x reader #gn reader #yandere drabble #yandere scenarios #yandere x gn reader #yandere x reader #fem reader #male reader

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wonderjanga · 19 days ago

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Rewrite of the Shazam! Movie

I… personally disliked the Shazam movie. It could’ve been better in my opinion. So, this is how I think the movie should’ve gone.

So… let’s just get to it.

It’s 1944 during the height of World War II. People are abuzz with wanting to learn all the newest updates on the war. Whiz Radio is a Fawcett owned company on the verge of bankruptcy due to its lack of popularity.

The movie opens with Billy running from a couple men. In his hands are a couple of canned food items, bread, and other things. The opening credits would simply be Billy running past a wall plastered with posters advertising the new position open at Whiz. Every time a person would run in front of the wall, the credit would change to another person. So like Billy would run and the opening director’s name would appear, one of the men running after him would pass in front of the wall and the screen writer’s name would appear, etc. There can be like ten dudes for comedic effect.

During this entire chase, Billy would be nameless, the only things he’d be called are brat, thief, etc by the men. He eventually lose them in an alleyway and retreat to whatever hobbit hole he’s staying in. On his trudge back home he’d pass by a mansion, Ebenezer’s mansion, because remember he stole Billy’s inheritance. He’d stop and stare and we’d get a whole flashback of him learning how his parents and sister died, his uncle kicking him out, and so on. This is where we’d actually learn Billy’s name. After this, he’d continue his trudge back home and that scene would end with him walking into his apartment and closing the door with the camera getting the door shut in it’s face.

The next scene would start with Billy opening the door and heading out. We’d see a little bit of Billy’s day such as him taking on odd jobs and such for cash. But, when he’s on his way back home, he hears a whisper and looks over to see… his dad? We don’t actually get to see his dad‘s face. It’s just fuzzy. He waves to him and walks off with Billy following after.

Billy: “Dad?”

Billy’s Dad(?): *doesn’t answer and keeps walking*

Billy: “Dad?” *sounds more urgent*

Billy’s Dad(?) leads to the train station. They get a cute little moment of waiting by the tracks together were fuzzy C.C. offers his hand which Billy takes as they get on the train. As soon as they get on the train, Billy’s dad disappears and Billy’s left alone.

Then, fast forward the usual thing. The Wizard tells him that he’s worthy and pure hearted, and that he should be the Champion of Magic and to light the brazier if he ever needs him. Like usual he dies from getting crushed by the rock.

We see Billy stuck with no idea of what to do with his Marvel form. But, he gets his idea to be a superhero when he’s walking out of the train station and passes by a war propaganda poster with Bulletman and Spy Smasher on it. We get a quick little monologue about how they’re both amazing heroes and Billy even drops a little detail about how he used to have Bulletman’s action figure. This is when one Billy decides that he wants to be like them. A hero who can spread joy through saving others. Someone with a greater purpose. Someone who is more than Billy Batson. (Place emphasis on the self-deprecation of how he wants to be more) The scene ends there with the camera facing Billy’s back as he stares at the poster.

The next scene opens with Captain Marvel’s back to the camera. It’s now been two weeks and Billy is now officially Captain Marvel. We get a little scene of him, stopping a purse snatcher like it’s nothing. Right after him stopping the snatcher is when Sivana’s finally introduced. He’s also Danny DeVito because I say so. Anyways, since the movie is meant to be lighthearted, Sivana acts much like a cartoon supervillain. He has this robot suit and they duke it out before Marvel beats him and takes him to jail.

Of course, Sivana breaks out, but while he’s breaking out, Billy is at the Whiz Radio trying to get the job because he needs money. We get a little scene of Mr. Morris interviewing Billy.

Mr. Morris: “Now, do you have any experience reporting? In the slightest?”

Billy: *in the fanciest clothes he could find, aka his red and yellow sweater with his jeans* “Ah… no. But I tell stories to the other homeless kids and they like them. So, I was kinda hoping that would be enough….?”

Yeah, Billy was not Mr. Morris‘s first choice. So instead, Mr. Morris makes a deal that if Billy can turn in Sivana, he’d give the kid the job, not that he believed the kid could catch a Supervillain. After this interaction, Billy leaves bummed that he probably isn’t gonna get it because he thought Sivana was just a one off thing and was still in jail. Eventually, though he finds out, he broke out.

So Marvel goes around looking for Sivana only to realize that this time it won’t be so easy to catch him. Somehow, Sivana upgraded from that one incident with Marvel. This results in Marvel running around, actually having to gather information as both Billy and Marvel, both through spying as a little kid, and intimidating goons as a grown man. Every time he can uncover a little bit of information we get shown in a notepad with facts on it and as the information gathering goes on, it gets filled with more and more notes and even little drawings and scribbles too. I would also like to see Billy scratchy handwriting, and Marvel‘s beautiful handwriting, alternating.

Unfortunately, when Billy is spying on some more goons, he accidentally gets caught and tied to a chair. This is where he meets Sivana face-to-face as Billy instead of Marvel.

Sivana: “That imbecile sent a kid? Gosh.” *rolls his eyes*

So, yes, he gets trash talked straight to his face and then alone in the in the room. This is when Billy discovers that he doesn’t need Marvel to be great. He gets his Miles Morales moment and lightnings the binds off of him, rips off the gag covering his mouth and says his magic word. Billy leaves as Marvel and as Sivana is wrecking havoc, he gets sent a video from a security camera in the room of Billy transforming.

Sivana: “It was that little brat the whole time?! The sneaky little thing was right under my nose!”

He throws a bit of a temper tantrum, and Marvel finally shows up to throw hands. They have their big battle, they somehow end up in a secluded area, Marvel finally beat him, and drags him to the Whiz building as Billy. The scene ends with Billy walking into Mr. Morris‘s office with Sivana knocked out. He has the biggest widest smile on his face. He looks the happiest he’s ever been in this movie. This scene ends like the first one with closing the door on the camera, but with Billy proclaiming that they have to talk business.

The end.

As for the end credits, after they play, we get a tiny little tidbit at the end that’s supposed to take place two years later and it's of Sivana working on a something with his back faced towards the camera while in the background, we hear Billy on the radio reporting on something. The camera then proceeds to slowly pan over him until it’s looking directly down on him and you can see in nice big bold letters: Suspendium.

Yup. The Suspendium bomb.

Boom. Perfect cliffhanger. I’m out. Deuces. I’m going to sleep now.

#billy batson #shazam #dc captain marvel #captain marvel dc #fawcett city #fawcett #fawcett comics #dr sivana

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harpsinfinity · 1 year ago

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How they punish you

Featuring: 141 + König

X fem!reader

Genre:smut

Warnings: piv, overstimulation, edging, orgasm denial, spanking, mention of fingering, breath control

Simon Riley- overstimulation

When you piss Simon off, it's never immediate. He just lets it coil up throughout the day and then let's it all out on you when he finally gets you alone, having you splayed out under him, your clothes long gone. He'll make a rope with his belt and wrap it around your wrists as he overstimulates you with his fingers, tongue and cock.

"S-si please ! M'sorry, m'real sorry Si" you sniffile through tears, your body trembling from orgasm after orgasm, breathy whines and moans spilling from your lips as Simons cock repeatedly hits all the right spots inside of you "should've thought bout that before y'decided to rile me up, Fuckin' brat" his pace is hard and fast, no mercy at all. Even after you've squirted around his cock for the umpteenth time and your on the verge of passing out, he's still not done.

Captain John Price - edging

Price will have you hanging off the edge of a sweet orgasm for hours, having you sit on his lap, back flush against his chest as one of his hands toy with the dripping mess between your legs. The other one keeping them open, slapping either the inside of your thigh or you pussy if you try to close them. His fingers will be buried to deep inside of you, overwhelming the gooey little spot there, just as you think your finally about to fucking cum, he takes it all away. Leaving you to whine and squirm in his lap

"John please ! M'sorry..please let me cum !" Prices fingers will return to your clit, rubbing slow circles over the swollen bundle of nerves, his breath hot on your ear as he whispers to you "should've behaved love" you whimper, feeling his cock twitch and harden beneath your ass, you squirm on his lap. You feel him harden more as Price grips your hips, fingers digging into the soft skin "Fuckin' keep still. Maybe if y'r good I'll let you cum" yeah, your in for a long night.

König - denial

König just won't touch you at all, tying your hands to the headboard of the bed. Making you watch him stroke his cock, you whimper and whine for him to do something because he's gotten so you wet and needy for him. But he just ignores you. When you take your eyes off of him for one second, he'll slap you. Not hard but enough to get your eyes flicking to him "look at me, ja? This is what you get for teasing me schatz" you whine in response, just wishing he'd touch you in some way, the ache between your legs getting unbearable without his touch. You silently beg him with your eyes, but he just keeps stroking and squeezing his too big cock, when he cums you can't help but clench around nothing, wishing he was cumming inside you, letting all his precious cum go to waste on the bedsheets.

"Köni please ! I'll be good..promise !" You sniffile as you try to get some form of friction from the soft sheets below you. König grabs your hips and stops you moving all together, you let out a frustrated sob from the action. "Fine, I'll let you come, just this once. Okay liebling?" You nod, unable to hide the pout playing on your lips, finally you were going to cum.

John "soap" Mactavish - spanking

Johnny can be short tempered, it won't take too much teasing to have you over his lap. The sound of his hand meeting your bare ass fills the room, along with your cries and pleas

"j-johnny ! Won't to it again !" After every smack he'll gently knead the red, sore skin before going again. He really wanted to teach you a lesson "thas' too bad dove, should've behaved f'me" you whimper and cry out as he makes you count each spank he gives you, always giving you a set amount of spanks. But if you forget which number your at, he'll start all over again until you get it right. He'll have you dripping wet by the end of it, squirming and shivering on his lap, gasping when you feel the tip of one of his rough fingers glide down your folds lightly before bringing it back up and landing another smack to your ass "please Johnny ! I've learnt my lesson I swear !" When he punishes you like this is leaves your ass sore and your face stained with hot tears, only then he'll grant you mercy by slipping his hands between your legs

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick - breath control

he's so mean, his belt will be wrapped around your neck as a makeshift collar. tugging it occasionally to push your mouth deeper onto his cock, making you choke with your nose pinched shut. he loves seeing that small glint of panic in your eyes when your unable to breathe. "thats it, take it doll, actin' like a fuckin' brat". drool drips down your chin, your whines and whimpers vibrating off his cock. making him groan and pull on the makeshift collar harder. when he finally grants you mercy and lets you off his cock, you beg him, voice horse and needy "kyle please- won't do it again !". your pleas are met with a chuckle and a hand making its way to the back of your head to push your mouth back onto his cock, the tip hitting the back of your throat as he fucks your mouth. "no time for apologies, you wanna act like a brat, you'll get treated like one" when he cums down your throat, he finally lets up, at least thats what you think, he'll overstimulate you after.

Harpsinfinity©

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loveinhawkins · 9 months ago

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ao3

A gnawing sense of foreboding creeps up on Steve as they head to Eddie’s trailer, armed with weapons.

He tries to outrun it through action: ensuring he’s the first one to go through the Gate; jumping back and forth between The Upside Down and their world whenever someone forgets something, “It’s okay, I’ve got it!”; triple checking that the cables for Eddie’s amps are long enough; searching for the slightest thing than seizing upon it with an enthusiasm bordering on desperate, “Hey, we could use this, right? Better take it, just in case.”

But that only works for so long, and then Steve’s just standing in Eddie’s kitchen, the real one, staring blankly at the cupboards, all out of distractions.

Out of time.

He hears a grunt of exertion behind him, then an unsteady landing, a muffled curse. Eddie.

“Jesus Christ, Steve. Wanted to fit your aerobics routine in?”

He’s teasing, so light-hearted despite it all; Steve can’t stand it.

Keeps his back turned, gut twisting, opening the cupboards then slamming them shut, thump, thump. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for. He never has.

“Uh, so I was thinking,” Eddie continues, like Steve’s not doing anything weird, “that I could stretch out the, um, the song? My playing? Could buy you some more time, anyway.”

“Sure, great,” Steve says shortly.

He thinks—with a numb kind of calm—that he’s going to be sick.

He gets to the bathroom, tries to shut the door, but his grip slips on the handle.

Turns on the faucet, scoops cold water from his hands into his mouth, and it helps until it doesn’t, until he’s almost choking on it, and he’s been here before, the feeling familiar: a shadow looming over him, just waiting, waiting, and he knows it’ll pass, it always does, but he can’t stop thinking of Robin, it might not work out for us this time, and what if, what if—

He can hear Eddie knocking on the doorframe, just out of view—as if he’d seen Steve’s failed attempt at shutting the door and wanted to respect it.

“Hey, man, you okay?” Then Eddie mutters to himself, “Obviously not, get a fucking clue.”

Steve’s laugh is strangled but real. He wipes his mouth dry and shuts off the water.

“You don’t need to talk to a wall, dude,” he says.

And Eddie steps into view, leans against the open door. His eyes flicker across Steve’s face, and Steve doesn’t want to know what he’s noticed, so when Eddie opens his mouth hesitantly, he speaks first.

“We should—they’re gonna wonder where we are.”

Eddie pauses on the verge of speech; Steve watches him reevaluate whatever he was going to say.

“Well,” Eddie says, gesturing to the bathroom, matter-of-fact, “we could be peeing.”

Steve manages a chuckle. “You’re an idiot.”

Eddie grins like he’s saying yup, that’s me, like he’s won a prize.

Steve has seen him wear something close to that expression not even an hour ago: when the kids had started a line to use the bathroom in the RV, and Eddie had snorted, giggled with a childish kind of delight, “You—ha! You all look like you’re on a field trip,” before joining the line himself—calling out that he hoped their plan accounted for bathroom breaks because, “There’s no way I’m pissing in the alternate dimension,” and that had made Nancy break, laughing in a way Steve was certain he hadn’t heard since ‘83.

Eddie steps into the room and shuts the door quietly. Steve gets why: his breathing’s still all wrong, and if Dustin happened to see him, he doesn’t think he’d ever forgive himself.

“Sorry.” Steve sucks in a breath, tries to hold it. Loses it in an exhale that shudders at the edges. He speaks through the tail end of it, hoping that’s enough to conceal the sound, “Gimme, like, two minutes.”

“Make it ten,” Eddie says.

The way he says it makes it seem like it’s already a done deal; he must’ve spoken to Robin and Nancy before he tumbled through the Gate.

Despite himself, Steve feels a wave of relief: just for a little while, he has time; it overpowers the shame, leaves him sinking down to sit on the closed toilet seat.

He closes his eyes, just breathes. In… out… in…

He doesn’t realise that Eddie’s sitting down, too, until he hears the clunk of his boots, the rustle of clothing as he moves.

“Sorry,” Steve says again, and it annoyingly still comes out a little shaky, like he’s in the pool and he’s left it too long to snatch a breath. “You can go back, man, I’ll… I’ll be right there.”

He opens his eyes to see Eddie shaking his head, sat with his back against the bathtub.

“Stop apologising,” Eddie says, and then it’s as if the seriousness of it is too much for him, because he adds, with a self-deprecating smile that Steve hates, “I get it. You’re walking into the dragon’s lair, I’m just putting on a concert.”

“Don’t,” Steve says, and he doesn’t intend for the word to come out as sharp as it does, but that doesn’t change the fact that he means it. He means it.

Eddie’s smile fades.

“Don’t,” Steve repeats, quieter. Not quite an apology.

Slowly, he moves off the toilet seat, until he’s sat next to Eddie. There’s just enough space that they don’t need to touch, but Steve presses his shoulder against Eddie’s anyway, like he can somehow pass on everything he means through that alone.

Eddie sighs, presses back for just a second. “Don’t what?” he asks. He sounds tired all of a sudden.

“Don’t—don’t joke like that,” Steve says. “Like you’re not—” He swallows. “Like it’s not dangerous.”

There’s a pause. Eddie reaches across and puts a hand on Steve’s knee. Squeezes briefly and pulls back; already Steve finds that he misses the warmth of him.

“Hey, don’t worry,” Eddie says. There’s no joke in this, not a trace. “I’m not gonna let anything happen to Dustin.” Another smile. Gentle. “Swear on his mother.”

I’m not worried about that, Steve wants to say, but of course that’s not true; he’s tried hard not to look at Dustin directly ever since they arrived at the trailer, because his throat would start to close up alarmingly whenever his gaze lingered, and he knows the kid’s doing that whole semi-aloof teenager thing lately, but a part of him still wants to hold him tight and never let go.

It’s more that the shape of Steve’s worry is different to what he thinks Eddie’s imagining, covers more than Dustin’s safety alone—that the cold dread in his stomach brings him back to the tunnels in ‘84; to clutching Dustin, who was so small, Steve desperately trying to shield him with his own body, thinking the kid’s thirteen, only thirteen, this isn’t fucking fair; and that if this had to end one way, all he could do was pray that he’d be the only one to…

And Steve hadn’t wanted to die, but he was suddenly facing it anyway, and Christ, looking back at it, that was crazy, the whole damn thing was crazy, but it all made a twisted kind of sense at the time.

Eddie must spot that his train of thought’s gone down a dark alley because he knocks their knees together, but he doesn’t say anything. Just breathes, slumped against the bathtub; it’s probably the first time he’s been still—truly still—in a long while.

He must be exhausted, Steve thinks.

The gnawing feeling digs in, grips his heart.

“I can hear you thinking,” Eddie says quietly. “Listen, Steve, I know I’m new to, uh… all of this shit, but I’m on it, okay? Got it all up in here,” he taps the side of his head, “trust me—”

That’s not what—I trust you, of fucking course I do, but—

“—no deviations, and—”

“Plans change,” Steve says, and he hears himself, the calm decisiveness, just get ready; Dustin’s scream carrying across the junkyard, Steve, abort, abort! “Just… just promise me.”

“Promise you?” Eddie murmurs.

Steve feels the words on his tongue, the weight of them. Don’t do anything stupid.

He swallows them down—afraid suddenly that if he really puts a name to it, it’s going to happen.

Fuck it, he’s exhausted too, and for a long moment he evades speaking: gingerly rests his head on Eddie’s shoulder. Feels his body heat, the swell of his breathing.

Eddie doesn’t tense up, just lets him rest there.

If I kissed you, Steve thinks, drained, would you stay?

He doesn’t say it. Instead he lifts his head and asks, “What are you doing tomorrow?”

Eddie chuckles. They’re still so close, Steve can feel his amused sigh.

“Tomorrow? I’ve not really… like, hopefully I’m not in jail. Anything else is a bonus.”

“We’ll fix it,” Steve says fiercely. “Trust me.”

“Oh, I believe you,” Eddie says, grinning fondly, but he sounds genuine. “Shit, man, I think you could do anything.” He gestures outside. “Got the fucking dream team out there.”

“We solved a secret Russian code last summer.”

Eddie laughs. “Did you?” His eyes sparkle with mirth.

You’re beautiful.

“Gospel truth, I swear,” Steve says. He tries to stay light, but he makes the vow anyway. “I’ll tell you tomorrow.”

I have so much to tell you.

They stand up, and Steve doesn’t know who’s the first one to move—just that they both probably sensed the time dwindling.

And maybe it’s that, the inescapable thought that something’s coming to an end that does it. Steve doesn’t know for sure, just knows that his eyes are burning suddenly—mortifyingly—with tears. He looks up at the ceiling, hurriedly trying to push them back, but Eddie notices anyway.

“Steve, what is it?” he whispers, with a look of utter devastation.

Steve shakes his head. “Just being stupid,” he says, voice brittle, cutting himself off before he can say something ridiculous.

God, Eddie, let’s just stay here and grow old.

“You’re not stupid,” Eddie says, heartfelt—he stops just short of touching Steve; he clearly wants to help so badly, but he doesn’t know how.

Steve wants to tell him it’s fine. He doesn’t know either.

Maybe nothing can help this.

They leave for the Gate in unspoken agreement; at first Steve finds comfort in the sight of Eddie dangling on the rope, not quite in either world. Like every possibility is laid out before him.

I’ll tell you tomorrow.

But there’s a near imperceptible shift as Eddie keeps climbing, and Steve needs to look away, anything to avoid the pit in his stomach: the suspicion that the path’s already been chosen.

#they’re all just scared kids #Steve “desperately trying to escape a tragedy” Harrington #Eddie “if I make a joke it isn’t real” Munson #steddie fic #pre steddie #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #steve x eddie

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lucifers-rubber-duck · 9 months ago

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𖤓 Can we keep them? 𖤓

Characters: Charlie, Lucifer, Alastor, Angel & Husker.

Warnings: None.

Summary: Reader suddenly appears with a baby Hellhound on their arms and asks to keep them, what would their reactions be?

𖤓Charlie

• She's extremely surprised when you appear with a baby Hellhound on your arms, even more when you asks if you could keep them.

• She would probably say yes without thinking, with her eyes shining of how cute the little dog looks, before she quickly shakes her head and tries to stand her ground better.

• She would probably lecture you of how much of a responsability it is to adopt a Hellhound, especially when they're still little and can't do much by themselfs, she would probably also info dump to you about them.

• She makes you promisse that if you're going to keep them you'll take good care of them, she actually helps a lot since she grew up taking care of Razzle and Dazzle. She acts like the cool aunt of your new baby.

• She's probably the best influence you could get for your child, she's just the sweetest and will help you teach the baby what's right and wrong, will read them bedtime stories, will teach them to sing and to dance. She's simply the best person you could ask for.

𖤓Lucifer

• He's a little confused at first, he never put much thought onto the creatures of Hell, but the moment you show him the cute puppy's face, he's melting and allowing you to keep it.

• He would try to help to take care of them but wouldn't be very good at it, he never did a proper research on the beings of Hell, he disliked sinners already, he saw no reason to even pay attention to the other beings his past actions had created.

• But after you adopt the little hound, he will personaly go talk to Beelzebub and ask her what he should do. He asks her tips, about the best snacks to give them, how many baths should a pup get by a day, he's going full dad mode.

• He doesn't take care of a child since Charlie was little and everytime your new baby runs to his arms when he walks in the room to say hi he's in the verge of tears, he'll hold your child on his arms and act like he's the actual father.

• Don't even think twice if you need anything for your pup, he's going to give it. They got sick and need a doctor? He's calling someone from the Ring of Sloth just for them. Need diapers or clothes? Boom, they're already at your door. Want to take your child somewhere fun? He'll give you two free access to his theme park Lu Lu Land all rights reserved.

• Man is just happy to be able to experience being a father all over again.

𖤓Alastor

• The moment you show him the Hellhound you can hear static piercing your ears and the air getting colder, a green energy coming out of him as his antlers grow bigger and his eyes turn dark with only red dots to be found in them.

• You get that it's a no pretty quickly and hides the puppy away before he can do anything about it.

• But you're not known for giving up easily and keeps the Hellhound even so, making sure they never get too close to Alastor, and by to close I mean in the same room, breathing the same air.

• You'll have to try your best to make Alastor slightly fond of the puppy. First trying to give up some signs that you wanted to adopt a baby, then start talking about all the perks a Hellhound has and then later slowly introduce both of them in the same spaces.

• Is like showing your old pet your newer pet and praying they get along, but the old pet in question is a powerful Overlord that can easily kill both of you and broadcast your screams to all of Hell and the new pet is a creature that is in the bottom of Hell's hierarchy.

• After weeks of trying he would just let you be to be honest, he says you can keep it if you stopped annoying him about and forcing him to interact with them. But sometimes you would find yourself trying to calm him down because the Hellhound decided to walk too close to him or even chewed a part of his coat off.

𖤓Angel

• He probably wouldn't mind and say that you could stay with them, it's not his business, it's yours, you do what you want.

• Would eventualy grow attached to the hound, probably not as much as some others, but he does enjoy their company.

• He likes being the bad influence and would 100% teach your child swear words. He wouldn't be as inappropriate around them tho, he knows his limits and was scolded by you enough times about his actions around such a young figure.

• I think if the hound ended up getting friends with Fat Nuggets he would care more, he treats his little pet pig as his own child and would find it rather adorable if they got along togheter, you know for sure he's snapping photos.

• Likes to play dress up with you and your child, he would already lend you some clothes and help you take care of your skin or paint your nails, etc. He would do the same with your Hellhound, dressing them up to look all fancy, brushing their fur and giving them little accesories. Y'all probably have matching shirts he buyed for fun.

• “Where did you found them again toots?”; “Doesn't matter, check out this new trick they learned.”

𖤓Husker

• Would probably say something like “I'm not your dad, do whatever the fuck you want” and keep going with his day.

• He would try to ignore the Hellhound as much as he can, he doesn't like children very much and his cat instincts can get the best of him sometimes, making him hiss at the sight of the dog.

• But he'll definitely call you out if you end up doing something wrong while taking care of them, he says he doesn't care while teaching you the proper way to hold and to feed them. If you ask how he has so much experience he'll flip you off.

• After some time with the Hellhound around, he'll start to accept babysitting them if you ever need to go out to work or to do a importat thing, don't blame him if the pup ends up learning a bad word tho, you are the one leaving them with a drunk bartender in his bar.

• The Hellhound and him would start to go really well together and you would find them sleeping in the couch of the hotel's lobby when you return late to the hotel thanks to work, your now adopted child sleeping on top of the man's chest, snoring and with Husker's wing around them both.

• You took a photo just to always remember the sweet moments and maybe use against Husker if you needed a favor from him, it always works and you get cute photos so it's always a win-win for you.

#hazbin angel dust #hazbin alastor #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel #hazbin lucifer #charlie hazbin hotel #charlie morningstar #lucifer x reader #lucifer morningstar #charlie x reader #alastor x reader #husker x reader #husker hazbin hotel #hazbin husker #angel dust #angel hazbin hotel #angel dust x reader #hazbin hotel x you

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kiryoutann · 3 months ago

Text

Before reading, please check series masterlist to read the warning(s), disclaimer, and to make sure you’re on the right chapter. Minors do NOT interact.

If you enjoy this, you can buy me a Ko-fi :) Likes, reblogs, and comments are greatly appreciated!

CW: throwing up.

Back then, Mother wasn’t like this.

Your childhood memories are a broken mosaic, shattered and scattered, much like the snow globe Daddy gifted you at Christmas before he disappeared. At the age of twelve, it seems like your mind finds a way to flush it all out. Now, there's hardly anything left to hold onto as proof that you weren’t born and started out as a sixteen-year-old girl.

Yet, somehow, you know Mother wasn't always like this. She didn't begin her existence as a woman who wielded her critical gaze like a burn, her lips all too willing to spew sharp words when she caught you wearing a dress she didn't remember buying.

Today was supposed to be fun—your lunch outing, “girls time,” as Mom would say. She promised to take you to the new Italian restaurant around the block, then you’d go for some ice cream and some shopping. You figured this was the perfect occasion to wear that beautiful white tweed dress from Auntie Joyce.

But, as you came to your mother’s room to borrow her perfume, her smile faltered at the sight of you. She stopped applying her blush, placing the brush on her dressing table.

“I don’t remember buying this one,” she said, tilting her head as if the fabric offended her.

You bite your lip, torn between telling the truth or lying. But, the dress is just too pretty not to wear.

“You did.” You reply, hoping she’ll buy your lie.

Your mother, however, deepened her frown—she didn't. Instead, she got up from her dressing table chair, striding over to touch the dress' fabric. Her fingers sent a shiver down your spine as she reached the back of your neck to yank the tag. She gasped as she read the designer's name.

“You think I’d buy you a Chanel dress?” She hissed, eyes wide as fury seeped into her voice. “Who gave you this?” she demanded.

Your heart was racing. You were about to respond, but you knew deep down that no explanation would be enough to quell her anger. She would not tolerate your silence. You let out a gasp as she seized your shoulders, shaking your body roughly.

"Who was it?!" She snapped.

“I-It was Auntie Joyce,” you whispered, shrinking under her gaze.

At your answer, her face became even more contorted, features twisting as she dug her sharpened nails into the flesh of your shoulders. “Why?! Why would you do this? Are you trying to insult me?!”

“No!” You pleaded, but she only paced faster, breathing heavily as if on the verge of explosion. “I just... I just liked it!” you desperately tried to explain.

“Liked it? Or was it just that Joyce could afford you what I can’t?!” she booms, spinning around to face you. “Do you wish Joyce was your mother instead? So she could buy you fancy dresses when I worked my ass off for you?!”

A lump formed behind your forehead, the ache intensifying as your vision began to blur. Glancing out the window, you notice the gorgeous weather outdoors—a deceitful illusion that had led you to believe this day would be a good one. You were supposed to go on a lunch outing to that new Italian restaurant.

You clenched your teeth, holding back your words. Did you really give off that impression, simply by wearing this dress? Was it disrespectful of you to accept Aunt Joyce’s gift when you were meant to spend the day with Mother?

The pounding in your head became more intense. Was the adult world this complicated? That every action had layers of implications that weren’t visible on the surface? You had hurt her without even realizing it. If the adult world was this confusing, then how were you going to survive after turning eighteen? Nothing was ever simple.

You stand trembling, picking at your fingers until they bleed. With trembling lips, you dare meet her glare.

“I-I can ch-change,” you stutter, hoping it will calm her anger, anything.

But her brows furrow lower, her mouth twisting in a sneer. A sharp look as she spat: “Too late. You’ve already ruined our day. This is all your fault!”

You struggled to control your racing thoughts and the growing panic. "Please..." You pleaded through shallow breaths.

“Get out of my room.”

Ignoring your desperate pleas, Mother directs her gaze to the mirror, her eyes fixed on her reflection. She doesn’t look at you, but you know she’s waiting. As quietly as you can, you slip out like told. You close the door with a gentle click, and the house falls silent once more. The heaviness in your chest becomes unbearable because you know this will mean two days of Mother treating you as if you were invisible.

Something broke inside you. Fresh tears streamed down your face as the excruciating pain in your temple pounded relentlessly. Your body trembled uncontrollably, racked by waves of sobbing.

Mother wasn't always like this before, but you weren’t sure about that anymore. It was hard to conjure the image of that other version of her, now that the venom had infiltrated your veins, weighing down your eyelids and convincing you that Mother had always been born and started as a woman scattering eggshells in her wake.

Or perhaps you’re the poison. Perhaps you're the one who scattered the eggshells. Perhaps Mother’s venomous outbursts were merely her attempt at retaliating, releasing a barrage of curses and what-ifs. Of another life she might have had if you hadn’t existed, had she never met Dad.

(But I don’t know why I’m here, either.)

Now, you’re sitting on the edge of the plush bed, in the room Sabrina gave you and Simon. The ornate carpet seems to be the thing that catches your attention, but in reality, your mind is more preoccupied with what happened an hour ago: Joyce introducing Simon as your boyfriend to Mother, Mother pretending she’d known all along—“There just hasn’t been an opportunity yet,” as she tells Joyce.

The way she touches you in a gentleness you never believe she was capable of.

Drowning in the depths of your thoughts, you remained oblivious to the shower ceasing or Simon exiting the bathroom in all his bare-chested glory. Droplets of water clung to his skin; a towel hung around his neck. He stares at you like a crossword puzzle, hands on the waistband of his pants.

“You alright?” he asks.

Forcing a smile, you say, “Yeah, I’m alright.”

Simon’s eyebrows raise slightly, his gaze studying you suspiciously. But he’s never been one to push people into things they don’t want to say. He moves to retrieve his shirt from his bag.

Unable to hold back your guilt, you blurted out, “Sorry about Sabrina. She shouldn't have acted that way towards you.” You fidgeted with your fingers, seeking a distraction from the growing unease.

Simon paused, then turned first his head and then his body to face you. He claimed the empty spot next to you, the bed dipping heavily under his weight. You didn't dare meet his gaze, fixing your eyes instead on where his shirt was still bundled at his elbows.

“That really what’s ‘ad ya so tangled?”

You let out a humorless chuckle. If only he knew how much his gaze seared you—how desperately you searched for a momentary reprieve by averting your eyes from him. Yet, avoiding him was an impossible task. You dared to look up to meet his stare, feeling your heart flutter against an invisible grip.

“Maybe,” you answered, leaving the question unanswered.

Simon huffed out a breath. It seemed like the situation weighed more heavily on your mind than they did on his.

Feeling brave, you added, “And I’m sorry about my aunt too. For how she labeled you.”

Simon gave a non-committal grunt, and now you were desperate to unload the heaviest guilt of all. One that he probably won’t brush off so easily.

“And I’m sorry about my mother,” you began, voice small and hesitant. But the sentence had been said, and you had to finish it. “I didn’t… I didn’t tell her about you like she claimed.”

When you finish, you brace yourself for his reaction—for his confusion and skepticism, questioning why your mother would say that in the first place. You've prepared yourself to respond truthfully: you don't know. After all, there were countless things your mother did that you couldn't make sense of, no matter how much you racked your brains. By then, you had braced yourself for his irritation, a demand for clarification—or even an accusation that you are trying to trap him, to reveal his existence to your family to ensure he can't leave you so easily.

Feeling indebted to redemption, you try again, “If you want to leave early, before tomorrow… I’d understand.”

“Ya think too fuckin’ much, ya know that?”

You stare at him as Simon tucks his shirt on, muscle ripping under inked skin. He stands, reaching for the cigarette pack he left on the bedside table before he showered earlier. Considering his words, you nod more to yourself.

“Maybe I do.” You reply softly.

“It ain’t fuckin’ ‘ealthy, love,”

Simon shoved the cigarette pack in his pants pocket. He was the last person to talk about healthy habits when he smoked several packs a day. But who are you to judge? Somewhere beneath your brittle bones, in your greenish-brown flesh, you are just as poisoned, if not worse. Every day your mouth spews acid from the rotten fruit growing in your belly.

Based on your self-examination, you offered a simple two-word response.

“I know.”

The great hall was alive with music and laughter as Sabrina led the crowd, Andrew by her side with his possessive hand resting on her waist.

“Tonight’s our last night of freedom before the shackles come on, people!” she exclaimed dramatically, drawing laughter and cheers to fill the room. “So let’s eat, drink, and have a good time! But for the love of God, try to keep yourselves in check; we still have a wedding tomorrow!”

With a glass raised high, she prompted the rest to join her in a toast, followed by a domino of clinks and enthusiastic applause. From your perch at the far end of the room, you watched with a smile as Sabrina blossomed under the attention. Her friends flocked around taking photos, their phones flashing on and off before bringing the blonde into a crushing hug.

The looming shadow at the edge of your vision grabs your attention, and you turn to see Simon's imposing frame returning from a phone call. You greet him with a quiet “Hey,” searching his eyes. “Is everything alright?”

Simon leaned in close to your ear. “Yeah, everythin’s fine.” He cast his gaze on the last-minute decorations scattered around the room. “Fancy.”

You followed his gaze, nodding and bringing your champagne glass to your lips. “It is rather fancy,” you agreed softly, taking in the view of people dancing to particularly cheesy music. “Could’ve Gone For You” blared across the hall—it was a wonder no one had complained yet. “The music could be better though.”

As expected, he gave a derisive snort from behind his mask. “Could’ve gone without that sappy shite, if ya ask me.”

You laugh at his visible irritation, and he smiles—crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes—either in appreciation of his own joke or something else. Looking around, you see Sabrina flitting from guest to guest with her fiancé. Your uncle laughs with a group your age, no doubt torturing them with his lame jokes and exaggerated stories.

As your eyes swept further, a familiar face appeared in the throng. Sabrina’s mother is greeting everyone happily... and beside her, her. Your own mother glided near with a faux smile, her gaze finding you instantly across the room before it landed on your hands. And her face contorted in dislike.

Your airway tightens, and your grip on the glass stem turns your knuckles white. As your mother says something to your aunt—causing her to direct that bright smile in your direction—your breath comes out in short stutters that you refused to acknowledge. But unbeknownst to you, someone else had noticed your suddenly quiet demeanor.

“Here’s my favorite niece!” Aunt Joyce exclaimed, pulling you into her signature suffocating hug layered with her fragrant perfume. You forced a smile, cheeks straining under the effort.

Releasing you, she turned her attention to Simon, brows knitting in the absence of a champagne glass in his grip. “And you, Simon! Where’s your drink?” she asked almost as if she were offended, and before Simon could answer, Joyce waved her hands dismissively. “You know what? I’ll get it for you! Consider this a special treat from the mother of the bride.”

“Bring me one as well, Joyce.”

Then she spoke, unexpectedly. Joyce and you fell silent, exchanging a surprised glance. Mother abhorred drinking, berating even the most moderate drinker within sight of her. Yet here she was, requesting a glass of champagne, with a smile still not reaching her eyes.

Joyce hesitated. For a brief moment, as the conversation lingered in limbo, you hoped she would refuse, that she would stay and not leave you alone with her. But alas, your aunt left the conversation without questions, melting into the crowd with a resumed cheery demeanor and a “Coming right up!” abandoning you and Simon, betraying the image of a good host.

Mother smiled—a perfect picture of a mother—as she turned to Simon. “We haven't really had a chance to talk more, have we?”

The game starts. You wait for Simon's part in their exchange, fingers twisting white-knuckled around your champagne flute. Your heart races like a caged bird's, pounding against your ribs while acid explodes in your stomach.

Simon gave her a curt nod. “I s’pose not.” He answered so casually.

Mother chuckled softly, a sound like ice cracking. “My daughter right here"—she places a manicured hand on your shoulder, nails digging possessively into your exposed skin—“she's very shy, believe it or not; which is probably why she hides so many details from me about you.”

You despise the way her voice assumes a sweet, innocent tone—a mask to deceive yet another person to fall under the impression that she is a "good" mother and to normalize her prying into the lives of the people in your life with the excuse, "I'm just a mother who is worried about her daughter."

Something old, almost ancient, creeps up the walls of your stomach—rising, rising, rising like a tidal wave. Acid scorches your insides, your mind twisted in anxiety. You try to catch your breath to keep your expression schooled.

Mother smiled again, then asked, “What is it you do for work, Simon?”

You yearned to reach out to Simon, to tell him that he was under no obligation to answer. He valued his privacy above all else, you know, sharing little even with you. You wanted him to know that he doesn't owe anyone an explanation, least of all this woman who had so abruptly ambushed him with impudent questioning.

“Engineerin’ stuff, mostly.” came Simon’s reply.

You feel a spark of relief at his lie—one that tells you that he knows he owed this woman nothing. That he, like you, saw through her guise to the poison beneath. And in that, a dark triumph bloomed despite your raging gut. Perhaps it was a sick, twisted thing—the thought of another seeing Mother as she truly was and not as the loving mother she's pretending to be.

Proof that you're not crazy. That you're not the ungrateful, disobedient child who left home as she described to her relatives in pursuit of sympathy.

“An engineer, interesting,” Mother replied, though her smile remained cold. “It’s good (Y/N) has found someone so… capable.”

As she turned to you, you saw it—that brief flash of disgust, dislike, and something more threatening on the curve of her lips. A flash of fangs before the strike. The sour taste of acid reached your epigastrium as your head sank into déjà vu. It was like all the other times, when the family reunion was in full swing and she would tell a series of “jokes” about you.

Which, then, you soon learned was humiliation.

Mother would do it again, this time to Simon. She would paint you in a worse light and portray you as a weight that he would be wise to shed. And then later, after he was gone, Mother's arrogant triumph would be cemented in her chant as if she had proven a point, as if she was right once again.

As if people didn't leave you because of her.

To prove your fears, Mother sighed delicately. “It's too bad I live so far in San Francisco. If I were nearer, I'd be sure to give her lessons to improve herself—she still has a lot to learn, and I wouldn't want my daughter to burden you.”

At this point, the pain had already hit your head. Your mouth shut tightly as you desperately attempted to suppress the wave of nausea that threatened to overwhelm you. In your efforts to maintain a semblance of composure, you missed Simon's concerned glance.

“Reckon if anyone’s a burden ‘ere, it’s meself. But she don’t seem to mind it none.”

Feeling Simon’s hand squeeze your shoulder gently should have melted the tension away—but it didn’t. If anything, it only served to twist the knife deeper. Then, shame bloomed in your chest.

Under Mother’s watchful eyes, even his touch now felt tainted, as if it were something it shouldn’t be. A sin you had no right to. And you hated this—how easily she could twist even this, turning a comforting gesture into something dirty and wrong. It wasn’t, you knew, yet still you couldn’t banish the sickening guilt that writhed within like an eel.

You hate yourself for this.

Mother scoffed at Simon's reply, annoyed he refused to rise to her bait. “That's a surprise. You seem to like my daughter very much.”

The acid hit the tip of your throat. Setting down your champagne glass, you fled the room as fast as your unsteady legs could carry you, one hand clamped over your mouth. You burst through the nearest bathroom door just in time, collapsing in front of the toilet and retching violently. Stinging tears rolled down your cheeks. The acrid fluid spilled through your fingers, stripping your throat raw until there was nothing left but dry heaves.

Sitting on the cold tile, you feel as small as that sixteen-year-old girl again. Everything you’ve tried to do—leaving home and moving to a new continent, changing your phone number, making minimal contact with people who might tell her about you—now feels pointless. Foolish little girl.

How bad was it all those years ago? It's ironic that the memory has been blurred, yet your body still reacts the same way to her. Suddenly, a hole forms in your heart, a vacuum where all the big emotions are drained away, leaving only a hollow emptiness. Nothing. This yawning void is no better than everything.

Lost in the numbing fog, you jumped when the door banged open suddenly. Simon stormed in without a knock—very much in his character. The black mask obscuring his expression, but you could see his eyes burning with some intense emotion that you couldn’t place.

Judgment? Pity? Disgust? You don't know, and you're afraid of finding out.

Instead of answering your "questions," he crouches down in front of you, brown eyes sweeping over you, assessing your condition.

“You alright?”

His voice came out gruff, but there was an unusual edge you’d never heard before. Nodding slowly, you rasped, “Yeah, must’ve been the champagne.” It was a lame lie, but you were too tired to offer a better one.

Simon must have realized that too. He looked at you as if he knew what this was about, as if he had seen plenty of this. But, alas, you were a coward, choosing to avert your gaze and pretending his eyes didn't strip you bare to the bone. How could you explain to him that this was all because of a mother?

“Come on, let’s get ya back to the room, yeah?”

In that moment, you are reminded that Simon is not like her; he doesn't pry or make demands. He doesn't ask questions you fear to answer or force explanations you don’t want to elaborate. Whether it's kindness or indifference, you don’t know, but for now, it’s comfort.

Even as you wrapped yourself in a cocoon as soon as you reached your room, Simon let you. He closed the door after returning from another smoke, turning off the lights and letting the room bask in the pale moonlight coming through the window. The bed groaned as he joined you, his big, warm body close yet distant.

You fervently wish he would embrace you.

Fresh flower arrangements filled the air with a sweet scent; the wedding arch looked stunning with the decorations Joyce had mentioned the day before. On the long-awaited big day, the manor was bustling with excitement and nervousness. Bridesmaids were running around the hallway in their beautiful gowns.

Clicking his tongue, Simon wrestled the buttons of his suit jacket with effort. To think that clothes meant for his smaller, younger self years ago would fit his now bigger body was foolish; however, this was the only formal wear he owned back home. Besides, he had never been one for fancy parties (his life was more about simpler, boring affairs). If it weren’t for you, Simon was sure he wouldn’t be attending any more similar events in the future.

His lips released an exhale as the final button slid into place. Walking to the mirror on the far side of the room, Simon couldn’t help but chuckle at the sight. His broad shoulders were stretched to their limits, almost tearing through the black fabric with every movement. Like a grown gorilla stuffed in boy’s clothes. But it’d ‘ave to do, he supposed. Not like there’s time to run out for a new one now.

“All set then?” you asked Simon as you walked out of the bathroom after finishing your makeup and hair.

Glancing around, you saw his tie laid out neatly on the bed. You lifted the silk tie and turned to him, stepping closer to close the distance between the two of you. “Here, let me do this for you.” You offered him.

Simon inclined obligingly, lowering his head to allow you to loop the tie around his neck. The next part proved to be a challenge. Trying to bridge the gap between your heights, you rose up on your tiptoes, hands straining to cross the wide satin over the narrow one, but still fell exasperatingly short.

Releasing a sigh, you looked up into his eyes. “Could you maybe... bend down a bit? I can't reach up there." You said.

A wry smile quirked his lips, and for a moment, you thought he might refuse just to give you a hard time. But after a beat, Simon stooped lower so your faces were level. “How's this, then?”

“Much better, thank you.”

Simon watches your hands work deftly, tucking the strip of silk beneath in a half-Windsor knot. You pull it taut in the direction of his collar, then flatten out the delicate fabric's dimples on the sides. The tie is completely symmetrical after one last tug.

“There.” You smooth the silk against his broad chest.

You turn to do your other preparations, while Simon walks over to the standing mirror to take one last look at his appearance. Satisfied, he turns to watch you insert yourself into your light blue dress.

“Can you help with the zipper?” you ask.

Simon’s footsteps approached before you felt his big palm meet the skin of your back. Your breath hitched, goosebumps running down your spine. He worked the zipper until a brief hissing sound was heard, signaling it’s all set. “All done.” He announced.

Before Simon could stop himself, he leaned in to brush a ghosting kiss by your ear. “Ya smell nice as always.” His warm breath caressed your delicate shell, and you squeezed your eyelids shut as you tried to calm your pounding heart.

Turning to meet his brown eyes, you pause to take in the subtleties of his face, which you know he will conceal once more. The slight crinkles at the corners of his eyes in his rare smiles, the curve of his lips amidst his light stubble. He blinks, and those pale eyelashes flutter along with the butterflies in your stomach.

To be one of the few allowed to see him so unguarded feels like a privilege in its own way.

Your lingering gaze prompted him to ask, “What?”

You simply shook your head with a small smile. “You smell nice too,” you replied, barely more than a shy whisper.

None of you moved. The ceiling fan whirred on ceaselessly, filling the silence with the soft snores of its motor. Outside, the rustling of leaves in the wind waved along with the thin branches that tapped on the window. Your eyes returned to his lips as if it were the only way home, and you wanted to wipe their dry surface with the touch of your tongue.

All of a sudden, the fantasy of the future plays like a presentation inside your pretty head. In the countryside of England, what would it be like if this were your wedding instead of Sabrina’s? If Simon were the happy groom instead of Andrew. There would definitely be his favorite bourbon. You’d wear this classic, timeless wedding dress with a long veil and a waterfall bouquet. His parents and siblings (if he has any) would fill the front rows to watch you exchange vows.

Would Simon want that? Has he ever thought of a wedding with a previous girl? Your heart is gripped tightly by the green monster's hand. He was your first, and yet there was someone before you and another before them. Your chest weighs with the realization that his neck has been bared on lips that aren’t yours.

While you were lost in your own thoughts, Simon was fighting his own. And before he could stop himself, he was leaning in, pressing his lips against yours in a nearly desperate kiss. Your eyes widened, mind compelled to be dragged in as he yanked your waist to bring you closer. He grunted into your mouth as he walked you back, causing your back knees to meet the bed and you to sink into the soft mattress. Your hands curled around his neck by their own accord, clinging to him like a mooring rope that kept you in place.

You weren’t the first, you know.

You weren't the first, and that fact ignited a fierce anger within you. Your fantasies, so cherished, now tear apart like shreds of tissue. The desire to be the first skin he ever touched in lust, to be his living mannequin as he explored a woman’s anatomy and poured his pornographic imagination into you... all seemed like a distant pipe dream shattered by the harsh truth of reality.

These desires... they had almost been wiped away, replaced entirely with a fierce anger and a fierce urge to rid the world of any evidence of him having touched a woman who wasn't you.

But as his tongue expertly sweeps over yours, hooking and tracing the cavern of your mouth carefully, you find yourself lulled once again. His kiss like a prophet spreading a gospel, and surrendering to him is no longer an option. You know you weren't the first, yet you present yourself to him like a willing cattle to a slaughterer all the same.

The boisterous shouting outside the room grew louder, snapping both of you out of the moment. The hurried footsteps on the creaky, old wooden floor were easily heard, before someone's voice announced, "It’s starting!" followed by complete silence in the hallway once more.

Simon was the one to break the kiss, his gaze momentarily fixed on you before shifting to the door and then back to you like a dazed person. “Sorry.” The single word escaped his lips; you're not sure what he's apologizing for.

As he moved to stand, the bed creaked softly beneath his shifting weight. Your eyes follow his retreating form, lingering on his lips, still flushed and swollen from your kiss.

“Wait,” you breathed, catching his wrist before he could turn away.

Simon’s pale eyebrows knit together in a puzzled look, but he still says nothing. Hesitantly, you reach up to swipe your thumb across his lower lip, gathering the faint sheen of gloss left behind.

You chuckled. “You've got my lipstick on,” you explain, holding up the gloss-stained digit for him to see.

The expression on his face changed from confusion to a gradual realization, and finally, a hint of amusement as he let out his own deep chuckle. Licking his lips slowly, he brought his own thumb to swipe across, searching for more residue.

“Fuckin' thing,” he grunted as if in annoyance, but the crinkle around his eyes told otherwise.

Your lips were pulled into a smile. Reaching out your hands, you asked, “Help me up?”

As he pulled you to your feet, you took a moment to smooth your gown and hair, making sure you didn’t look too disheveled from the kiss. Simon retrieved his mask from his pants pocket, hooking the strap over his ear. Slipping your arm into his once more, you both made your way from the room.

From afar, the strains of romantic music (with better taste) colored the wedding day. The sun radiated warmth, casting soft, golden rays on friends and family who had taken their seats waiting for the ceremony to begin. As you and Simon walked along the fresh, green grass, sentimentality began to burrow into your ribs.

As you walk to your seats, your eyes are glued to the side view of his sharp outline. When the light seeps through his bittersweet chocolate, transforming his iris honey-colored, the throbbing in your chest is renewed. You could blame it on the wedding—on the love and romance that hangs in the air as two people prepare to be unionized in a testimony of many. But, in truth, you know better what this is.

A ballerina twirls atop your heart, pirouetting to its rapid rhythm. The pastor has opened the ceremony with the words of God, yet you are busy with your own unspoken prayers.

Please, make him stay.

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